The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (14 page)

35

T
he pistol in Jack Haggard's hand confirmed my suspicion that calling him had been a bad idea.

The suspicion—based on nothing specific at first—had begun to form when he arrived wearing a jacket on a warm, sunny day.

At least he had the good sense to protect himself from UV damage with a broad-brimmed hat pulled down to ear level.

The pot was on the counter. He took off his hat so he could get his face close to it. He must have liked what he saw.

“What's the deal?” he asked.

“Same as what I agreed to with Carl—thirty thousand dollars.”

“Okay. I'll give you a check.”

The suspicion grew larger. Like all forms of commerce where a paper trail is unwanted, the illegal antiquities trade is cash only. And that's what I asked for.

“I'll have to bring it to you after the collector pays me,” he said.

“I never let a pot leave the store until it's paid for in full.”

And that's when he reached into the jacket and came out with the pistol.

“I'll make an exception in this case,” I said.

He picked up the pot with his free hand. “Don't try anything stupid.”

“No problem. I'll just wait here until you bring my share of the deal.”

He smiled. “Yeah, you do that.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, I ducked under the counter. I didn't think he was going to take a shot at me through the window, but why take a chance? And I knew he couldn't get back in because of Tristan's high-tech automatic lock.

I'll tell you, I felt a lot better cowered behind the counter than I had facing that pistol. I know nothing about guns. I don't know if it was a .357 or an eight and a half. All I know is it was pointed at me.

I was still sitting below the counter when Whit Fletcher responded to my call. I peeked around the corner, then hit the remote and stood as he entered.

Whit made second team All State as a defensive tackle at Tucumcari High School back in the '70s. He's a bit over his playing weight these days, but he carries it well. His hair is silver and usually in need of a trim, and his eyes slant down like he's either part Asian or in need of a nap. But there's something about his cop demeanor and steady gaze that inspires confidence.

“I've been robbed.”

“I'll call someone from robbery detail.”

“I think you'll want to handle this one yourself. Remember that pot Carl Wilkes wanted me to find?”

“Yeah, the tom-tom. I don't usually forget something worth fifty thousand.”

“Tompiro.”

“Whatever. That what the robber took?”

Well, you know what Haggard took was a fake. But if I told Whit that, he'd want to know how I copied something I don't have. Then I'd have to explain that I'd seen the real one but couldn't get it off the range the first time and discovered it had been stolen when I returned. So I just kept it simple.

“Yeah. And he's going to sell it to the collector Carl was dealing with.”

“How do you know that?”

“The guy who robbed me is named Jack Haggard. He came here a few days ago and said he was working on a deal with Carl. He asked about the Tompiro. I didn't have the pot, but I didn't tell him that. In fact, I didn't tell him anything. But then I got a pot and called him. When he came in, he said he would bring the cash after he sold the pot. I told him my policy is never to let a pot leave the shop until the cash is in my hands.”

“And he changed your policy with a Smith and Wesson.”

“I don't know what brand of gun it was.”

“It's just an expression. You got a plan in mind?”

“When you locate him, maybe you shouldn't arrest him. Just have him tailed until he sells the pot. Arrest him during the transaction. I know criminals can't keep money they get illegally, so maybe you could confiscate the fifty thousand he gets from the collector.”

“It ain't quite that simple. More than likely the collector is gonna give him a check. Unlike you pot thieves, most people don't like to deal in cash. And even if he does pay in cash, it goes into a special safe. We don't keep cash in the evidence locker.”

“So I guess there's no way we can split the fifty thousand.”

“I didn't say that. I just said it ain't gonna be easy.”

“You know who Regina is?”

“She got a last name?”

“Sorry. What I meant to say is do you know who the collector is?”

He gave me a weird look. “Not yet. Maybe we can work it from the seller's end rather than the buyer's. Gimme a description of Haggard.”

“How about a picture instead?”

I opened the laptop Tristan set up for me. It's connected to a camera that takes a shot of the door every time it opens. I selected the third item back on the list because the first one would be Fletcher entering and the second one would be Haggard leaving.

All we could see was the hat.

I gave Whit the card on which Haggard had written
tompiro
and then added his phone number.

Whit extracted his little notebook. “How tall was he?”

36

Y
ou knew the guy had dealings with a bail bondsman. Why did you have the pot sitting on the counter like a grab-n-go sandwich?”

Susannah had pushed her margarita aside and was leaning forward slightly as she does when she's scolding me.

“I figured if he saw it the moment he came in, he'd think it was the pot I got for Carl and wouldn't ask any questions about it. That way I wouldn't have to lie about it being real.”

“So you made it easy for him to steal the pot because even though you were going to swindle him, you didn't want to lie to him?”

“He probably deserves being lied to. But if I can break my rule based on who I'm talking to, it isn't much of a rule.”

“Your ethics are weird, Hubie. Consistent, but weird. Why didn't you want to report it as a robbery?”

I dipped a chip into the salsa and ate it.

“Oh. You're hoping Whit can get the money instead of the pot.”

I nodded as I washed the chip down with my margarita.

“Does he know who Regina is?”

“No. And I actually asked him if he had discovered who Regina is. I wish we hadn't started calling her that.”

“Well, the woman waited a long time for that pot, Hubie. She deserves to have a name at least.”

“Even if it isn't hers?”

“Sure. Maybe she doesn't like her current one—Hilda, Prudence, something like that.”

“Well, we know as much about her location as we do her name.”

“I thought Whit was going to find out who she is.”

“He's trying, but they have nothing to go on. Carl didn't tell me her name of course, and he also didn't let any clue slip out. For all I know the woman lives in Katmandu.”

“Katmandu! Yes. This
is
like the Rudyard Kipling story.”

“‘Rikki-Tikki-Tavi'?”

“No,
The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow
.”

“I thought that was a forgery.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh?”

“After Bernie has stolen
The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow
, the wealthy maharajah who's after it sends his Sikh servant to the bookstore to steal it. He pulls a gun on Bernie just like Haggard pulled a gun on you. Bernie hands him a copy of a different Kipling book, and the Sikh doesn't know it's not
The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow
. So he takes it, just like Haggard took a pot from you without knowing it wasn't the real Tompiro. So even though he robbed you, you get the last laugh.”

I took a deep breath. “In the first place, Katmandu is not in India, so I don't see the connection. In the second place, the maharajah will know it's the wrong book as soon as he sees it. But Regina won't know the pot's a fake. So Haggard will get the fifty thousand even though it isn't a real Tompiro, and that makes me want to cry, not laugh.”

She gave me a half grin. “Spoilsport.”

37

I
told Glad the next morning that we were going with his markdown plan.

“The plan you mentioned fell through?”

“At gunpoint,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Again!”

“I told you about the other times?”

“Didn't you?”

I guessed I must have. I don't like to dwell on those events, so I plowed ahead. “I can't do this myself. I'm too attached to the pots. I want you to do it. I have a list of people who've expressed interest in particular pots but either didn't have enough to buy them or weren't quite willing to make the leap. Some of these people come by so frequently they're almost like friends. They check to see if the pot they want is still here. I'll call them and tell them about the sale.”

“You should also post an advert outside.”

There were only thirteen people on the list. Two of them told me they had bought a similar pot elsewhere, and I could tell from their tone that they felt guilty about it.

As well they should. They discovered the sort of pot they wanted at Spirits in Clay. They took a proprietary interest in it, dropping by periodically to make sure I still had it. They even asked me to notify them before I sold it so they'd have a chance to buy it. They drank my coffee. Then when I call them about the pot, they say they've bought one elsewhere.

They wanted me to call them before I sold, but did they call me before they bought? Would it have been too much for them to call and say, “Hi, Hubie. I've found one of those Mogollon pots at another shop. It's priced lower than yours. You've put up with me constantly dropping in to see that pot, so I thought I'd ask if you could mark it down to what this fellow wants for his because I'd rather buy from you.”

I managed to reach only seven of the remaining eleven on the list. One said he was no longer interested at any price, four thanked me for the call but were noncommittal, and two said they would be in as soon as possible. I told them Glad would be minding the shop and they could deal with him.

My building has a sort of shadowbox on the east wall, a shallow three-feet-by-four-feet wooden frame with a glass front and a hinged top. I assume it was built to hold adverts, as Glad calls them. I never use it. The merchandise is clearly visible through the windows. If that doesn't draw them in, a few words on a sign are not going to do it. But I hand-lettered one announcing a sale and dropped it into the box. Probably a waste of the parchment paper I use for cooking.

A thought that made me hungry and therefore doubly happy that I'd arranged a brunch date with Sharice to keep me out of the shop. I walked to the Grove, a popular restaurant in EDo (east downtown).

I suspect this acronymic naming craze started in New York with SoHo—South of Houston. Now there's LoDo (lower downtown) in Denver, SoDo (south of the dome) in Seattle and EDo in Albuquerque. The trendy name for east downtown hasn't done much for the area. The building the Grove occupies is fine but across the street are a sandy vacant lot and a cheap motel with brackish water in the bottom of the abandoned pool.

Sharice's condo is only a few blocks from the Grove. She was waiting in line when I arrived. After we studied the menu, she settled on the organic egg-white frittata with arugula, pecorino cheese and seasonal vegetables. I don't know why they describe it that way—who would serve unseasonable vegetables?

I chose the croque madame—tomato, whole-grain mustard, Gruyère cheese and a sunny-side-up egg open face on rustic farm bread. In deference to Sharice, I had them hold the Black Forest ham.

They gave us our coffees and a little stanchion with our number on it. I had to balance the tray in my hands for only five minutes before a table came open. That's less time than it usually takes at the popular restaurant.

“It didn't bother you to order a woman's sandwich?” Sharice asked once we were seated.

“With you clinging to my arm, no one is going to question my manhood.”

“You didn't have to make it meatless on my account.”

“I know that. But when you cut the ham they give you a second egg.”

“They never do that when I order it.”

A young woman arrived with our tray and topped off our coffee. “There's an extra egg on there for you, sweetie,” she said to me as she left.

“Sweetie? So it's just the handsome guys who get the extra egg. I thought you might bring the pot to show me, but I guess it's too valuable to carry around?”

“It is. But the reason I didn't bring it is I don't have it.”

I told her about the trip, including Susannah and Glad both immediately seizing on Carl as the thief. She agreed that made sense.

“I know digging up an old pot makes you feel like you've rescued it. And you think the potter who made it would be happy it's being enjoyed again.”

“Not
would be
happy.
Is
happy.”

“You think her spirit is around?”

“Maybe. Maybe it's tied to the pot somehow.”

“We all leave things behind when we die, but I doubt we're tied to them.”

“Would you like the idea of your wardrobe being on display in a clothing museum after you're gone?”

“I guess I would, actually, although I know that's irrational.”

“Maybe not.”

“Let's say that Carl did take it from that sand dune,” she said. “Does the fact that he didn't care about the potters make you feel any different about the pot being dug up?”

“Yes. I'd try to find it a good home. Carl would sell it to someone who planned to grind it up if the money was right.”

At the Grove, you pay when you order, so I left a tip and we headed out.

“Your place or mine?” she asked.

“Yours,” I said. “It's closer and Glad is in mine.”

As we walked west along Central, she reminded me that I made a pass at her the second time we met. I'd just had a root canal, which required a big dose of anesthetic. After Dr. Batres finished, Sharice let me gargle and spit—not a good opening for a pickup line. Then she removed my bib and wiped off my face.

“I asked you if I could have a drink after the anesthetic wore off.”

“And I said, ‘Sure.'”

“Then I said, ‘How about sex?'”

She laughed. “I'd never had anyone ask that, but I knew the anesthetic has no effect after it's worn off, so I said, ‘Sure.'”

“And I said—”

She recited my line. “‘Great. What time do you get off work?' Could you tell I was flustered?”

“No. But I was happy you laughed. I was afraid you might be offended.”

“I thought it was sweet. And it worked. You finally got me in bed.”

“Yeah, five years later.”

She grasped my hand. “We need to make up for lost time.”

I stepped up our pace.

Savannah cats are highly intelligent. When Benz saw us enter the condo hand in hand, he walked over to the balcony door and waited for Sharice to open it.