Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Read online

  I leaned over to see a bowling ball of a man so thick around the chest that his arms stuck out like a penguin’s wings. He was short like me and looked as wide as he was tall. He stood fast against the door he had just locked.

  The larger one reached the counter and, somewhat to my surprise, demonstrated the power of speech. “We want the pot back.”

  “Which one?” I croaked.

  “The one from Bandelier. But we don’t want it in the white man’s museum.”

  I said nothing, partly because I didn’t know what to say and partly because I had developed a sudden case of dry mouth.

  I think he was looking at me, but I couldn’t be sure because the slits that passed for eyes were almost closed. He looked like one of those heads from Easter Island, slightly smaller but with about as much animation.

  “You understand?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He reached over to the nearest shelf and picked up a small pot. It sat in his hand like a peanut in a catcher’s mitt. Then he slammed it down on the counter.

  The sound of the pot shattering was like the crack of a rifle shot, and I jumped like a deer in the crosshairs.

  When I landed, the little black and white Acoma pot was a pile of shards.

  I hated being threatened, but I hated what he did to the pot even more. It wasn’t all that rare. You can buy a new one like it at Acoma for five hundred dollars on any day they allow tourists in. But seeing the pieces on my counter made me sad.

  I recovered a bit of courage. “Why did you do that?”

  He handed me a card and the two thugs left without comment left. The card had the likeness of Kokopelli on it and read firstNAtions.

  18

  I don’t have nerves of steel. More like silver, a finer and more malleable metal.

  So I was still jumpy after they left. It was only three, but I closed the shop anyway and went for a walk to settle down. As the rabbit said to Alice, “If you don’t know where you’re going, any path will take you there.”

  I turned east on Central because I didn’t want to face the afternoon sun. I went through downtown, under Interstate 25 and stopped in front of Albuquerque High School.

  Or what used to be Albuquerque High School. It was built in 1914 with red brick walls and granite lintels and pediments. Its classical style and proportions are reminiscent of a Greek temple, befitting the lofty purpose for which it was built. For sixty-five years it served that purpose well. Then I graduated and they abandoned it.

  I don’t think there was a causal connection.

  The building was boarded up for years, but it’s now been chopped up into lofts. I stood on the sidewalk staring as nostalgia reached out from under the shallow facelift and tugged me back.

  We were the “Mighty Bulldogs.” I was one of those strange kids who spent more time in the library than at the games. When I did watch the football or basketball team, I couldn’t see why everyone got so worked up. They’re just games and strange ones at that. How serious can you be about ten guys running around in their undershirts tossing a ball at a basket? And to top it off, the drawing of our mascot in those days didn’t look mighty. He looked like one of those dogs from the Coolidge paintings, playing poker with other breeds and smoking cigars.

  But I was happy and the world benevolent. Life was simple back then. People didn’t walk into shops and smash the merchandise.

  The current Albuquerque High School on the extension of Indian School Road does a good job for all I know. But it looks like it a Walmart. They have a website, an attendance policy, a dress code and a mission statement. When I was in high school, everyone knew how to dress and the attendance policy was three words: go to school. The moment those words came to me, I could hear in my head my father’s voice saying them.

  God, I’m starting to sound just like him.

  Nostalgia is like quicksand—if you wiggle around in it, it can pull you down. But it can also be calming. I realized I didn’t have to put up with thugs. I didn’t have to be in the business I was in. I didn’t have to be in any business. With the way Old Town property has inflated, I could sell my place and live off the interest.

  I looked at my watch and was pleased to note that if I walked back to Old Town at my normal pace, it would be happy hour when I got there.

  19

  “You can’t be serious about closing.”

  “I am serious. First Carl Wilkes comes into my shop and asks me to steal a pot. Then Guvelly comes in and accuses me of stealing one. Then Fletcher comes in and accuses me of murder. And to top it all off, I’m visited by the Indian versions of Sacco and Vanzetti.”

  Susannah had told me about her day at La Placita. She’d had the usual mixture of locals and tourists, but no one had smashed anything. She waved toward Angie.

  “You sure you want another one?”

  “I don’t have class tonight and Kauffmann is lecturing on the east coast.”

  “Kauffmann?”

  “My LA hunk.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “That is his first name.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t like his name?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just a bit unusual.”

  “Yeah? Well let me tell you, Hubert, I’ve dated a lot of guys named Sam or Charlie, and having a normal name doesn’t mean you’re a nice guy.”

  I sipped at my margarita.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  The warm wind from the south had sent us out to the veranda. The sand it carried sent us back in.

  “What would you do if you closed the shop? Would you get an honest job?”

  “I had an honest job once.”

  “Working as an accountant, right? That doesn’t sound too honest these days. You didn’t do any work for Enron did you?”

  “It was a local firm. We didn’t have any accounts big enough to cheat for.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Two years of preparing financial statements under the watchful eye of one of the partners. Like a nine to five wake.”

  “What about the other young guys? Weren’t any of them fun to work with?”

  “Like arrows flying straight and true towards partnerships. I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I knew deep inside I didn’t want to.”

  “What about nights and weekends.”

  “We took work home most nights. On the weekends, I studied for the CPA exam, which I never took. Then I was at a strip mall one day and saw a shop called Feats of Clay.”

  “And you went in anyway?”

  “Embarrassing to remember. I took a class along with eight blue-haired ladies. We painted and fired prefabricated bisque.”

  “So that’s how you became a potter?”

  “It was a start. It got me back in college. Driving by the campus one day, I realized I’d missed out on college. I attended, but I didn’t really have the college experience.”

  “I’ve been having it for years, Hubie. It’s not all that great.”

  “But that’s my point. You’re still trying different subjects. I started out in math and then everyone told me there was no future in that, so I switched to accounting. I did well enough, but I never felt any passion for it. So I went back and started over.”

  “At least you found your field right away. As a student, I’ve had more incarnations than Shirley MacLaine.”

  “Maybe art history is what you’ve been searching for.”

  “I’m not sure what I can do with it, but I enjoy the ideas. I bet you felt the same way about anthropology?”

  “I started back in art because of the pots. But I soon realized that it was the designs that fascinated me. I took an anthropology course called something like ‘Southwestern Pueblo Cultures’ just to learn more about pots, and I was
hooked on anthropology.”

  “But you don’t just study pots—you make them.”

  I nodded. “There’s power in throwing a pot, even a copy. The earth—okay, it’s just a little clump of earth, but I always think of it as the earth—follows your fingers, its shape widening as you press outwards, its height extending as you urge it upwards. There’s something almost sexual about the clay and how it changes shape under your touch.”

  She gave me a coy smile. “You need to start dating.”

  I laughed.

  She changed the subject and asked me about my conversation with Whit Fletcher and whether he took the bait of the finder’s fee.

  “No, but he saw it coming fast enough.”

  “Does it bother you dealing with a crooked cop?”

  “There’s not much in life that’s perfect. He doesn’t take bribes from drug dealers. He tries to put the really bad guys behind bars. So he pockets loose money here and there. I accept him for what he is.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. Locating the Bandelier pot is a long shot at best. Without Fletcher’s help, it may be impossible. Maybe there was something on Guvelly’s body or in his room that would put me on the trail.”

  “What would you do with the Bandelier pot if you found it?”

  “Turn it over to Fletcher so he could turn it in and we could split the finder’s fee.”

  “Or you could give it to those two thugs from firstNAtions and avoid being beaten to death.”

  “Or that,” I agreed.

  20

  Tristan arrived the next morning bearing a laptop computer, a miniature camera, another device I didn’t recognize and two lattes. At least it was morning by his standards—about forty-five minutes after noon.

  The lattes were in brown paper cups and wrapped in waffled cardboard sleeves designed so that you can lift them to your lips without incurring first-degree burns.

  “That’s six bucks’ worth of coffee,” I said. “A little extravagant, don’t you think?”

  “You don’t expect me to drink that stuff you brew for your customers, do you? Especially after it’s been sitting there all morning.”

  He had a point. I took a sip of the latte and immediately wanted a biscotti. Or is the singular biscotto?

  Tristan opened the laptop, connected it to the laser device, punched a few keys and then asked me if I had come home at 6:57 Friday morning. I told him it had been late Thursday midnight, and he informed me that someone had crossed my threshold at 6:57.

  “When did they leave?”

  “The next signal break was recorded at 9:22 that same morning­.”

  “That was Reggie coming in to check on me. Nothing between 6:57 and 9:22?”

  “Nope.”

  “So if a prowler entered early that morning, how did he get out without his leaving time being recorded? He obviously wasn’t here when Reggie came in.”

  “The time is recorded when the beam is interrupted. I guess he stepped over it.”

  “Why would he step over it?”

  Tristan thought about it for a few seconds. “He knew there was a beam because he heard the bong sound when he came in. So he stepped over it when he left to avoid making the bong sound again.”

  “He?”

  “I’m assuming it was a he. But next time, you’ll know. I’m installing a camera that will be activated when the laser is interrupted. It will take a picture of the doorway and then go back to standby until the next beam interruption.”

  “I hope there won’t be a next time. But even if there is, I don’t want a bunch of cables and wires running all over my shop.”

  “There won’t be any. Signals between the laser and the camera will be Bluetooth.”

  “Bluetooth?”

  “It’s a frequency-hopping radio link between wireless devices using a protocol—”

  “Tristan?”

  He looked up from the computer screen sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “Just show me what I need to do.”

  He pointed out an icon of the front door. When you double click it, a report pops up listing the date and time of every bong. By double clicking on one of the times, you get the picture that was made by that bong. Tristan went outside and walked back in, setting off two bongs. I double clicked the icon and got the list he had shown me. It now had two new entries, one at 13:07:51 and the next at 13:07:58. I clicked on the first one and got a picture of Tristan’s back. The second one captured his smiling countenance coming through the door.

  We placed the camera atop a display case behind a pot where it could see but still be inconspicuous. The computer was placed on a shelf below the counter, but only after I resisted Tristan’s sale pitch for something called a point of sale computer that would replace the cash register, check the rubber content of checks before they were accepted, verify credit cards, keep inventory, and so far as I knew, brew the coffee. I pointed out that my entire inventory at that time was ninety-eight pots, each of which was clearly visible from the counter or in one of the cabinets. I could take inventory in less than an hour, and the only digital assistance required was my pointing finger.

  Tristan then brought out a satellite radio. I told him I didn’t want it, but he made a persuasive argument.

  “It used to be that every time I came here you were listening to music, Count Ellington, Duke Basie, that old stuff you like.”

  “That’s Count Basie and Duke Ellington.”

  “Whatever,” he replied. Then he seemed to be in thought for a few seconds. “Which ranks higher,” he asked, “a count or a duke?”

  “I think it’s a—”

  “Well,” he continued, “there’s no music playing now, and there hasn’t been the last few times I was here.”

  “My cassette player is broken.”

  “Toss it. It’s old technology. Even if you wanted to get it fixed, no one works on those anymore.”

  “So what am I supposed to do with my cassette collection?”

  “Toss those too. They already sound bad, and in a few years the magnetized oxide on them will lose whatever feeble music it still possesses. And you don’t have to buy CDs. You can get everything on this radio without having to keep any collection in any format.”

  “You know I don’t like the music they play on the radio.”

  “You used to like NPR.”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. “At least they had some programs that played the old standards. But they’ve pretty much sold out in order to compete with commercial radio.”

  “Really?”

  “Just because they’re non-profit doesn’t mean they don’t chase the dollar like everyone else.”

  “Yeah. Every time I tune in they’re doing a pledge drive.”

  “Taking donations is one thing,” I said. “Selling ads is another.”

  “They don’t sell ads, Uncle Hubert.”

  “Maybe they don’t call them ads, but have you listened to their listing of sponsors? It started off innocently enough. They used to say something like ‘The following program underwritten by Exxon.’ Then they started adding tag lines like ‘The following program underwritten by Exxon, a global energy company.’ Now they’ve lifted all restrictions, and you hear things like ‘The following program underwritten by Exxon, a global energy company protecting the environment while bringing products to you that heat your home, fuel your car and make life better through petrochemical research and innovation.’ Sounds like an ad to me.”

  “I see what you mean. And they play classical rather than what you like.”

  “Classical is bad enough, but now they even have call-in shows. Talk radio on NPR! My tax dollars supporting a show where any idiot with a dime can subject me to his analysis of free trade or the Middle East peace process. What’s next? Reality radio where a dozen list
eners are stranded on an island and have to fight over whether to hear Wagner or Beethoven?”

  “Uncle Hubert?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this still about why you don’t want satellite radio?”

  “I went off on a tangent, didn’t I?”

  He nodded. “Satellite radio has channels that play the kind of music you like twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded again.

  “You can leave it here, but I doubt if I’ll use it.”

  I asked Tristan how much I owed him for the camera, the laptop and the radio. He waved off the question.

  “Let’s call the radio a loaner until we see if you like it. The laptop is a relic I stopped using months ago, and digital cameras have been commoditized. They cost next to nothing.”

  “Commoditized? That’s a word?”

  He ignored my question and said, “Selena Wright invited me to the alternative band concert next week, so I may need a little help.”

  “What are these bands alternative to—music?”

  He laughed his rumbly laugh. “You would probably think so.”

  I extracted two hundred dollars from my old-fashioned cash register and passed the bills to him. He seemed genuinely pleased.

  I checked my new laptop after he left and, sure enough, there was a snap of him crossing the threshold on his way out. Even frozen in a picture, I could recognize his loping gait that makes me think he must be whistling when he walks.

  21

  I walked over to the Church after Tristan left. Father Groaz was hearing confessions, but the line was short and the people in it didn’t look like major sinners. I decided to wait.

  The current San Felipe de Neri Church is new by Old Town standards. It was built in 1793 to replace the previous one built in 1706. It’s a beautiful building, somehow managing to combine quaint and majestic with its sloping adobe walls and Victorian details that were obviously added later. The inside is equally appealing, with a stamped metal ceiling and an altar and walls that look like marble but are in fact just your oeil being tromped by a clever paint job.