The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Read online

  “I don’t know, Hubie. I think most of us would like not to have a boss or a schedule. We’re jealous of people who don’t, so we call them self-indulgent when what we secretly want to call them is lucky.”

  “That’s brilliant, Suze. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to psychology?”

  She made a face and took a sip of her margarita. Then she asked me about my conversation with Whit Fletcher, and I did my Archie Goodwin routine and provided a verbatim report.

  “Did he bite on the finder’s fee thing?”

  “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 all the really bad guys behind bars. If he can do that and still supplement his income in ways that he thinks don’t hurt people, he does so, so I accept him for what he is.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I don’t know. I think locating the Bandelier Pot is a long shot at best, but 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 did find it?”

  “I guess I could 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 electronic 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 bearing the Columbia Coffee Company logo and wrapped in waffled cardboard sleeves designed so that you can lift them to your lips without incurring first-degree burns on your hands.

  “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 closer to 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 would have been 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? He obviously wasn’t here when Reggie came in.”

  “I guess he either went out the back way or stepped over the beam.”

  “He didn’t go out the back way; the door to the workshop was definitely locked. So he stepped over the beam. But why?”

  Tristan thought about it for a few seconds. “He knew there was a beam because he heard the sound when he came in. Obviously it didn’t wake you. But if he left closer to the time when you crazy old people get up, he might have wanted to avoid making any noise. It doesn’t much matter since you don’t know who it was, but next time you will. 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 showed me on the screen of the computer a little 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 entries, one at 13:07:51 and the next at 13:07:53. I clicked on the first one and got a picture of Tristan’s back. I clicked on the next one and his smiling countenance was 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 and behind the counter, but only after I had 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 ten minutes, and the only digital assistance I required was my pointing finger.

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

  “Uncle Hubert,” he said, “it used to be that every time I came here you were listening to music, Count Ellington, Duke Bassey, that sort of old stuff you like.”

  “That’s Count Bassey 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 CD’s. 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 a few 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, so you heard, ‘The following program underwritten by Exxon, a global energy company.’ Then they seemed to lift all restrictions, and now 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, Uncle Hubert.”

  “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 listeners 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.

  “Well, I meant every word of it.”

  “I know you did, but satellite radio doesn’t have ads; they don’t even have sponsors. And they even have 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 said.

  I asked Tristan how much I owed him for the camera, the laptop, and the radio, and 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 camera lenses have been commoditized. They cost next to nothing.”

  Commoditized?

  He continued: “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 rumbley 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 watched him go, then checked out my new laptop, 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 always 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, so 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 one before that built in 1706. It’s a beautiful building, somehow managing to combine quaint and majestic, with large sloping adobe walls and buttresses, Spanish colonial architectural elements and even some Victorian looking 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.

  Neri has been an active parish for three centuries, so I guess it’s had scores of priests. How Groaz was assigned there must be a Holy Mystery. I’ll admit he looks like he belongs out west. With his barrel chest and bushy beard, he could pass for Grizzly Adams. But when he talks, he sounds more like Boris Karloff in one of those old vampire movies.

  I took a seat in a pew with a view of the confessional. Murmured conversation hung in air that was cool and still with the musty smell of old wood and incense. Swales had been worn into the aisles by the shoes of a million worshipers. A few unadorned electrical fixtures looked like afterthoughts, their small bulbs straining unsuccessfully to light the altar and high ceiling. Only the sunlight streaming through the stained glass gave any life to the sanctuary.

  The last sinner left, presumably forgiven, and Groas emerged moments later.

  “Well, Hubert,” he started, but it sounded like ‘Woll, Youbird’.

  He asked if I had come for confession.

  “I’m not Catholic, Father.”

  “I know that, Youbird, bot someone must do penance for sending that girl to me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I put her with one of our teachers in the parish school, bot she hass run away.”

  “Susannah warned me she might do that.”

  “How did she know this?”

  “She said Kaylee can relate to men only through sex, so she would continue to seek someone who she thought she could attach herself to by offering sex.”

  “Susannah is vahry perspicacious,” he said. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Kaylee attempt to seduce me.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Is exactly whot I said, Youbird, but in a more reverent voice.”

  “Sorry, Father.”

  “Is O.K., Youbird. I am a priest and not a handsome man, but is not the first time a woman try to tempt me. It is nothing about me. They seek help, but don’t know how to find it. Now she is gone, so we cannot help her.”

  “Hmm. I’m not so sure.”

  I walked back around the corner to my shop half expecting to find Kaylee there, but I found Reggie West instead.

  “I saw you coming around the corner, and thought I’d come say hello. My business is almost as slow as yours.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “If you’re going to make a pot,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind watching; I’m not likely to sell any gelato today, and I’m intrigued by your work.” He had a big curved smile under his perfectly level flattop.

  I didn’t believe he had any interest in seeing me work. I figured he was bored or just wanted me to listen to more complaints about the alimony.

  “Actually,” I told him, “my nephew brought me a satellite radio, and I’m going to see if I can figure out how to operate it.”

  “Maybe another time,” he said.

  There was an awkward moment while we both stood silent, but then we said our goodbyes and he left.

  I started to read the manual that came with the satellite radio. It made the Pythagoras anthology seem like a John Grisham thriller. Finally I gave up and just plugged the thing in.

  The plug was the only feature the device shared with any radio I had owned in the past. It had the standard little prongs attached to a cord that was too short to reach an outlet from anyplace you were likely to want a radio. The only thing I can figure is that the companies that manufacture electrical appliances are also the ones that make extension cords.

  I didn’t have an extension cord that wasn’t in use, so I pushed my easy chair next to an outlet and held the radio in my lap. There were no knobs, only buttons. And not a single word anywhere, only symbols. When did all this change? Why did it change? What was wrong with knobs with ‘volume’ printed under them? At least you knew if you turned the thing, the music would get louder. Now we get hieroglyphics. At least I can read the ones left by the Anasazi.

  I realized I was working myself into a snit, so I poured myself a glass of Gruet, and told myself to relax. I eased back into the chair. It has a handmade willow frame with a natural flex and a goose down cushion covered in off-white ducking. It’s worth sitting in just for the comfort.

  I sipped the champagne and looked at the buttons. One had a nearly closed circle with a line sticking out through the open part of the circle. The laptop had that symbol on the button that turns it on. I punched it and music started playing. The circle and line thing must be the new hieroglyphic for ‘on’.

  It was on a station playing what I think they call soft rock, an oxymoron if ever there were one. There were two buttons next to the power button, one with a little arrow pointing up and another with a little arrow pointing down. I pushed the up button and a different channel came on. I pushed the down button and the soft rock came back. This is too easy, I thought to myself, and took another sip of champagne.

  Then I started pushing the up button and discovering that there are more varieties of music than I ever imagined. I stopped on a station with music that seemed to be created with instruments like wind chimes, bamboo sticks, and trickling water. Above all that was a single plucked string that seemed slightly off key, but in a pleasant way. The music had an Asian feel to it, and I decided to leave that station on, partly because I was intrigued by the music, and partly because I was tired of pushing the button.

  Then I fell asleep. When I awoke the same sort of music was playing. And no ads. Sometimes technology is good. And when I got up the energy to push the button again, I thought to myself, I might eventually work my way up to the music I really
like.

  22

  I was feeling good about Tristan’s visit and my newfound mastery of technology until I stepped inside Dos Hermanas and saw Sven Nordquist, nee Steven Nordquist, standing at the bar. I tried to turn so he wouldn’t see me but failed.

  “Hello, Hubert.”

  “Steve,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

  Sven is tall and thin with blond hair and eyes as cold and dark blue as an arctic fjord. His peculiar gait, rigid from his hips to his neck but loose of arm, makes him appear effeminate.

  He aimed those cobalt eyes at me. “I go by Sven now.”

  I nodded. His cologne smelled of fresh berries. He wore an expensive understated suit with a lapel pin that said ‘ARRIS’ on a crest of feathers.

  Steve and I were students together. UNM has a good anthropology department, so I never understood how he achieved admission. Despite devoting long hours to the attempt, he was unable to grasp the simplest basics of anthropology; he couldn’t distinguish sinanthopus pekinensis from Piltdown man. Or from a French poodle, for that matter. But there was an intensity about him, the kind of single-mindedness that one might associate with success as a student. Yet despite his unbending work ethic, he never mastered the topic, eventually abandoning the science of anthropology for the pseudo-science of “ethnic studies” in which received a master’s degree with honors.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said in his flat Midwestern accent.

  “Since what?” I asked.

  “Since we’ve seen each other.”

  “You didn’t come here to see me, did you?”

  “No, I’m waiting for a donor.”

  “An organ donor? Which one do you need?”

  “Same old Hubert,” he said without humor. “I’m meeting someone who supports the Alliance for Reconciliation and Repatriation of Indigenous Societies.”

  “Which I understand goes by the acronym ARRIS.”

  “As executive director, I’m sure my membership will be happy to hear that you know that,” he said. In fact, I only knew it because of the lapel pin.