The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (6 page)

The revitalization plan seems to be working to some extent. Downtown used to be deserted after five; now it can be quite lively. But most of the new evening denizens are not there for the art unless bars and discos are considered art venues.

I thought about Guvelly and Wilkes being in the same hotel and the possibility that Wilkes was an undercover federal agent. Maybe his attempt to lure me into stealing the pot from the Valle del Rio Museum was a ploy. My attorney with the lawyerly name of Layton Kent would no doubt counsel me that an unsolicited invitation to commit a crime would be entrapment, and the evidence would not be admissible in court. Then again, I would be the one incarcerated until Layton got around to coming to the jail to habeas my corpus out of there.

I thought about Guvelly. On the surface, he seemed menacing, but a lot of that might just be his appearance. I couldn’t decide whether his gruffness stemmed from being a cop or simply from a lack of social skills. If he was smart enough to pass the civil service exam, he must have known I didn’t steal the pot. I’ve heard that cops sometimes ‘put the word on the street’ by rousting known criminals and letting the grapevine do its work, but so far as I was aware, there was no network of pot thieves. I was also curious about his second visit and his apparent desire to negotiate. So, since I was going to the Hyatt any way, I decided to pay him a surprise visit.

I veered off Central onto Tijeras which runs at a slight angle to the otherwise orderly grid of downtown and leads directly to the Hyatt, the tallest hotel in New Mexico, a distinction not unlike being the world’s tallest midget. The lobby resembled the modern version of a middle eastern bizarre, a jumble of scents, colors, noises, and bedlam. Coffee from the Starbucks mixed with popcorn from the bar. Music from a pianist in the lobby added melody to a percussionist trio entertaining a group on the mezzanine, and light glinted off the brass and marble, not to mention the sequins in the gowns of heavyset ladies attending some sort of gala.

As usual, there was also a convention in full swing, and I felt vaguely safe in the anonymity of the crowd as I crossed through a lobby full of people with nametags on their lapels, entered one of the four elevators, and punched 11. No one on floors two through ten wanted to go up, so I enjoyed a nonstop ride. I stepped out of the elevator into silence. I don’t know why, but I felt as though I were trespassing. The security I had felt in the crowded lobby evaporated as I stood unprotected and alone in an empty vestibule of elevators.

I spotted a camera, looked away nonchalantly to the sign explaining the numbering system, turned right then left and soon arrived at 1118. I looked for more cameras, even while thinking “too late now,” but I didn’t see any along the room corridor.

I stood in front of the door for several minutes thinking. I could forget the whole thing and just walk away. Forget Wilkes, too. Play it safe, go home without knocking on either door. Forget about the Museum. Forget about the Mogollon Pot. Forget about the $25,000. Hmm.

I knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked again, this time loudly. Same result. I put my ear to the door and heard only the hum of a hotel room. I stood there a few minutes longer and then returned to the elevators, did not look at the camera, and punched the down button. When the elevator arrived, I rode with three conventioneers down to the lobby.

A bank of wall phones hung on the wall in the lobby around the corner from the elevator. I lifted the receiver of the first one and dialed the three digits of Wilkes’ room number, but just as I pressed the third button, I noticed a slot for depositing coins. It wasn’t a house phone; it was a pay phone. I pressed the little lever to break the connection and stood there with the phone to my ear while I thought. Did I want to ask the front desk to buzz Wilkes? No, I decided, better not to have anyone know just in case. So I returned to the elevators and ascended to the ninth floor.

10

I stood at Wilkes’ door as I had stood at Guvelly’s, indecisive like the character in O’Henry’s The Lady or the Tiger.

Which would Wilkes turn out to be? A little voice advised me to go home. I didn’t belong here. I certainly didn’t belong in the Rio del Valle Museum trying to steal a pot. I told the little voice I needed the money. He replied that I didn’t need it enough to steal for it.

I turned to leave.

Then I remembered what I think about museums and soulless professional anthropologists. I remembered my spiritual bond with ancient potters. Would they want their work in a glass cage inside a building that might as well be a crypt for all the traffic it hosts?

The rationalization worked. I knocked on the door, and Wilkes must have been standing by it because it flew open even as my fingers were still straightening out of the fist I had knocked with.

I jumped and Wilkes laughed. I felt foolish for an instant and then reassured. There was something about his easy manner and sly smile that rendered him harmless.

Yet I still had in the back of my mind that his project was fraught with danger, so I tried to remain guarded without showing it.

Except for the fact that he was in it, Wilkes’ room appeared to be vacant.

The door opened to a vestibule from which you got a glance into the bathroom. It revealed no toothbrush, no towel on the floor, no sign that anyone had used the room since the last visit of the chambermaid. In the room proper, there was no sign of luggage, the bed was perfectly made, there was no glass of water on the nightstand, no book on the table between the two chairs. Maybe he was obsessively neat. Or maybe he wasn’t really staying here at all but merely using an empty room to trick me into thinking he was from out of town.

I broke the ice by asking, “Do you want to check to see if I’m wearing a wire?”

He was wearing twill pants with a sharp crease, a grey flannel shirt, and squarish work shoes. His beard looked freshly trimmed. The deep lines at the corners of his eyes eased gently upward as he answered my question. “Why would you be?”

I returned his half smile. “If you ask a law-abiding citizen to steal something, he might report it to the police who then might enlist that citizen to meet with you and get the offer on tape.”

“Could happen,” he admitted, “but I don’t think so in this case.”

He pointed me to one of the chairs and I sat. “Why not?” I asked him.

He took the other chair. “First, you’re not a law-abiding citizen. No offense intended.”

“None taken. But I’m generally law-abiding.”

“I don’t doubt that you are—generally. But I’m pretty certain your respect for the law stops short of certain federal regulations regarding archaeological resources.”

The chair was comfortable and the room pleasantly warm; I began to feel myself relax. “I like to think of it as civil disobedience,” I told him, only half tongue-in-cheek.

“Civil disobedience?”

I shrugged. “O.K., I know it sounds self-serving, but I think breaking laws that are absurd is healthy.”

“I think I agree. It’s just that I associate civil disobedience with Thoreau or Gandhi or Martin Luther King, not with grave robbing.”

I assumed a hurt look. “‘Grave robbing’ is such a harsh term.” Besides, I was tempted to tell him, I’m way too squeamish to even consider it, but I didn’t say that because he was trying to hire me to steal a pot, and who wants a squeamish thief?

“But it’s what you do,” he asserted.

“It’s what Howard Carter did. He robbed the graves of the pharaohs. But I don’t do it; I want pots; not mummies.”

“There must be some pristine pots in Indian graves. They buried pots full of food with their dead so they’d have food on the journey to the other world.”

“Some of them did; some didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. I get most of my stock from Indian potters; I can’t afford to offend my suppliers.”

“And let me guess; some of them are your best friends.”

I didn’t know whether to be offended. I couldn’t tell whether he disliked Indians and was insulting me by assuming I felt the same way or whether he was just making a joke at the expense of fools who say things like that.

Evidently he sensed I was wondering about the remark, so he said, “I know Martin Seepu.”

Martin is my best friend. “How do you happen to know Martin?”

“I’ve tried a couple of times to get him to sell me one of his uncle’s pots, but he won’t do it. He says he only deals with you.”

“He tell you I was a pot digger?”

“No, someone else told me that. What Martin told me was that you’re a genius when it comes to pueblo pottery. You can name the pueblo and the potter at a glance and copy their work to perfection.”

“I never copy their work. I just copy ancient pots.”

“Another case of not wanting to offend your suppliers?”

“Yeah, and the old stuff is more valuable anyway.”

He laughed. “I used to turn up bones and pots by the ton. It’s nice to say you don’t dig in graves, but the whole planet is one big graveyard, Schuze.”

He told me he had served in the Corps of Engineers. He was forced into early retirement after twenty years, but he didn’t say why. I ventured the opinion that involuntary retirement is better than being kicked out of school, but he didn’t think so. Under his quiet and unassuming manner, there was some anger.

“I oversaw drag line and bucket operations on projects all over the west,” he said. “Every third scoop has some sort of artifact in it. No one else cared, so why should I?”

His tone was not quite bitter—more resigned. After he was forced out, he began a second career in antiquities. I got the sense that he was like me, cashing in on the riches of the earth. The main difference was that I did my own digging whereas he had benefited from the heavy equipment of Uncle Sam. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I got the idea that he was a man who could get what you wanted if the price was right.

I assumed that his remark about the entire planet being a graveyard was hyperbole, but I told him that we were certainly headed in that direction. Wasting space on graves is one of my pet peeves like storing artifacts in the basements of museums. He asked why I was against graveyards, and I pointed out the practical issue that no one other than me seems to worry about; namely, that the number of people needing burial is growing geometrically while the amount of land to bury them in remains constant, so we’re going to run out of space.

He cocked his head. “Cemeteries don’t take that much space, do they?”

“Think about it. There are over six billion people alive today. Say a burial plot is six feet by three; that’s eighteen square feet. Multiply that by six billion and you get one hundred and eight billion square feet.” I did a quick mental calculation. “That’s over four thousand square miles. So to bury the current population will require more room than the entire state of Delaware. And the next generation could number as high as nine billion, and there goes New Jersey.”

“And good riddance,” he laughed. “But I see your point. Still, there are a lot of Delaware-sized places around the world.”

“Not so many as you might think. The earth is mostly water. Then you have to discount steep terrain, swamps, and the frozen areas to the north and south. You also have to subtract areas already under some other use; land we grow food one, live on, build factories on, etc. I would wager that if the current population growth trend continues, it will be a close call to see which we run out of first, food to feed the masses or burial space for them as they starve.”

“Schuze, you have a weird mind.”

I shrugged in admission. “Things make more sense to me when I can put numbers on them. I used to be an accountant.”

I finally got around to the concern I was harboring. “A federal agent came to my shop yesterday.”

“Was his name Guvelly?”

I was surprised and relieved at how easily he asked the question.

“How did you know?”

“I saw him here in the lobby today. Our paths have crossed before.”

“The card Guvelly gave me said he worked in the Santa Fe office. Why would someone whose office is just an hour away stay at a hotel here?”

Wilkes shrugged and smiled. “Just another example of the Federal Government’s fraud, waste, and abuse program?”

I laughed and Wilkes asked me if I wanted a drink. I said I did and he called room service for a couple of beers. The two chairs were next to a large window on a south-facing wall. It had started to drizzle and the streetlights nine stories below had coronas.

While we were waiting, Wilkes returned to the topic of Guvelly, saying, “I think he’s investigating a theft from Bandelier. Someone stole a pot like the one we talked about.”

“He thinks I stole it,” I said.

“Did you?”

“No,” I replied quickly, “Did you?”

He laughed. “No, but I can understand why you might think so. It would be quite a coincidence if my asking you to get the pot from the Valle del Rio Museum and the disappearance of the pot at Bandelier just happened to occur in the same time frame by accident.”

I nodded. The beers came and we fell silent until the waiter collected his tip and left.

Wilkes continued. “As you probably guessed, I want the UNM pot for a client. I was surprised when I heard about the theft at Bandelier. My first thought, of course, was that my client had enlisted someone else to get that pot for him. All I can tell you is that I asked my client about it, and he denied any involvement.”

I said nothing. My first impulse was to believe him, but the coincidence was still worrying.

After a brief silence, Wilkes asked, “Do you think you might come into possession of the pot we talked about?”

I didn’t answer his question directly. Instead, I told him I visited the Museum.

“And?” he asked.

“It won’t be easy.”

“You have a plan?”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

Sort of, I thought to myself.

11

It was late when I left the Hyatt. The rain had stopped and the evening air was brisk as I walked back home. As I approached my shop, I saw something or someone wedged against the bottom of the door.