The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  “It’s about the laser device on my shop door.”

  “It’s basically harmless, but you shouldn’t look directly into it. That’s why it’s mounted only three feet off the floor. If it were at shoulder height and you just happened to look to your right as you entered, it could contact your eyes and could cause a problem. Also, it’s not a good idea for it to pass real close to a pacemaker.”

  “I’ll post a sign outside saying ‘Midgets with pacemakers please call ahead for special entry requirements.’ Why three feet high, by the way, instead of even lower?”

  “It’s hard for the average person to step over something three feet tall, so no one can enter undetected.”

  “Interesting, but not what I want to know. Can it keep a record, like how many customers come in and when?”

  “It not only can, it does. It’s designed to hook into your business computer so you can track exactly how many customers are in the store at different times of the day and make staffing decisions and things like that. Of course you don’t have a business computer, so the only feature you use is the sound that lets you know when someone enters or leaves.”

  “And the only staffing decisions I make are whether to open for business or not. So I couldn’t find out how many people came in yesterday?”

  “Sure you can. You don’t use that function, but it’s still in there. All you have to do is hook a computer to it and read the record off the memory chip.”

  “All I have to do?” I replied. “I can’t understand what you said, much less do it.”

  I asked him to take that reading for me, and he said he would.

  Before I left, I asked Tristan if he needed money, and he said he was O.K., so I gave him a fifty. When he says he’s broke, I give him a hundred. When he says he’s fine, I don’t know what I give him because he is always either broke or just O.K.

  17

  Susannah’s idea about the peephole had me thinking I might work out something with Whit Fletcher, so when I got back from Tristan’s, I called and he agreed to come over.

  “You decide to confess, Hubert?”

  “Good afternoon, Detective. Nice to see you, too.”

  “Got any coffee?” he said.

  I keep coffee brewed and it’s free for customers. Whit didn’t qualify, but I gave him a cup anyway. I’ve tried different brands and blends, but the cheap ones don’t taste any worse than the expensive ones, so I buy whatever is on sale.

  “It’s just plain coffee,” I told him. “If you want something fancy, there’s Columbia Coffee Company across the street and a Starbuck’s in the Hyatt.”

  He took a sip. “You know what those places charge for a cup of coffee, Hubert? Three dollars. You believe that? That whole can you got there probably didn’t cost you three dollars.”

  He took another sip and sat the cup on the counter. “How come you don’t keep no stools up here; might be nice to take a load off.”

  Whit weights around two hundred and twenty pounds, some of it in a paunch, but he seems in reasonable shape. His long face has a matching thin nose between those slant-down eyes. The silver hair on the long side of his part often falls over his eyes and he’s continuously brushing it back with his hand. He wears cheap suits, shirts that are two sizes too big in the collar, and string ties.

  “I don’t want customers sitting at the counter drinking coffee,” I said. “I want them browsing around the shop picking out purchases.”

  “What do you care; you don’t make no money in here. This place is just a front for the illegal stuff you sell on the sly.”

  I didn’t comment on that. Instead, I told him about the missing pot from Bandelier and about a federal agent making two visits to my shop.

  “So why are you tellin’ me, Hubert? Bandelier ain’t exactly in my jurisdiction.”

  I told him my theory. Namely, that the federal agent didn’t think I stole the pot, but he did think whoever stole it might offer to sell it to me. I don’t break into buildings, but some people think digging up pots is a sort of theft and I have a bit of a reputation, so whoever stole the pot might bring it to me. The theory I advanced was that the agent hoped to scare me enough that I would turn the pot over to him and be happy to keep out of trouble and say nothing about it.

  After my explanation, Whit drained the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and put his cup on the counter. “That’s a nice fairy tale, Hubert, but I don’t understand why you’re tellin’ me about it?”

  “There’s likely to be a fairly generous finder’s fee for that pot,” I said, “but I can’t collect it, can I?”

  “Probably not. A thief don’t usually get a finder’s fee for returning what he stole.”

  “I didn’t steal the pot, Whit, but they aren’t going to believe that if I walk in with it under my arm.”

  He brushed his hair back and smiled. “And that’s where I come in.”

  Whit’s always quick to pick up the scent of money.

  “Exactly. If I can find the pot, I can pass it on to you to collect the fee.”

  “And we split it.”

  “Naturally, I would want something for my effort in recovering the thing.”

  “Naturally. But you’re forgetting one thing, Hubert. If your story is right, this federal agent might be after that fee, and he’s not gonna take too kindly to you throwing it my way rather than his.”

  It was time for me to put my one card on the table. Fletcher and I have done a few deals in the past. He trusts me to keep quiet about his supplemental income, and I trust him to help me out with police matters.

  It’s true he has an eye out for money, but he’s otherwise a decent cop. So before bringing Guvelly’s name up, I had to assume Fletcher didn’t think I’d killed anyone; he might play Lord Nelson to my selling a fake pot, but he would never turn a blind eye to murder.

  “I don’t think we’ll have a problem with the agent,” I said. And then I announced proudly, “His name is Guvelly, the guy in room 1118. He’s the one I went to see at the Hyatt.” I heard a drum roll in my head and looked to Fletcher for his reaction.

  He picked up the cup to take another sip, saw that it was empty, and put it back down. Then he just stood there thinking. Finally, he said, “If I remember right, Hubert, you told me you went up to room 1118 by mistake.”

  So much for my dramatic announcement.

  “I lied. Guvelly told me he was in the Hyatt, and he seemed to be trying to snare me. So I decided to drop in on him and see what I could find out. I went up to the eleventh floor, but I didn’t go in.”

  “You just stood outside the door.”

  “Right.”

  “Un huh. You hear a shot while you was standin’ there?”

  “I listened at the door and didn’t hear anything. Then I went back down to the lobby. No shot.”

  Fletcher’s eyes drooped even further down than normal. “Maybe you oughta think about your story some more and then give me a call.”

  I’m usually happy to see Fletcher go, but this time I wished he had stayed. For one thing, I was confused. Why didn’t my mention of the victim’s name elicit a response from him? But an even more important reason why I wished he had stayed was that two Indian thugs walked into my shop only a few minutes after he left.

  The first one through the door looked like something you’d encounter at the top of a beanstalk. He was a foot taller than me, and any one of his limbs outweighed me. His face was a random assortment of planes all sloping the wrong way, and his eyes were two small slits between the planes. I thought he was alone until he got almost to the counter and I heard someone behind him close the door and turn the latch.

  I leaned over to see standing at the door 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 almost as wide as he was tall. He leaned against the door he had just locked.

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

  “Which one?” I croaked.

  “The one from Bandelier, but we don’t want it back 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 and acute 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 came down, 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 when they allow tourists in or one of my old ones for a thousand, but seeing the pieces on my counter made me feel violated.

  I was trembling, but I recovered a bit of courage and asked, “Why did you do that?”

  He didn’t answer. He handed me a card and left. The card had the likeness of Kokopelli on it, and it read “firstNAtions.”

  18

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

  So I was still jumpy after they left. It was only a little after 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,” so, not knowing where I was going, I walked out to Central and turned east 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, and 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 pulled me back to 1979.

  We were the “Mighty Bulldogs.” I was one of those strange kids who spent more time in the library than at the games, and when I did go to watch the football or basketball team, I just couldn’t see why everyone got so worked up about it. They’re just games and sort of strange ones at that. I mean how can serious can you be about ten guys running around in their undershirts throwing 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 up on the extension of Indian School Road does a good job for all I know, but it looks like it was designed by Wal-Mart’s architect, and it’s steeped in all the cant phrases and peculiar conceits of contemporary education. 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 fathers 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 somehow made me feel better, and I discovered I had calmed down. 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. If I lived modestly. Very modestly.

  I looked at my watch and was happy to note that if I walked back to Old Town at my normal pace, it would be just about five o’clock when I got there.

  19

  “You can’t be serious about closing, Hubert.”

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

  “Well of course you were scared, Hubie. A big giant like that and you being a small guy.”

  “I may be small of stature,” I admitted, “but I’m big where it counts.”

  “In your shorts?”

  “Susannah! Where are your manners? I meant my heart. I have a big heart.”

  She waved towards Angie, and quicker than you could say ‘tequila, triple sec, and lime juice,’ our second round arrived.

  “You sure you want another one?” I asked.

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

  “Kauffmann?”

  “My L.A. 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 little unusual.”

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

  I took a sip of my margarita.

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

  The wind had shifted around and was blowing from the south, bringing sand and warmth, the latter drawing us out to the veranda and the latter chasing us back in again. I can’t stand gritty drinks.

  “What would you do if you really did close the shop?” Susannah asked. “Would you get an honest job?”

  “I had an honest job once.”

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

  “I worked for 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?”

  “The other associates were 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 make it.”

  “What did you do 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. Finally I realized what I liked about it was trying to duplicate the designs on Indian pottery. While the ladies were painting grape clusters, I was perfecting the running feather design.”

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

  “It was a start. It was also what got me back in college. One day I was driving by the campus on my way to work, and suddenly I realized I had 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 business. 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. I’ve had more incarnations as a student than Shirley McLain.”

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

  “Maybe. But don’t you think it should be like love at first sight? I like art history, but I can’t honestly say that it makes my pulse race. How was it with you and anthropology?”

  “I actually started back in art because I liked making pots. Everything I had ever done before consisted of following the path someone else had blazed. In math we proved theorems everyone already knew were true. In accounting we followed the standards of the profession. But in making pots, there were no rules.”

  “But you always say you just make copies.”

  “I do now; I eventually discovered I’m not all that creative. But at least I tried it. I grabbed a handful of soft clay, threw it on a wheel, dug my hands into it, and worked it up into some sort of shape. There’s a sort of power in throwing a pot. The earth—o.k., it’s just a little clump of earth, but I always thought of it as the earth—it follows your hands, 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 liked it, huh?”

  “I did. But I realized a million other people could do the same thing. Then I took an anthropology course called something like ‘Southwestern Pueblo Cultures’ just to learn more about pots, and I was hooked. I took a few more pottery studio courses, but I changed my major to anthropology. Even now saying that word runs a chill up my spine. It wasn’t just a new field of study; it was an entire world waiting to be unearthed. I thought I was going to be Indiana Jones, except not him exactly, of course, because that was before the movie came out.”

  “In a way you are like Indiana Jones, digging in exotic places under the cover of darkness.”

  “Maybe you’re right. He didn’t make pots, but he sure enjoyed digging them up.” I took a drink and shrugged. I felt good that I honestly didn’t care about being famous. “They’re not going to make a movie about me, but I like what I do. I also like not having a schedule or a boss. Does that sound self-indulgent?”