The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  “Tristan, getting to know someone isn’t a matter of cataloging what they like and don’t like. You don’t tell people who you are; you show them. Dates are opportunities to do things, hear music, see movies, go rafting. You get a feel for someone by seeing them do things and doing those things with them. It’s O.K. to ask questions, of course. But when it comes to ‘show and tell,’ dating is more about showing than telling.”

  “Wow, Uncle Hubert. I guess wisdom does come with age. You really put your finger on it. I wanted to do things with her, but she just wanted to interview me.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m pushing middle age and still live alone in the back of a shop, so I don’t think I qualify as an expert in relationships. Who are you seeing now?”

  He took out his PDA and pretended to scroll through a long list.

  “I think I’ve run out of disc storage,” he said.

  “I can see that not hitting it off with Selena has you really broken up.”

  He laughed. “Thanks for the talk. And thanks for including me tonight. It was a radically new experience for me. And it’s also good to see bad guys get caught.”

  “Yes, and as you said, the University even got a scholarship out of the deal.”

  “But the scholarship is limited to art students,” Tristan complained. “That’s a real bummer. I mean art scholarships are so easy to get. Everybody wants to help the starving artists. But does anyone ever stop to think why they’re starving? It’s because they’re not providing a good or service people really need. I mean, there’s an artist on every street corner. But everyone needs help with their computer, don’t they? There are millions of people like you, Uncle Hubert, who don’t know the first things about computers—no disrespect intended—and they could use the help of a college graduate professional. But do we have enough of them? No. And why? Because there’s not enough scholarship money for computer majors; it all goes to art students. And on top of that…”

  “Tristan!”

  “Yes, Uncle Hubert?”

  “How much do you need?”

  64

  I guess I don’t have to tell you where Susannah and I were that next night.

  “That was some confrontation last night,” she said.

  “I’m just glad the cops were out in force. I think Reggie would have killed me with his bare hands.”

  “Which reminds me; I have some questions. You told me at first that Tristan speculated that the person who came into your shop at 6:57 must have stepped over the beam when he left. That could still be true, couldn’t it?”

  “Not really. If that had happened, there would have to be two interruptions that morning, one when Reggie came in and one when he left. But there was only one, the one at 9:22.”

  “O.K., but when Reggie searched your place and didn’t find the Bandelier Pot, why didn’t he just take some of the other stuff? After all, you have a lot of valuable pots.”

  “True. But like Hugo Berdal, he wouldn’t know that. If he took the pot Guvelly had described to him, he would be safe because it was stolen to begin with, and he knew he could get the finder’s fee. But if he took anything else, he would put himself at risk, so he played it safe.”

  “O.K. But why did Crow of firstNAtions come to threaten you?”

  “Crow and Smith had the cooperation of Guvelly to run their protection racket. I expect Guvelly got a cut. So Guvelly could order them to scare me in hopes that I would crack and give them the pot.”

  “But you didn’t have the pot.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t know that.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “firstNAtions?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing. Crow and Smith were granted immunity in exchange for testifying that they saw Nordquist and Berdal arrive together at the Hyatt. They also agreed, as part of the deal, to end their protection racket.”

  “You think they will?”

  “No, but they’ll probably move it somewhere else.”

  We waved to Angie for more salsa and chips.

  “You must be feeling pretty good right now,” Susannah said to me.

  “I do. The pots are back where they belong, the bad guys are in jail, and Kaylee and Arturo have found true happiness.”

  “But Consuela is no better.”

  “It’s real life, Suze; not everything gets resolved. But she and Emilio seem as happy now as they were before she got sick. Maybe true love does conquer all.”

  “I still believe that,” she said. Her eyes were moist but there was a smile on her face.

  “I have something for you,” she said and handed me a small cardboard tube.

  I took off the end cap, extracted a piece of paper, unrolled it, and saw a fascinating drawing. Two thin lines captured the look of a desert horizon. Two vertical stylized arms met at that horizon, and their hands wound around each other like a double helix. The double helix formed a pot. The entire thing hinted at the Zia sun, New Mexico’s symbol. The lines were simple yet highly suggestive of the southwest.

  I looked up at Susannah. “This is great work. Did you draw this?”

  “No, Hubert. My friends drew it. That’s your new logo.”

  I had forgotten all about the logo project. “It’s fantastic.”

  “You really like it?”

  “More than I can say.”

  “So you’ll use it for your business?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well,” she said, “now that you’ve seen the logo, does any name for your shop leap to mind.”

  I looked at the hand coming up from the soil and thought of the spirits of the ancient potters.

  “Spirits in Clay,” I announced.

  “That’s a great name; I’ll tell my friends about it.”

  “Feeling better today?” I asked Susannah.

  “Not really, but at least I’ve stopped crying every five minutes. Are my eyes still bloodshot?”

  “They are, but the swelling in your nose seems to have gone down.”

  “Thanks a lot.” She slumped back in her chair and looked at me. “You think either one of us will ever find that certain someone?”

  “You will, Suze; I’m certain of it. As for me, well, Kaylee may have been my last shot.”

  She laughed and choked briefly then laughed again.

  “I’ve got something here I know you’ll like,” I said.

  I handed her a section of the Los Angeles Times. I had circled the article with the headline that read, Local Professor Arrested for Art Theft.

  As she read she kept glancing up at me and her look evolved from incredulous to pleased. “I can’t believe this. The only time that bastard was ever in the Valle del Rio was when I gave him a private tour after his lecture. And while I was being such a great host and fawning student, he was stealing a Remington right under my nose.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Read the related story right below.”

  “Art Historian’s Troubles Inflate,” she read aloud. The story read, “Kauffmann Williburton, the well-known art historian accused of stealing a Remington bronze from a museum in New Mexico is experiencing troubles on other fronts as well. It seems the police search of his house turned up not only the missing Remington under the couch in the living room but also an inflatable woman under the bed in the master bedroom. The police took no action since possession of an inflatable woman is not illegal in California, but Mrs. Williburton is suing for divorce.”

  “Hubie! That’s Berdal’s woman.”

  I just smiled.

  “And you took the Remington when you were switching pots with Doak.”

  Another smile. But nothing to match Susannah’s. Then she started laughing, and I started laughing with her. And we both kept laughing as we waved for Angie.

  Turn the page for a preview of the next POT THIEF adventure...

  SNEAK PREVIEW

  The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy

  by

  J. Michael Orenduff

 
; “The longer I looked at it,” I told her, “the more it looked like Fort Knox.”

  The ‘it’ was Rio Grande Lofts, a building in downtown Albuquerque I was thinking about breaking into. Actually, I was hoping not to break in; I wanted to enter surreptitiously without breaking anything, without making any noise, and without having anyone even know I’d been there. But I suspected ‘breaking and entering’ is what I’d be charged with if they caught me.

  The ‘her’ was my best friend Susannah who meets me almost every day at the traditional cocktail hour to have traditional cocktails – margaritas. Well, they’re traditional in New Mexico at any rate. Although we discuss anything that comes to mind, the conversation frequently turns to her love life and my illegal adventures, both of which fate seems to delight in contorting.

  “What’s Fort Knox look like, Hubie?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then how do you know Rio Grande Lofts looks like it?”

  “It’s just an expression, Suze, like ‘solid as the Rock of Gibraltar’.”

  “I don’t suppose you know what that looks like either, do you?”

  “I’ve seen pictures of it in insurance ads.”

  “But you’ve never seen a picture of Fort Knox?”

  “I may have; I don’t remember. Can we get back to the point I was trying to make?”

  “Sure. What point was that?”

  I turned up my palms in mock exasperation. “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Why don’t I order us another round while you try to remember.”

  I told her that was a good idea and she waved to our server, the willowy Angie. I had given Rio Grande Lofts the once-over that morning. I’m not a burglar; I’m a shopkeeper. I own a store in Albuquerque’s Old Town where I sell traditional Native American pottery made by the artisans of the dozen or so pueblos in New Mexico that have classic pottery traditions.

  I also sell pots made by the ancient ones who roamed this land over a thousand years ago. I’m a treasure hunter. Professional archaeologists would call me a pot thief. I guess technically I am a criminal because what I do is illegal. But I don’t think it’s wrong.

  Angie brought us fresh margaritas and more chips and salsa. We were sitting under the west veranda of Dos Hermanas Tortilleria enjoying the last warm rays of sun on a dry October evening. I dipped a chip into the salsa and washed it down with the first swallow of my new drink. Like Albuquerque in autumn, the salsa and drinks at Dos Hermanas are unfailingly refreshing.

  “The point I was trying to make, Suze, is that getting into Rio Grande Lofts is going to be difficult. In fact, I may not be able to do it.”

  “I have confidence in you, Hubert,” she said. And then she gave me that enigmatic smile she does so well and added, “You’ve broken into better places than that.”

  “I’ve never broken in to anything,” I protested.

  “You broke in to the Valle del Rio Museum.”

  “I didn’t break in,” I corrected, “The director let me in with his key.”

  “After you bamboozled him.”

  “With your help.”

  “True,” she said, “that was fun, wasn’t it Hubie?”

  I agreed it was and we clinked our glasses together.

  “You also broke into that apartment in Los Alamos,” she said.

  “Again with your help; you kicked in the door. I didn’t break anything.”

  “You tried to get in by stuffing some of your potting clay into the door jamb, remember? But it didn’t work.”

  “That’s because I only put the clay in a little ways.”

  “You know what the Church says about that, Hubert: ‘Penetration, however slight, constitutes the offense’.”

  “I think the Church may have recently lost a little of its moral authority on sexual matters,” I observed.

  “Good point,” she admitted. “But then there was that house in California.”

  “O.K., I did commit one break in. But I didn’t steal anything. I’m not a burglar, Suze.”

  “So you keep saying. But you steal old pots.”

  “They don’t belong to anyone, Suze, so it’s not stealing.”

  She gave me that smile again. “What is it? Finders, keepers?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No offense, Hubie, but if you broke into my grandmother’s grave to get her wedding ring, I think I’d consider that stealing.”

  “So would I. But I don’t rob graves. And the stuff I dig up is a thousand years old. Surely there should be some statute of limitation.”

  “But that stuff belonged to somebody’s ancestors,” she persisted.

  “We don’t know that,” I replied. “For all we know, the ancient peoples of this area died out and the current tribes moved in from elsewhere.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “True,” I said, warming to my subject, “but here’s what I do know. All of us – black, brown, red, yellow, and white – are descended from a woman named Lucy who lived in Africa a million years ago. So I have as much claim to the loot in the ground as anyone else.”

  “So at the end of the day, Hubie, you and I are both African Americans?”

  “All of us are.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said.

  Susannah had to leave for class. She’s in her late twenties and brings youthful enthusiasm to my occasional illegal caper. I’m on the wrong side of forty-five and should know better. When she’s not drinking margaritas or kicking in doors, she waits tables two blocks from my shop at La Placita during the lunch shift and attends classes three nights a week. She’s currently studying art history, but she changes majors the way most people change socks. She seems to be working her way through the catalog of the University of New Mexico.

  I graduated from that institution with a business degree in the eighties and went back a couple of years later to study anthropology and archaeology. I unearthed some valuable pots during a summer dig. They weren’t from the official excavation site; I found a better place to dig and hit pay-dirt.

  Literally. I sold the pots to a wealthy collector for more than I earned during the two years I worked before returning to school. I viewed the money as a reward for having a better sense of where to dig than the professors who were supervising the project. Even though digging up old pots wasn’t illegal back then, the university viewed it differently. They expelled me.

  “Can I get you another one, Mr. Schuze?” I looked up at Angie’s dark eyes peering at me from under those long lashes. How could I say no?

  I sipped my fresh margarita and considered the pros and cons of breaking into a building. I’ve been hooked on digging up old pots ever since that fateful summer find, and it’s not just the money. It’s also the lure of buried treasure, the thrill of the hunt, and the satisfaction of the find.

  It’s hard to describe the pleasure I feel when I find a long-buried pot. I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’m the first person to touch it in a thousand years. I feel a strong connection with the potter who made it; I suspect he (or more likely she) might be proud it lasted so long. I fancy she might even be happy I’ve found it.

  My sense of connection is one potter to another; two fellow humans who walked the same earth and put our hands in the same clay.

  Because of the reverence I feel for ancient potters, it pains me somewhat to sell their works, so I always make sure the buyer appreciates the piece. The best thing I can do for the ancient potter is find a good home for her work. Of course if a few thousand dollars find a good home in my pocket, then the pain of parting is sweet sorrow indeed.

  Passage of the Archaeological Resources Protection Act (ARPA) a few years back made it illegal to dig up old pots, but doing so still carries little risk. After all, the places one digs for pots are, almost by definition, deserted. The same cannot be said of buildings, especially residential ones.

  So I should have been worrying, but the margarita was cool and the sun was warm, and my worries evaporated
in the dry desert air. And why not? Worrying is a waste of emotional energy. The things we worry about often never happen, and the things we should fret about we usually don’t see coming. So not worrying turned out to be a good thing because if I had let myself worry, it would have been about being arrested for breaking and entering, not for murder. Which was the thing that happened that I didn’t see coming

  So I just sat there on the veranda wanting the sun to stay up so I would-n’t have to go home, but of course it didn’t and I did.

  I had walked downtown that morning to examine Rio Grande Lofts. I remembered watching many years ago from the windows of my social studies class at Albuquerque High School as the steel framework went up.

  Rio Grande Lofts – it wasn’t called that then – started life as an office building with retail space on the street level. It was about the third or fourth tall building in town. In my high school naïveté, I assumed we were headed towards having a skyline and that Albuquerque would soon look like Manhattan, which – like the Rock of Gibraltar – I have seen only in pictures.

  The building opened during a recession and never achieved full occupancy. Downtown shopping was in the final stages of losing out to the malls. The property changed hands a number of times and hosted a variety of ventures whose only common denominator was failure. Eventually, the rent from the few occupants failed to cover expenses and the place was boarded up.

  Albuquerque’s latest revitalization plan calls for encouraging people to live downtown, and – surprisingly - it seems to be working. Even my old high school has been converted into lofts. The boarded-up office building also got a facelift. The ground floor was converted into a lobby with an entrance vestibule, a mailbox area, a locker room for the doormen, and a storage area. Floors two through eleven were divided up into residences. I suppose calling them lofts was meant to conjure up images of exposed brick, high ceilings, and industrial elevators. I was interested to discover if they really had that look.

  But you probably know that curiosity about architecture wasn’t the reason I wanted to break in.

  Apartment – excuse me – Loft 1101 was occupied by Ognan Gerstner, the recently retired head of the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at the University of New Mexico. He was the person who officially expelled me from the University. I disliked Gerstner, but that was true before he expelled me. I hold no grudge about it. So revenge was not my motive for wanting into the building.