The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (24 page)

“‘The young lady you date?’ He called me that?”

“He did. He also seems to know your family.”

“How would he know my family?”

“I don’t know, Suze. All I can tell you is what he told me: ‘I don’t wish

to sound melodramatic, Hubert, but it is my business to know things’.”

“Well, I don’t care if he knows Santxo the Great. I’m not going to some grand ball just because he wants me to.”

“Who is Santxo the Great?”

“He was the king of the Basques about a thousand years ago. It was the last time they had any recognizable political homeland. And don’t try to change the subject. That lawyer of yours is a pompous jackass.”

“Agreed. But I do have to go, and I don’t know who else I could get as a date.”

“We don’t date, Hubie; we’re friends.”

“Then come along and be my friend.”

“You’ll be fine without me.”

“Suze, I was in the morning paper as a murder suspect. I’ll be lucky if they don’t have me thrown out. You’re the one person I can count on. Besides, I bet you look great in an evening dress.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. And you’re wearing tails?”

“I am.”

“Well, that should be worth the price of admission.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Geez, Hubie. I’ve helped you steal a pot from UNM, kicked down the door to an apartment in Los Alamos, and turned over a dead man in your shop. Going to a grand ball will be a piece of cake.”

We got Angie’s attention and ordered a second round of cosmopolitans, a drink made with vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice, and limejuice. I had argued that since triple sec was back in stock, we should go back to margaritas, but Susannah was taking this variety business seriously.

“What do you think of the cosmopolitans, Hubie?”

“They’re good, but they make me want a turkey sandwich.”

I told her what Layton had said about Doak.

“Why didn’t you tell me that at the outset? I’d go to the ball in a barrel if it helped Layton pin something on Doak.”

“Umm, speaking of what you’ll be wearing…you won’t have on high heels will you?”

“No, Hubie, I thought perhaps a pair of flip-flops. Of course I’ll be in heels; what else would I wear with an evening gown?”

“Will they be very high?”

“Why this sudden… oh, sorry Hubie. They won’t be terribly high, but I don’t think it will matter. You’ll look ten feet tall when they find out what you’ve done.”

53

The theme was ‘rodeo chic.’ The ballroom of the Club was festooned with saddle-shaped foil cutouts hanging from the ceiling. The tablecloths were in a pinto pony print and the centerpieces on the tables were constructed from spurs. Thankfully, the light was low.

Susannah was refulgent in a pink satin strapless evening gown and rhinestone boots. I was decked out in a gray morning coat with tails, a turquoise velvet vest and a bolo tie, the last two items being suggested by Susannah.

Mariella wore a gold sequined tube top and a shimmering silver see-through skirt that looked like it was woven from angel hair. Underneath it were pearlescent chaps. As hard as it may be to believe, it actually looked classy. She asked me for the first dance, and I noticed that all eyes were on us. Good thing my mother made me take dancing lessons all those years ago.

I assumed the eyes were meant for her, but a few minutes into the dance, an older lady cut in, and whirled me across the floor.

“I must say, Mr. Schuze, you are terribly handsome in tails.”

Only her lips moved. I think the rest of her face had been botoxed. She was at least fifteen years my senior, but her skin was tight, her figure taut, and her make-up expertly applied. She held me rather closer than I would have liked.

She put her cheek next to mine and I feared sweet nothings were forthcoming. “You mustn’t let the press get you down. Everyone knows how classless they are, one step above carnival people. I can assure you that everyone here admires you. Why, I can’t imagine anyone more…”

At this point another older lady cut in and said, “It’s sooo exciting to be dancing with a celebrity.”

I just smiled.

“I don’t think you killed that awful Guvelly person,” she confided, “but if you did, I’m sure you had a good reason for doing so.”

I smiled again.

My next partner was a buxom, silver-haired Hispanic lady with a perfume that clung to me even more tightly than she did. “My husband is a major advertiser in that paper, and I told him he has to speak to them about the way they treated you in that article. They made it sound like you were already guilty. And what if you were? Did they even mention extenuating circumstances?”

I finally realized she was waiting for an answer. “No,” I said, “they didn’t.” And then just to keep up my end of the conversation, I added, “They didn’t think about self-defense either, did they?”

She let out a slight moan of titillation and held me even closer.

And so the evening went. The good news was that almost everyone I danced with was shorter than me, perhaps because of osteoporosis, but it felt great. It seems that the club set love mixing with dangerous felons so long as they are properly attired.

When the orchestra took a break, I headed for the bar for some liquid courage in case the next round of dancing was like the first. I was momentarily disappointed that the champagne on offer was not Dom Perignon. Perhaps that was expecting too much even for this crowd. But when I saw they were serving Gruet, my disappointment evaporated like mist on a desert morn. I asked the bartender for two glasses, and turned to leave with one in each hand. Plan A was to find Susannah and offer her a glass. Plan B, in case she was nowhere to be found, was to drink both glasses. Both plans were temporarily stymied by Sven Nordquist.

He wore a traditional tuxedo but had done nothing to acknowledge the theme of the event. He could at least have worn his turquoise bracelet. The tux emphasized his height, and the cummerbund his rigid torso, a fixed point about which his arms seem to flail like streamer flags on a metal pole.

His berry scent preceded him to the bar and his bottomless blue eyes glinted with disdain. “Look at you, Hubert, the perfect picture of the bourgeoisie, a glass of champagne in each hand.”

I was in a charitable mood. “Would you like one,” I said, extending a glass.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” he said.

“Can’t handle the firewater?”

“That’s racially insensitive, Hubert, and not funny.”

“Well,” I said, “if you’re not drinking, what are you doing at the bar?”

“I was discussing a donation with one of the patrons.”

“It’s a fundraiser for the Foundation, Sven. Are you going to insult their hospitality by trying to siphon off money for ARRIS?”

“The Foundation is a bastion of colonialism. I merely offer them a chance to set right some of the wrongs they have done.”

One of my many faults is that I rarely give up on people; maybe I’m a slow learner. “Sven,” I said, “do you ever listen to yourself? Nobody takes that sort of rhetoric seriously anymore. Maybe no one ever did. Can’t you try to help the Indians without making it a cosmic struggle?”

He tossed his hair and walked away. I shrugged. Why let him spoil an otherwise exciting evening? And, anyway, I was glad he hadn’t accepted

the proffered glass of Gruet.

Layton appeared next to me and asked, “Who is that person, Hubert?”

“Sven Nordquist,” I told him, “the executive director of ARRIS.”

“Sounds like a deodorant. He’s been pestering our guests, and that is unsupportable. I can’t imagine how he was admitted.”

Then he looked at me. “Not me,” I said. “He’s the last person I would bring.”

“I’ll speak to security,” he said.

I found Susannah and gave her the glass of champagne. She needed it since she was steaming.

“Geez, Hubert, I’ve been drug across the floor and mauled by a dozen men, none of whom was young enough to be my grandfather. Where the hell have you been?”

“Dancing with their wives.”

We were silenced by the start of the auction. The items on offer ran the gamut from a lacquered tortoise shell the size of a Volkswagen to a chaise fashioned entirely from elkhorn and leather. A UNM sweatshirt from the fifties brought five thousand dollars. But the big event of the evening was Mariella’s donated pot. It was not the Anasazi pot she had originally meant to donate. It was the Mogollon water jug from the Valle del Rio Museum. The President of the University was the celebrity auctioneer, and he started, as presidents always do, with a speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen. You will read in the press tomorrow that the director of our Valle del Rio Museum has resigned. We have recently discovered that one of our prize holdings, a Mogollon water jug, was actually a fake. I assure you that this discovery has nothing to do with the resignation of the director.” Then he paused for effect. “I also assure you that our football team will be undefeated next year.” The audience broke into excited laughter. Even though I try to pay no attention to such things, it’s impossible to grow up in Albuquerque without knowing that the Lobos have a history of futility when it comes to football, so the president’s irony was not lost on anyone, even me.

He held up has hand to ask for quiet. “Fortunately, the original has been recovered by Mr. Hubert Schuze, one of our graduates. Please stand up and take a bow, Hubert.”

After I did that, the President invited Mariella to the podium. “I believe you all know this lovely lady.” Of course there was thunderous applause. “She and her husband—I can’t recall his name but I believe he practices law.” He left the laughter continue, basking in it until he finally held his hand aloft. “Mariella and that lawyer husband of hers commissioned Mr.

Schuze to recover this pot, and they are now generously offering it at auction. They will match whatever price is bid, and the total of the bid and their match will endow a scholarship at the University. There is one small proviso. The high bidder will not get to keep the pot; it will be returned to the University. However, you will have a plaque by the pot with your name on it. Would it be crass for me to mention that the size of the plaque will be proportionate to the size of… of course it would, so I won’t mention it.” More applause and even greater laughter.

The pot sold for a hundred thousand dollars.

54

“I can’t believe you did that, Hubie.”

“He caught me off guard. He asked me to take a bow, so I took one.”

“I’m not talking about the bow, Hubie; I’m talking about that Nixonesque wave to the crowd.”

“Well,” I pointed out, “I’m short. If I just bowed, they wouldn’t see me, so I waved.”

“You looked like you were running for something.”

“If it was for director of the commission on aging, I’d be a shoo-in after last night.”

“Also,” she continued, “I can’t believe he called you a graduate. They ignored you for years, and now that Layton Kent makes you out to be some kind of a hero, the University is anxious to claim you. You’ll probably get a letter from the development office soliciting a donation.”

“Oh, I get those every year. Just because they kick you out doesn’t mean they don’t want your money. And anyway, I am a graduate, remember? I have a business degree.”

“Yeah, but just remember what you told me your father said about that when you went back to college the second time and ended up in archaeology.”

I smiled at the memory of my father. He had said that first I got a business degree and then I went back to get an education.

I had slept most of the day. I don’t know what had exhausted me most, all the dancing or all the constant attention. I was rested enough to keep my standing five o’clock appointment at Dos Hermanas, and Susannah and I

were drinking pisco sours.

“These aren’t bad.” I said. “What are they made from?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Can you at least tell me what pisco is?”

”It’s a distilled wine made in Chile from a special sort of grape.”

“How do you know all this stuff, Suze?”

“I’m a waitress, Hubie. We also take drink orders.”

“Well, you may have missed your calling. Maybe you should drop out of university and go to bar tending school.”

“At least then I might have some chance to graduate.”

“You’ll graduate from UNM eventually, but so what. Bartenders make more than most college graduates.”

I waved to Angie for a second round of piscos.

“Susannah, I want to thank you for saving me the other night. I really panicked when I tripped over Guvelly in my shop, but you were a rock.”

“Thanks, Hubie. You may have been panicky at first, but you certainly got your brain in gear at the end when you figured out what happened.”

“We make a great team, Suze.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, Hubie; the pot that was auctioned off has made a round trip—from the Museum to you and back to the Museum.”

“Seems like a lot of wasted effort,” I observed.

“Not really. The University now has another two hundred thousand in the scholarship fund, and that will help many students, and you got your legal bill erased.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have had a legal bill except for this whole episode, so you can’t count that as a gain.”

“Did you get anything else for the pot?”

“No money, but I did get Layton and Mariella’s goodwill.”

“Why are you smiling like that, Hubie?”

“I also got my fake back.”

“So both pots came full circle. What will you do with the fake, Hubie? You can’t very well sell it after all the publicity surrounding you and the Valle del Rio Museum.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain about that. I’ve often sold fake pots to people who thought they were genuine, but this is a chance to sell a fake pot as a fake.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, thanks to all the publicity, the UNM Mogollon water jug is enjoying its fifteen minutes of fame. People buy prints and reproductions of originals all the time. So I’m thinking of putting an ad in the paper with a picture of the reproduction I made. Even though it’s a reproduction, it’s still one of a kind. I think it would bring a few thousand.”