The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy (The Pot Thier) Page 9

  “I think you mean ‘swag’.”

  “Swag, loot, whatever you burglars call it.”

  “I’m not a burglar, Susannah.”

  “Not much of one anyway.”

  “Look, I made no provision for carrying away the pots because I knew I wasn’t going in to Gerstner’s apartment.”

  “Loft,” she corrected.

  “Right. When I’m ready to actually go in, I’ll want to make sure he isn’t in there. I wanted to study his door so I could figure out how to get in when the time comes.”

  “And did you figure it out?”

  “I think so, thanks to you.” I told her what I had in mind and why she deserved credit for it. She suggested a different plan.

  “From the way you describe it, the door doesn’t sound that strong. Why don’t you just take a crowbar and pry it open?”

  “I don’t want to damage it.”

  “Geez, Hubie, you’d be breaking in to the man’s house. Why the compunction about merely damaging his door?”

  “I don’t want him to know he’s been broken in to.”

  “Won’t he figure that out when he sees the pots are gone?”

  “The pots may not be there. Maybe they’re in one of those rental storage places or at his cabin in the mountains.”

  “He has a cabin in the mountains?”

  “I have no idea. But if they’re not in his apartment, I don’t want him to know there was a break-in.”

  “Because it would put him on alert, and he might move the pots out of the cabin you don’t know whether he has?”

  “Right. But the first order of business is to find out whether the pots are in his apartment.”

  She took a sip of her drink and looked at me over the rim of the glass. “That should be easy now that you’ve got a girlfriend in the building.”

  “She’s hardly a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, Hubie,” Susannah said in a falsetto, “come by my place and I’ll teach you how to iron.”

  “She was just being a good neighbor.”

  “Come on, Hubie. That’s as obvious a come-on line as I’ve ever heard.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Suze. She’s better looking than me, taller than me, and younger than me. Why would she come on to an unshaven guy in wrinkled clothes who smelled faintly of gasoline fumes?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Hubie. Oops, bad choice of phrase. What I meant to say is you’re a handsome guy, and the unkempt look is in these days. You should call her up. Maybe you are in for a night of unbridled passion in Rio Grande Lofts.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, I can’t call her. I don’t have her number, and I can’t look it up because I don’t know her last name.”

  “Just call the building and ask for Stella.”

  “Hmm. What if they ask who’s calling?”

  “Tell them it’s Hubert.”

  “What if they want a last name? That doorman Rawlings is very thorough.”

  “Make one up. She doesn’t know your last name, does she?”

  I felt myself perking up. “You know, Suze, you might be right. A call could get me back in the apartment the easy way, and even if she refuses to take the call, what have I lost?”

  22

  Saturday morning broke clear and crisp. At least I suppose it did. I was blissfully asleep at the time, but the day was clear and crisp when I awoke several hours after it actually broke.

  A sunny October day is perfect for eating Consuela Sanchez’ cooking. Of course the same could be said of a rainy day in May, a snowy day in February, or a windy day in March.

  I drove up the north valley to my favorite butcher where I made a large purchase and then reversed direction and drove down the south valley until I reached the unnamed dirt road to the residence of Emilio and Consuela Sanchez.

  “Bienvenido, Señor Uberto.”

  “Buenas dias, Señor Sanchez.”

  “Consuela, she is in the garden. She is anxious to see you.”

  “I am anxious to see her as well, but first you can help me carry this box inside. It requires a strong man like you, Emilio.”

  “I am no longer strong, amigo. I fear the years have stolen my strength.”

  “Take one end of the box and we’ll see.”

  He hoisted his end and we carried it inside.

  “You see, you are still strong, and you will need your strength to care for Señora Sanchez.”

  “I pray to the Virgin and to San Vicente to keep me strong. What is in the box?”

  “It is meat. You know my friend Susannah. Her family has a large ranch to the east. When they have a matanza, they bring her meat. It is more than she can eat, so she gives some to me. It is also more than I can eat, so I bring it to you.”

  “But the box is so large. Have you kept none for yourself, amigo?”

  “I have all I want, Emilio. You know my small domicilio. I have no freezer. Where would I store this meat? It would be a sin to let it spoil, so I bring it to you because I know you have room for it. And also, you know how to cook carne asada, and perhaps I will have the chance to taste it again.”

  “Of that you can be sure. But come to the back and see Consuela.”

  She slumbered under the sun in a metal lawn chair with a blanket on her lap. Her gray hair was combed back and covered with a scarf tied under her chin. Her once plump face was drawn and ashen. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and chiles and awoke when I hugged her.

  “You’ve been roasting chiles, Señora Sanchez.”

  “What do I tell you, Emilio? Uberto is my best student of cooking. He has the nose for every flavor. But, Uberto, you must call me Consuela.”

  We chatted about the pecan trees they planted when they bought the lot before the house was built, about my parents, about how she had met Emilio and been relieved to see he was so handsome (it was a semi-arranged marriage), and about her daughter who lives in California and has not given them grandchildren even though she is nearing thirty and married. Consuela blamed it on California and expressed certainty that if Ninfa and her husband would move back to New Mexico, the children would surely come.

  She didn’t mention the dialysis or anything else about her health and neither did I.

  She insisted on cooking lunch, and even though I knew she was not up to it, I also knew it would be impossible to dissuade her. As my nose had informed me, she had already roasted and peeled the poblanos, shredded the quesadilla and the asadero, and cooked the side dish of refried beans. I watched her beat the egg whites to stiff peaks with a hand whisk, stuff the poblanos with the two cheeses, dip them in the egg whites, and lower them in to the boiling lard. She turned them deftly and removed them to a paper sack to drain.

  Warm plates from the oven received chiles rellenos and refried beans. Her own plate held only a small helping of the beans. Emilio opened two cans of Tecate and we dug in. Though she was obviously frail, Consuela joined in the conversation with enthusiasm and laughter, and we sat at the table for two hours.

  I’m ashamed to admit I ate four rellenos and at least a plateful of beans. Emilio stayed with me bite for bite, with the result that when Consuela produced two flans from the counter, he and I groaned in unison. But of course we ate them.

  I hugged Consuela and Emilio in turn, they pressed a bag of chile-roasted pecans in to my hands, and we repeated our farewells several times. It was past three when I finally pulled onto the highway.

  Susannah thinks I don’t read enough frivolous books, so – in keeping with her running insistence that I’m a burglar – she lent me a mystery called The Burglar who Studied Spinoza. I chose that one because of an interest in Spinoza. Turns out there isn’t much about him in the book, which is probably just as well. I’m no philosopher. I tried once to read his major work, Ethics. It was like running through sand, but I liked one passage that says something like, “The free man wastes no time thinking about death.” I suppose Spinoza meant ‘free’ not as opposed to ‘enslaved’ but in the sense of ‘lib
erated from fear’.

  While I was gazing at the stars in my patio, a limb from one of my cottonwoods might have fallen on my head and killed me. I don’t worry about such things. Live life correctly and well each day. That’s my motto. Actually, I’m not really the sort to adopt mottos or coats of arms, but if I had a coat of arms, that motto would be on it. Along with crossed glasses, one a champagne flute and the other a margarita tumbler.

  I like to think the Sanchezes share my motto. They have not allowed Consuela’s illness to undermine their life. They live every day according to their values and they enjoy such simple pleasures as are available to them. So being with them makes me happy, not sad.

  23

  My previous discussion with Susannah ended with her convincing me I had nothing to lose by calling the glamorous Stella in Rio Grande Lofts. After further consideration, I decided she was wrong.

  I could call as Susannah had suggested and hope the doorman would put me through even if I couldn’t give Stella’s last name. “Good morning,” I’d say, “can you please put me through to Stella?”

  A polite but indifferent voice would ask, “Which Stella would that be, sir?”

  “The one on the fourth floor,” I would reply, hoping that knowing her floor would legitimize my request. But the haughty doorman might ask, “Do you have her surname, sir?”

  “I’m sorry,” I might reply, “I met her the other day and she asked me to call, but I don’t remember her surname.”

  Might work. Saying she asked me to call might do it. A doorman could get in trouble by not putting through requested calls even if the caller didn’t know the resident’s full name.

  But even if I got the call past the doorman, Stella would still have to accept it. Susannah seemed certain she would. I was less sanguine. If Stella did take the call, my troubles were just beginning.

  “Hi, Hubert,” I could hear her saying, “I’m glad you called. Why don’t you pop down to the fourth floor and pick up my iron.” Or worse, “Why don’t I bring my iron up to eleven and show you how to use it?”

  I ran through a dozen imaginary conversations with both Stella and her doorman, and I didn’t like any of them. And I didn’t know how the phone system worked at Rio Grande Lofts. Maybe they could dial each other directly, and the fact that I called the doorman would alert her that I was not in the building, and the first thing she would ask is where I was calling from… and, well, you get the picture. Calling the building didn’t seem nearly so simple as Susannah and a couple of margaritas had made it sound.

  So I decided to find out Stella’s apartment number. My plan to accomplish this was the very soul of simplicity. Namely, watch the fourth floor and see which door she came from in the morning.

  I had no desire to spend another night in the basement of Rio Grande Lofts, so I drove the Bronco up to the keypad at 7:00 Monday morning and noticed a metal sleeve had been welded around it. You couldn’t see the numbers unless you were directly in front of the keypad. My first thought was I’d been spotted spying the numbers through my telescope, and when I punched in #2330 and nothing happened, I was sure of it.

  I tried the other code I had seen, #9999, not thinking it would work, but it did, so I decided the changes didn’t mean I had been spotted. Maybe the resident with code #2330 just decided to change his code the way people sometimes change their passwords. At least that’s what my nephew Tristan tells me. I don’t have any passwords.

  There was a clicking sound from the direction of the gate, then a clank, and then the gate drew back and I drove in.

  I was dressed in business attire and carrying a brief case, so when a resident came through the door of the glassed-in area and I grabbed the door and let myself in, he didn’t even look back. Maybe clothes do make the man.

  I elevatored up to the fourth floor, walked down the hall, and opened the door to the stairwell. Once on the stairwell side of the door, I removed metal shears, wire mesh, a screwdriver, and a clay plug from the briefcase. I pressed the clay in to the slot where the bolt goes. I worked the metal shears around the wire mesh to create a piece the width of the metal plate around the bolthole. Then I removed the two screws from the plate, put the mesh over it, and reinserted the screws through the mesh. The mesh would do triple duty, holding the clay in place, allowing it to dry, and preventing the bolt from lodging in the bolthole.

  I eased the door shut and of course the bolt did not engage. Then I opened it just a sliver and watched. I saw a man emerge from number 409. I closed the door quietly. I heard the elevator doors open and close. Then I eased the door open again. Two other people exited their apartments and went to the elevator before Stella stepped out from number 404. She was stunning. I was preparing to move briskly up the stairs to avoid encountering her if she came towards me, but she stopped at the elevator and punched the down button.

  I walked leisurely down the stairs, killing some time at the bottom to give her plenty of time to exit the building. Then I opened the door, walked through the glassed-in area, got in the Bronco, and drove up to the exit gate. Whatever magic it is that allows gates to distinguish cars from persons worked. It opened and I drove to my nephew’s apartment.

  24

  Tristan is not actually my nephew. He’s the grandson of my Aunt Beatrice, my mother’s sister. I think that makes Tristan my second cousin once removed. Or maybe it’s my first cousin twice removed. As an anthro­pologist, I should be an expert on kinship, but I’m not. I prefer physical anthropology – pots. Anyway, I call Tristan my nephew and he calls me his uncle, and that’s the way we feel about each other, so it works.

  Tristan is never without his PDA, a device I believe contains his entire collection of unlistenable music, an internet connection, assorted games that simulate gruesome combat, a camera, and of course both a pager and a cell phone with voice mail. You would think he would be easy to reach at any time. You would be wrong if the time were before noon, the earliest he has been known to arise.

  I stopped at Barela’s Coffee House for two chorizo and egg breakfast burritos and a large black coffee. I let myself in to his apartment with my key and held the steaming coffee under his nose. When he was close enough to consciousness to groan, I shook his shoulders.

  “What time is it?” he asked groggily.

  “It’s past ten.”

  “At night?”

  “No, ten in the morning, and I’ve brought you breakfast.”

  “Put it on the counter and I’ll eat it later,” he said and closed his eyes.

  I shook him some more. “You can’t go back to sleep. The burritos will get too soggy to eat, and I need your help.”

  He swung his feet to the floor and stared at me. “I’ve got to pee.”

  He did. Loudly with the door open.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to close the bathroom door?”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  I heard a flush and then the running of the tap, so at least, I thought to myself, his hygiene is better than his manners.

  He got back in bed, propped himself up on his pillow and began to eat the burritos. I wondered if I needed to reconsider my estimation of his hygiene.

  “Are you going to wash the sheets when you finish breakfast?’

  “Nah. I never wash them unless I have a girl coming over.”

  It happens quite often – girls find him irresistible. He’s slightly pudgy with smooth skin and black hair that hangs down in ringlets around his neck. His large eyes have dark skin under them, so he looks like some sort of lovable animal baby. He’s also a nice person, and the girls like that, too. You may wonder, in light of his love life, how we both avoid the embarrassment of my letting myself in to his apartment and finding he is not alone. The answer is we have a very sophisticated system. The system was not worked out by Tristan, so it does not rely on lasers, electronics, or anything digital. I suggested it myself, and it is the essence of simplicity. When he’s not alone, he sticks a yellow Post-it Note on his door.


  After eating both burritos, he looked in to the sack and said to the bottom of it, “Did you bring anything else?”

  “Yes, a question about telephone numbers. If I have an address, is there any way to find the telephone number that goes with it?”

  “There are some companies on the Internet that do that for a charge. What they’ve done is dump phone book data in to a relational data base.”

  “English?”

  “They have the telephone numbers in order instead of the names.”

  “That should work.”

  “Only if the person has a listed number.” He stepped over to his desk and hit a few keys on his computer. I gave him Stella’s address, but he came up empty.

  “So there’s no way to find the number?”

  “Well, there is a more complete reverse directory, but only the police, firefighters, and other authorized agencies are supposed to have it.”

  “Oh.”

  He gave me a big sleepy smile. “I have one.”

  “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. The one I have is in an encrypted data base I got from hacking in to—”