The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (9 page)

22

A
re you still mad at me for causing us to crash?”

“No. But I'm still mad that you won't tell me why you were so distracted.”

“I
did
tell you.”

“Saying you were lost in thought is not telling me anything, Hubert. Telling me would be saying what you were thinking
about
.”

What I don't tell Susannah of my own volition, she usually drags out of me. I kind of like when she does that. But I couldn't tell her about Sharice's “bombshell” because some things can't be shared even with your best friend. So being unable to mollify Susannah, I changed the subject and told her about Carl and my vacillation, both of thought and action.

She lofted her margarita and said, “To Carl Wilkes.”

“It's not a funeral, memorial service or dispersal of ashes,” I said, clinking my glass against hers, “but at least it's something.”

“And better than spontaneous haikus. Did you really attend an event like that or did you just make it up?”

“You can't make up something like that.”

I recited one of the poems I remembered:

A rippling trout stream —

A rainbow's lips strike the nymph

The fisherman smiles

“Doesn't sound like funeral material.”

“The dead guy loved trout fishing.”

“What was your haiku?”

“I don't remember.”

She leaned over and looked under the table. “Just trying to see if your pants are on fire.”

“Okay, I do remember.”

A six-foot wood box

Floating across the river Styx

Fish therein rejoice

She frowned. “So in addition to joining me in a toast to a guy I hardly knew, what else are you going to do?”

“Like I just said, I have no idea.”

“In one of the Bernie Rhodenbarr books, Bernie's partner is killed. Bernie says, ‘When your partner is killed, you have to do something about it. Maybe he was not a good partner, and you didn't like him much, but that doesn't matter. He was your partner, and you're supposed to do something about it.'”

“That line came from
The Maltese Falcon.
”

“Really? Well, it doesn't matter who said it first. The point is you have to do something about it.”

“Carl was not my partner.”

“He was partner enough for you to illegally dig up an old pot on the White Sands Missile Range when there was thirty thousand in it for you. But now that he's dead, it's like you hardly knew him. Clink a glass in his name and move on.”

“He wasn't my partner, but at least I liked him. Which is more than you can say for Sam Spade and his partner, Miles Archer. Spade had an affair with Archer's wife, not a very partnerly thing to do. I wouldn't have cavorted with Carl's wife if he had one.”

“And especially if he didn't have one.”

“Right. I'll do something. I just don't know what.”

“Not to sound mercenary, but I guess my twenty percent of that pot died along with Carl.”

“Maybe not. Whit thinks his investigation may turn up the name of the buyer.”

“Let me guess—he gets a cut.”

“Of course. But even after your share and his cut, it's enough to pay off most of my debts. But first we have to get the pot.”

I swear it was like she knew I was going to say that, and she already had it all worked out.

“We can do that next week during the Annual Bataan Death March Memorial.”

“Shouldn't that be the Bataan Death March Annual Memorial? Because, thankfully, the Bataan Death March doesn't happen every year, just the memorial to it.”

“Are you going to quibble about word order, or do you want to hear the plan?”

“Is it long and complicated?”

“Sort of. You want to get a refill first?”

I said I did. When Angie had us reprovisioned, I said, “The Memorial March is on the wrong end of the range.”

Susannah pulled a brochure from her backpack. “Not this year. Something to do with top-secret maneuvers involving the F-22A Stealth Fighters at Holloman near the south entrance. So they moved the event farther north for this one year. An omen, right?”

“Right. But is it a good one or a bad one?”

“You say you're an optimist, so let's assume it's a good one. The location has changed, but the entrance procedures haven't. They're stricter than the Trinity Site event, probably because the participants won't be going straight in and straight out.”

“They'll go in and out crooked?”

She shook her head. “They'll go around in circles. One route is twenty-six miles, a marathon. The other route is only fourteen. The routes overlap because the twenty-sixers have to make part of one loop twice and both routes pass not too far from where you buried the pot.”

“In that case, I'll choose the fourteen-mile route.”

“No. We'll choose the long one, but we won't actually do it.”

When I started to question her, she held up a palm and continued. “People who do the twenty-six miles are hardcore. They go first and they don't lollygag. So it's easy to fall to the back of the group and eventually be far enough behind that no one notices us leaving the road. We dig up the pot, return to the road and fall in with the fourteen-milers, the twenty-six milers on their second pass or whatever stragglers happen to be there.”

“What if the officials notice that we started with the twenty-sixers and finished with the fourteeners?”

“There were over five thousand participants last year. I don't think they pay any attention to what group you finish in. And even if they do, we can just say you ran out of gas, and I stayed with you out of loyalty.”

“Swell.”

“There is one problem though. They search backpacks, handbags and other stuff going in and coming out.”

“Not a problem,” I said smugly, “I'll use the museum ploy.”

“You can make a fake that quickly?”

“Sure. It won't need glazing, I won't need to mix colors and the design is straight lines.”

23

T
he next morning, I asked Glad to watch the shop and not interrupt me. Once my hands are in clay, I like to stick with the job.

I normally use sheets of clay to make replicas—the ancients didn't have pottery wheels. But this one wouldn't have to fool a collector, only an MP at the missile range. So I used the wheel to speed things along. After I'd coaxed the clay into shape, I let the wheel spin slowly to a stop. Then I deformed the sides to efface the factory look the wheel had imparted.

I mixed the pigment while the pot dried in the kiln set on low. When it was time to decorate, I re-ran my mental movie of the potter to guide me in placing the hatchings.

It had the wrong sort of clay. It was dried in an electric kiln. It was decorated with commercial pigments rather than natural elements. But to the untrained eye, it looked like the pot I had buried. It would suit my purpose.

But so what? I wasn't proud of it.

O'Keeffe said, “I have always first had a show for myself—and made up my mind—then after that it doesn't matter to me very much what anyone else says—good or bad.”

It didn't matter that the pot would fool an MP. I was not satisfied with it.

So I decided to do it the ancient way. I gathered some thin shoots from the cottonwood trees in my patio and wove them into an armature. I rolled out sheets of clay and pressed them onto the frame, wetting my fingers to work the seams together. I built a fire in my clay
horno
and fired the pot as a Tompiro potter would have done.

I mixed limonite and ochre in a metate. I didn't have any willow sap, so I used tap water. Given that the water in Albuquerque comes from the aquifer beneath the Rio Grande, it probably has willow sap in it. Not to mention a lot of other things that shouldn't be in drinking water.

I tossed the first fake into the plastic garbage pail that was half full of empty pigment jars and shards of pots from recently failed firings. There was also an empty bottle of Gruet in there—sometimes I use champagne while working with pots.

I wondered if any of the workers at Gruet do just the opposite—use pot while working with champagne. I can't help it—my mind just works that way.

I expected to hear that sharp crackling sound fired clay makes upon impact, but all I heard was
shusssh
. I'd forgotten that I'd also thrown away an armload of bubble wrap that had protected a pot by the famous Maria of San Ildefonso.

I had popped a few of the bubbles before discarding the sheets. Why do we do that?

I'd bought that pot online from a collector in Houston. Tristan did the online part. All I did was give him my credit card number and expiration date.

Actually, it was the card's expiration date. None of us knows our personal expiration date. Which is definitely a good thing. Given how I obsess over minor things, knowing the date of my death would likely send me into a neurotic stupor.

The expense for the Maria—$8,000 for a small pot—was now on my past-due MasterCard.

I washed up and stepped back to my kitchen to start some vegetarian tacos. I tossed chopped onions and tomatoes into a pan and went to the shop while they sautéed.

“I'm doing some tacos,” I said to Glad. “You want some lunch?”

“I just finished. A most delightful woman brought lunch for you. When I told her you were too busy to eat, she insisted I try it, and I did.”

“And lived to tell about it. That would be Miss Gladys.”

“Yes. I can't work out how a woman with such an engaging personality remains unmarried. Especially one who cooks so well.”

“She
was
married. She's a widow.”

“But she introduced herself as
miss
.”

“She was raised in an area where
miss
is evidently used as a genteel title rather than an indication of marital status. What was the dish?”

“Bubble and squeak, but she didn't call it that.”

“I not surprised she didn't. What the devil is bubble and squeak?”

“In England, it's made from the leftovers of a roast dinner. You panfry the veggies. Cabbage and mash, of course, and maybe peas if those were served. You bake it with the brown sauce from the roast. But Miss Claiborne used cans of something called Veg-All and made her own brown sauce by combining ketchup and Worcestershire. Quite inventive, don't you think?”

“Quite.”

Gladwyn Farthing was turning out to be a godsend. Not only was he paying rent, he was minding the shop and saving me from eating the casseroles.

I returned to the kitchen and scooped the sautéed onions and tomatoes into tortillas, added diced avocado and chopped fresh cilantro and—mindful of the drinking water in Albuquerque—washed the tacos down with a cold Tecate.

I justified the beer with lunch because I'd be skipping margaritas with Susannah. I had a date that night with Sharice.

24

S
he cracked the door a few inches. Only her face and left hand were visible.

“Take my hand and close your eyes.” She led me through the apartment and back to the bedroom. “You can open your eyes now.”

She was naked.

“Love your outfit,” I said.

“Glad you do. But you're overdressed for the occasion. Let me help.”

She unbuckled my belt. I figured this was the night.

It was.

And that's all I'm going to say about it.

Well, I will say one thing. Just before we jumped into bed, I heard myself say, “Marry me.”

When we were dressed, she opened the door to the balcony and let Benz in.

“What was he doing on the balcony?”

“He likes to sit out there and watch the pedestrians.” She hesitated before adding, “And I didn't want him in the house while we were …”

“Oh.”

She opened the oven and extracted something I chose to think of as a one-dish-meal, although it was dangerously close to being a casserole.

“The green chiles are great,” I said, “but what are they stuffed with?”

“Porcinis, shallots, cream and cognac.”

“Porcinis are little pieces of pork?”

“You know I don't eat meat.”

“So I guess that rules out my second guess that they're nuchal ligaments.”

She giggled. “They're mushrooms.”

They were rich, earthy, complex and delightfully chewy.

The chilled Gruet was the perfect complement to the creamy entrée.

“I guess I can't bring you yuccas anymore.”

“Why?”

“They're known here as the candles of the virgin. You no longer qualify.”

She laughed as she took away my champagne flute. “No more for you just yet.” She flashed that wanton smile. “Champagne, that is.”

She put Benz back on the balcony.

25

M
y plan the next day was to sit in the shop uninterrupted by customers and bask in the memory.

And maybe take a nap at some point. I didn't get much sleep.

The plan was thwarted by visitors. They didn't come to buy pots, alas. They came because of Carl Wilkes. News of his death must have reached most of the people who knew him.

The first guy was a square-shouldered fellow with a matching face and a flattop. Which was not merely the name of his hairstyle but an extremely accurate description. It looked as if each hair had been individually cut so that no single strand would differ in length from its colleagues. I wondered how much time he spent in the barber's chair.

“Jack Haggard,” he said, extending a hand. “You Hubert Schuze?”

“I am.”

“Carl Wilkes told me about you. I guess you know he's dead.”

I nodded. His tone matched his appearance—blocky.

“Carl and I were associates,” he said.

Now there's a word.
Associates
. Designed to muddy the water. If Jack wanted me to know his relationship with Carl, he would have told me they were business partners, friends, adversaries, neighbors, brothers-in-law, high school teammates.

But they were associates. Which told me only that he didn't want me to know what his connection was with Carl.

He was evidently waiting for me to say what
my
connection was with Carl.

I didn't. I just nodded again.

“Shocking,” he said, after he realized I wasn't going to speak.

“Yes, it was.”

“When's the last time you saw him?”

“Are you a policeman, Mr. Haggard?”

“No, no.”

“Because the police asked me when I had seen him and what we talked about and other things like that as part of their investigation. And since it's an ongoing investigation, I don't think I should talk about it with anyone at this point.”

“I see,” he said, although he obviously didn't. “That's too bad. I was hoping you could help me.”

“In what way?”

“Carl and I were working on something. A deal.”

“Oh.” He and Carl were
associates
and they were working on a
deal
. The man was a font of information.

“It was a deal that involved, uh … your profession.”

“You two were going to open a retail shop?”

He looked disappointed. “No. The deal involved you, I believe.”

“Hmm.”

“He tell you a name of someone else maybe it involved?”

“Sorry, but I really can't talk about it.”

“It's important to me,” he said.

“I can't help you.”

“What if I wrote it down?”

“Wrote it down?”

He extracted a card from his shirt pocket, wrote on it and handed it to me.

He had written one word—
tompiro
.

“Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

“I think that word should be capitalized.”

He frowned. He took the card back and wrote on it again. He handed it back to me. “Think it over, then call me. There may be big money in it for you.”

After he left, I looked at the card. The side he wrote on was white and matte like ordinary paper. Which explains why he could write on it. In addition to
tompiro
there was a phone number with a 915 area code. The only two area codes in New Mexico are 505 and 575.

The other side of the card was high-gloss yellow with equally shiny black lettering that read:
ACE BAIL BONDS, RELIABLE 24-HOUR SERVICE
.

Not to be snooty, but the use of all capital letters did not strike me as a sign of reliability. The telephone number for Ace Bail Bonds had a 575 area code.

Maybe the deal Haggard mentioned that he and Carl were working on was starting a bail-bond company.

Maybe Jack's nickname was Ace, and he was Carl's preferred bail bondsman. Or maybe Jack was the one who needed the services of a bail bondsman.

There were, no doubt, other possibilities, but I didn't explore them because I heard the bong and looked up to see a couple entering Spirits in Clay hand in hand.

A flap on the back of the man's forest-green shirt ran between his shoulder blades. I suppose the idea is to provide ventilation. But when the ambient temperature is higher than normal body temperature—as it frequently is in Albuquerque—the air drawn in will increase your heat rather than lower it. His twill pants were held up by a belt whose buckle was partially hidden under a pouch any marsupial would be proud of.

The woman wore cargo shorts and a pink shirt, also vented. They looked like a couple of tourists on the type of safari where you view lions from the windows of air-conditioned buses.

“You must be Hubert Schultz,” she said. “We're the Edwardses—Donald and Dotty. Carl Wilkes was our dear friend. He often spoke of you. When we found out he was dead, I said, ‘Donald'”—she looked at him and he nodded to affirm that she had indeed addressed him—“we just
must
visit Mr. Schultz to convey our deepest sympathies.”

She turned to him and he nodded again.

“Actually, my name is Schuze, not Schultz.”

Dotty clasped her hands in front of her. “I am sooo sorry. I'm just terrible with names. Donald will tell you that.” She looked at Donald and he nodded. “I tell you, Mr. Chews, when it comes to names, my memory is a sieve. And of course it's worse in times of pressure like this.”

I didn't know if the pressure was from the death of their dear friend Carl, from her mixing up my name or from the warm air that must have been streaming up through her vented shirt.

When I didn't say anything, she continued. “Carl was not only a friend, he was a scout.”

“A Boy Scout?”

She giggled nervously. “Isn't that funny, Donald?” Another look, another nod. “What I meant to say is that he found things for us.”

“Old things,” Donald said.

“Right,” Dotty added, “
very
old things. Our entire house is decorated with
very old things
.”

Donald cleared his throat. “You see, Hubert—you don't mind if we call you Hubert, do you?” It must have been a rhetorical question because he didn't pause long enough for me to answer. “We love the ancient peoples of this land. We study them.”

“We have a library full of books about the ancient ones, don't we, Donald?”

“We do, and three other rooms just for our collections.”

“Large rooms,” said Dotty, “packed full of ancient treasures.”

“And Carl helped you find those treasures.”

“You
do
understand. What did I say, Donald? Didn't I say he would understand?” She continued after Donald nodded. “I said, ‘Donald, anyone who was such a good friend of Carl's will understand.' I just knew it.”

They smiled at me. After thirty seconds or so, I decided they expected me to say something. “Thank you for coming by. I suspect Carl would be happy that you did.”

“Excellent,” she said.

“Great,” he said.

“So we can expect to hear from you?” she asked.

“When the time and circumstances are appropriate,” I replied.

Donald handed me his card, and they left.

His card was a staid, low-sheen white on both sides even though there was lettering only on one—his name and phone number with only the first letters of his Christian and family names capitalized.