The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (21 page)

“Wouldn’t it explode if it went critical?”

“You would think so, but apparently they could detect the start of a chain reaction using a Geiger counter or something and they would jerk back the little piece of uranium they had added to the pile, and they had to do that before the reaction got to the point of no return. Moving the little piece in and out was the ‘tickling the tail of the dragon’.”

She shuddered. “They must have been fearless.”

“I guess they were. Sort of like pioneers. They were young scientists about to unlock the mysteries of the forces that hold atoms together.”

“Maybe we’d have been better off to leave it a mystery.”

“Probably. But the human will to learn is inexorable. Someone was going to create atomic fission. I’m just glad we got there ahead of the Nazis.”

“So what happened to them, Hubie? Were they sorry they let the nuclear genie out of the bottle?”

“Some of them didn’t live to see it happen. The dragon killed them.”

“That’s terrible. Did they know that could happen?”

“Oh, they knew. The first person to die has achieved a sort of macabre fame as the first victim of the atomic age. Ironically, his father was an x-ray technician.”

“You’re making this up.”

I shook my head. “The son was named Harry Daghlian. He was some kind of boy genius and had an engineering degree from Purdue, so I expect he knew full well the dangers of radiation.”

“Daghlian. Could he have been Basque?”

“I don’t know. It sounds Armenian to me. But he did have something in common with you.”

“What’s that?”

“He put himself through college by waiting tables.”

45

Martin took the carafe from my coffee maker, walked outside and emptied it on the street

He came back in with a milk jug full of water and filled the reservoir. I gave him a fresh filter and he added coffee and hit the brew button. In a few minutes we were drinking coffee and he was telling me what he had found out about firstNAtions.

“It ain’t no nation and it sure as hell ain’t first. The two guys who run it are extortionists. They run a protection racket. Indians set up to sell their wares, and these two show up to collect what they call an ‘all tribes franchise fee’.”

“Also known as protection money.”

“Right. Pay the fee and you get protection.”

“From the guys collecting the fee.”

“You pretty swift for a pale face.”

“But we have Indians selling here every day, and I haven’t seen any signs of this scam.”

“They only do it on federal land. Like at four corners which is a good sales site. The talk is that they have some tie to an official. Maybe they’re paying a bribe for the privilege of running the scam.”

“Hmm. What tribe are they from?”

“I don’t think they’re from around here at all. My guess is they’re what I call Professional Indians, probably from the west coast. On the other hand, they may be Sicilian for all I know.”

“Speaking of the west coast, you remember that skeleton of a white guy they dug up in Washington a few years back?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think about that?”

“I call him Eric the White.”

“You think he’s a Viking?”

“Our oral tradition says we’ve been here a hundred hundred generations, so he might have showed up about the same time we did, but I’d put my money on the Viking theory. I can’t speak for the Indians in Washington.”

“You believe your oral tradition?”

“I believe it’s important to honor our traditions and keep them alive.”

“But do you believe your people have been here a hundred hundred generations?

“You believe the Garden of Eden was an actual place?” he asked.

“No.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Bingo.”

I took a sip of the coffee. It was good and I told him so.

“It’s the water. A coffee bean is a coffee bean. Don’t matter if it’s grown by Juan Valdez in the highlands of Columbia or by Bob Marley in the lowlands of Jamaica. The only thing determines the taste is how long you roast it and the water you brew it in. You probably took chemistry in college. Think about the big difference small amounts of a chemical can make in a compound. The water in Albuquerque has pesticides, fertilizers, phosphates, and God knows what else. This water I brought you has nothing but H
2
and O. Coffee is just something to flavor water. Good water—good coffee.”

“So just tell me where the spring is, and I’ll drive up and get a few gallons each month.”

“You took our land. Now you want our water?”

“We didn’t take all your land; we left you a little bit.”

He snapped his fingers. “And to think we never thanked you.”

“You’re all a bunch of ingrates.”

“Anyway,” Martin continued, “If I took an outsider to our spring, I’d probably be scalped.”

“Might be an improvement over the pony tail.”

He affected his Jay Silverheels voice, “Women with straw hair love pony tail.”

“The pony tail has nothing to do with it,” I replied. “Women like you because you’re exotic and have the physique of a dwarf Schwarzenegger.”

“And I make good coffee.”

“Yeah, there’s that. How’s your uncle?”

“Happy to have the two thousand.”

“And I suppose he doesn’t know about the five hundred for the scholarship fund?”

“No. He doesn’t like kids from the pueblo going off to college.”

“Afraid they won’t come back?”

“Even if they do, they aren’t the same person who left.”

“Same for everybody, Martin. You send young people off to college, and they come back different. Some of them turn into pot thieves.”

“It’s different with Indians.”

“You don’t think a Jewish family has the same sort of fear if their son goes off to Notre Dame? Or a Basque family if their daughter goes to BYU?”

“I don’t know. I just know that a lot of my people don’t like the scholarship fund.”

“So why do you support it?”

“Because the white man is not going away. I’m tired of all the reservation doctors and teachers being Anglos. I’m tired of having all our cultural centers designed by white architects and built by white engineers. I think we can get the white man’s knowledge and still save our culture.”

“Russell Means say the written word is a tool Europeans use to subjugate Indians,” I told him.

“Yeah, and he wrote it down, so what does that tell you? I don’t give a damn about politics, Native American or otherwise. I just want a better life for my people, and I think we have to figure out how to get the white man’s education and retain our identity.”

“It seems to be working for the Asians and Hispanics.”

“True,” he noted, “but they don’t live on reservations.”

46

“Hurry up, Hubie; I’m freezing my ass off.”

“I told you to bring a heavier jacket; we’re at seventy-five hundred feet, Susannah. Of course it’s cold.”

“Well, I didn’t know we were going to be outside this long; you told me you had jammed the lock.”

“I did, but the bolt must have slipped further into the clay than I anticipated. I can move the bolt a little bit with this knife, but not quite enough.”

I had a thin knife blade against the bolt, and I could pry it almost out of the jamb, but every time I thought I had it, it would slip and spring back in. I heard it snap back for about the tenth time.

“Why don’t you just pick the lock?”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. Bernie Rhodenbarr can do it.”

“He’s a fictional character, Suze. Give me some real life advice I can use.”

“O.K., dammit. Pry the bolt back as far as you can manage.”

I did so and she stepped back and delivered a karate kick to the door, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t fly open.

“I finally got it,” I said.

She gave me a withering look. “Close the door and turn on the heat.”

“We better not; it might attract attention.”

I took off my coat and gave it to her while I started going through the drawers.

She was shining the flashlight on the walls looking at the pictures.

“Aim it where I’m searching,” I requested in a stage whisper.

She did and I got a good look at rubber bands, receipts, broken pencils, cough drops, business cards, an empty Scotch Tape dispenser, utility bills, paper clips, buttons, a broken nail clipper, loose matches, and a condom.

“God, there’s no wrapper on that. Is it used?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “it’s still rolled up.”

“That’s gross. Why would anyone have an unwrapped condom?”

“Maybe she changed her mind and he was too cheap to throw it away.”

“Oh, yuk.”

“Let’s try the kitchen.”

We turned towards the sound of the dripping sink when I suddenly flashed back on something I had just seen.

“Wait. Shine the light back on the chest of drawers.”

I had been looking in the drawers, but what I wanted was on top of the chest where the lamp had been used to weight it down. Only an edge was showing. I unfolded it, looked at it, and stuffed it in my pocket.

“Let’s go,” I whispered, but too softly to be heard over the coughing of the manager.

He came through the front door and turned on the lights.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?” he demanded.

“Well,” I said sheepishly, “I was out with my girlfriend and we had a powerful urge to... well, you know, but it’s too cold for the back seat of a car. Then I remembered that this apartment was vacant, so I figured…” I sort of let my voice trail off to make the story seem authentic and also because I had no idea what to say next.

“People usually rent a place before they start screwing in it. I should call the police.”

“No,” I said, “don’t do that. I was going to rent it, but I didn’t think you’d be open for business this late at night, so I just sort of figured…” Once again my voice trailed off for lack of anything to say.

“If you’re going to rent it, I need a deposit now. Otherwise, I’m calling the cops.”

“How much is the deposit?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

I looked in my wallet and found a hundred and seventy dollars. Susannah was able to muster up twenty-three.

“Will you take one ninety three?”

He shook his head but held out his hand anyway, and we gave him the money.

“Here’s the key. I’ll need a month’s rent in advance before you can move in. But considering your situation, you can stay here tonight.”

He left and since there was no longer any reason to hide our presence, I turned on the heat.

Susannah sat on the side of the bed and gave me a coquettish look. “Looks like we’ve got the place all to ourselves, sailor.”

47

Later as we were driving back to Albuquerque, Susannah said, “I can’t

believe you touched that thing.”

“Well, you propositioned me.”

“It’s a good thing I wasn’t serious; pulling that thing out of the drawer would have been a complete turnoff.”

“Geez, Susannah, it wasn’t used or anything.”

“All the same, I want you to wash your hands when we get back.”

“I already washed them in Berdal’s apartment.”

“That doesn’t count; it was his thingy. You need to wash them again on neutral ground.”

We were following Highway 4 west. The road turns south at Valle Grande, then passes through Jemez Springs where’s there’s a retreat for wayward priests, then the Jemez Pueblo, and meets U.S. 550 at San Ysidro. From there it’s about an hour back to Albuquerque. If you turn east at the pueblo, you can follow a minor road to Ponderosa where some enterprising individual has planted a vineyard and started a winery.

The vineyard that supplies the grapes for Gruet champagne is in the sandy soil of the southern part of the state. It’s near a town that used to be called Hot Springs but changed its name in the fifties to Truth or Consequences because a game show by the that name promised to give the town publicity and send winners there as a prize. I don’t think any game show winners go there now, but the hot dry climate is like Bordeaux, perfect for growing grapes. Ponderosa, on the other hand, has the perfect weather for growing pine trees, which explains why I haven’t tried their wine yet. That and the fact I don’t drink wine without bubbles.

“Well, Hubie, you finally did it. You are now officially a burglar.”

“Me? You’re the one who kicked the door open. I just followed you in.”

“I only kicked it in because your stuffed clay trick wasn’t working.”

“How was I supposed to know the spring would be strong enough to push the bolt that far into the clay?”

“Maybe you should have tested it on your own lock.”

“Mine are deadbolts; they don’t have springs, but you’re right; it wasn’t a very effective technique.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter because we got what we came for.” She hesitated for a minute and then added, “What did we come for, Hubie?

“Remember I told you about the picture of Berdal and a pickup truck?”

“Yeah, I saw it when we were in there.”

“Well, there were also two expired plates with ‘truck’ on them, so I figured he must be a serious pickup guy. He had a small rented apartment and a pickup. The pot he stole was not in the apartment, so…”

Susannah finished my thought. “It must be in the pickup.”

“Exactly. Now all we have to do is find the truck.”

“Wouldn’t the police have impounded it or something?”

“They probably would have if it had been at the Hyatt, but it wasn’t. I asked Whit how Berdal got there, and he said they didn’t know. After they found the body, one of the investigating team went to the garage and the streets around the hotel and copied down every license plate. Apparently they checked them all out, and none of them was registered to Berdal.”

“But wait a minute, Hubie. Maybe the pot isn’t in his truck. Maybe he took it with him to the Hyatt to sell to Guvelly or exchange for a fee or something.”

“You’re forgetting that I have a computerized snapshot of Guvelly entering my shop after Berdal went to the Hyatt, so Guvelly obviously didn’t have the pot.”