The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02] (15 page)

“Because he called my name. And then when I turned to face him, he said – God, this is so embarrassing – ‘Am I so unattractive that you would flee without saying hello?’”

“Why didn’t you just keep walking when he called your name? He couldn’t be sure you were the one he was waiting for.”

“Of course he was sure. How many people wear green corduroy dresses? God, I’m so stupid. I picked that dress because it’s so easy to spot. What I should have done is said I’d be the one in the white blouse. That way I could have made a clean getaway. Well, I’ve learned something for the next time.”

I couldn’t believe she was contemplating a next time, but this didn’t seem like a good time to argue the point. “Meanwhile, what are you going to do about this time?”

“He’s not my department head. You’re making the mistake everyone makes. Art history and studio art are not the same department. In fact, they aren’t even in the same college. Studio art is in the college of fine arts, and art history is in the college of humanities.”

“That sounds like a Clintonesque quibble to me. You’re a student and he’s a faculty member, and…and...” And I didn’t know what. I found the whole idea disturbing, but I didn’t know why.

29

The real coincidence was not that Ognan Gerstner and Frederick Blass both lived in Rio Grande Lofts. Many of the residents are university people who came here from back East where high-rise living is common. We Westerners like our space. I doubt there’s a single native New Mexican living in Rio Grande Lofts.

The real coincidence was that I wanted in and was invited. Why would Blass let his date bring a date? Well, it turns out Susannah and Blass didn’t have a
date
exactly. She and he had chatted after the rocky start, and she told him the reason she tried to dodge the meeting was not his looks – she actually told him he was attractive! But she felt uncomfortable when she saw who he was.

He was very understanding, of course, and told her the thing he liked least about computer dating was the sense of being pushed into a relationship, the idea that the very fact of signing up almost committed you to pursuing a relationship, and wouldn’t it be better if they just let things flow now that they knew each other. And by the way, he added, he was glad they did now know each other. Very slick. Probably said something hackneyed about ‘respecting her space’. I mean, anyone who would write “cruel twist of fate”!

So Susannah wasn’t really bringing a date to the party. She had asked him if she could bring a
friend
, and he graciously agreed. Of course if he found out I planned to break in to his neighbor’s apartment, the invitation would likely be withdrawn.

I didn’t plan for him or anyone else to find out. And to that end, I had to have the run of the place once I got in. I needed to go back before the party to finish my clay plug project and see if my plan for opening Gerstner’s door would work.

I drove to Rio Grande Lofts after Susannah left, punched in #07114, and watched in satisfaction as the gate slid open. Where did I get that code? I read it off the dashboard of the Mercury Grand Marquis, which I had visited after my romp with Stella.

I parked the Bronco and walked to the glassed-in area where I punched in the other code I had picked up from Wes. I rode the elevator to two, transited the hallway from elevator door to stairway door, and stuck a clay plug in the bolthole. Then I repeated the process on each floor, ending up on eleven.

Where I knocked loudly on Gerstner’s door. What was I planning to do if he opened it? Nothing, because I had run back to the stairwell and was standing inside it with my ear against the door. No sound came from the hall.

I returned to Gerstner’s door and put my ear to it. Silence. I extracted from my pocket a handful of plastic chips the size of playing cards, samples from an artists supply store. They came in various colors, which I understood, and various thicknesses which I didn’t because they were measured in mils, and I have no idea what a mil is. It’s very thin, though.

The first time I had grasped Gerstner’s door after spending the night in the parking garage, I noticed it had a certain amount of give like all normal doors, and the gap between the door and the jamb was also normal, perhaps a quarter of an inch. I don’t know how many mils that is.

It was a perfectly normal door and it fit well enough for any purpose short of maintaining a watertight seal. Or preventing someone from loiding it. That’s a word I learned from the book Susannah gave me about the burglar who studied Spinoza. It means to slide a spring-loaded lock bolt out of its jamb by prying it with a piece of celluloid. The ‘loid’ has to be flexible enough to slip between the door and the jamb and then bend around the bolt, and it has to be firm enough to force the bolt out as it bends. That’s why I had a variety.

I figured plastic would work as well as celluloid. The burglar book says you can also do it with a credit card, but despite the best efforts of the banking industry who are constantly pre-qualifying me, I keep only one credit card, and I didn’t want to risk its destruction.

You know those letters from the banks? They even tell you you’re pre-qualified on the outside of the envelope. It’s is a peculiar term, isn’t it? It actually means qualified, as in they will give you the card. It’s like pre-boarding a plane. When you are allowed to pre-board, you actually get
on
the plane. So it’s not pre-boarding, it’s boarding. Oh well. Every specialty has its own jargon, and I suppose advertising lingo isn’t any worse than anthropology-speak.

The first piece of plastic I tried slid in easily, but no matter how hard I pressed, nothing happened. I tried a stiffer piece with the same result, but the third time was in fact a charm. The plastic card forced its way past the bolt, dislodging it from the jamb. I pushed the door back and stepped inside.

The protagonist in the burglar book Susannah gave me is named Bernie Rhodenbarr. When he first steps in to a house he is about to burgle, he experiences the thrill of having picked the lock and a rush from being where he shouldn’t be. He loves to walk around the place and get a feel for it, sit in an easy chair, sip some of the owner’s cognac, and imagine what it would be like to live in the apartment he is burgling.
Sang-froid
is his middle name.

My middle name must be
sang-nerveux.
I guess that’s the difference between fiction and real life. When you break in to a house in real life, the one thing uppermost in your mind – the
idée fixe
you cannot shake – is that someone is going to walk in on you. And of course that’s exactly what happened.

But not before I got to search the place. And not before I saw the pot.

The first thing to do, I had already decided, was to make sure no one was there. I crept silently from the living room to the kitchen, then to the dining area, then into a short hall, a bedroom, back to the hall, into a hall bathroom, to the hall again, into a second larger bedroom, and finally into another bath off the larger bedroom. Unless someone was hiding in a closet, I was the only person there.

Searching the place turned out to be easier than I had expected. Since I was in the master bathroom, I started there. The only hiding places large enough for a pot were the cabinet under the lavatory and a small linen closet. The cabinet held a spare roll of toilet paper, some cleaning solutions, and a few toiletries. The linen closet held two bath towels, one hand towel, one wash rag, a set of sheets and a couple of blankets. There was also a box with a few tools in it.

The bedroom had a queen bed flanked by nightstands. There was nothing under the bed except for some scary-looking dust bunnies. One nightstand held a half-empty bottle of cold medicine, a pair of broken eyeglasses, and some coins. The other nightstand was empty. A large walk-in closet contained two pairs of men’s shoes, three pair of pants on hangers, a worn wool overcoat, several shirts, and a baseball cap. A bureau had a few boxer shorts, undershirts, and socks.

The first bedroom had been empty, but I went back and checked the closet to be sure, and it was also empty. A hall closet held a vacuum cleaner, a few more linens and towels, an unopened box of tissues, a can of paint, and a partial roll of wallpaper.

I walked back to the living area and looked around. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the end table or the coffee table or the Parsons table behind the couch. Nothing under the couch, and nothing hidden in the cushions. There was some more change under them though. I left it there.

The kitchen had the usual array of cabinets and appliances. There were no pots in the dishwasher, the oven, or the refrigerator. There were a few pots in the cabinets but all of the metal variety. There were some dishes and a few cans and boxes of various food items, two drawers with a few utensils, and an electric can opener. I pushed the lever down for no reason and nothing happened. It was broken.

The dining area had a cheap dining set with wood grain laminate and a matching hutch. The shelves of the hutch were completely empty. One of the drawers held some placemats and napkins, and the other one was stuffed full of papers. Behind the left door at the bottom I found the pot.

I took it out and held it in my hand and got that feeling I get when I dig up ancient pots. It was a magnificent piece. Looking at it was like gazing at the stars. I felt insignificant as an individual but also somehow at peace as part of a universe that contained such an awesome object. I wished I could meet the potter and watch her work.

It was one of the Ma pots. I was sure about that. But there was something odd about the design, and I felt as I looked at it that I suddenly had everything I needed to figure out exactly what was going on. And at the same time, I thought I understood even less than I had before.

I should have left right then, but I started thinking about why the place was so sparsely kitted out. I stood there while the idea incubated in my mind. I heard a click. It was not the light bulb going on over my head. It was a key turning in the lock.

I replaced the pot and dropped down behind the sofa and under the parsons table and listened to footsteps across the carpet. They stopped. I looked under the sofa and saw a shiny pair of what I think are called Mary Janes, except there were tassels where the strap would normally be. Or maybe it was a strap with tassels. Despite my name, I don’t know much about shoes.

The intruder…wait,
I
was the intruder. O.K., the person in the patent leather shoes must have been deciding where to go, because after a few seconds she started towards the dining area, which was a bad decision from my vantage point because as soon as she cleared the couch, I would be visible from her vantage point.

I was debating whether to make a dash for the front door as soon as she came past the sofa, but before the debate reached a conclusion, she veered to the hall. Then the sound of her footfalls changed as she moved onto a hard surface. She was on the tiles in the hall bathroom. I heard the clack of a toilet seat being lowered.

I slipped out the front door and walked down to the basement. I cracked the door and ascertained no one was in the glassed in area. I went through it quickly and scooted over to the Bronco. I locked myself inside and scrunched down to where I could barely see over the steering wheel.

I stayed that way for half an hour. Several women passed through the basement, none wearing the shoes I had seen. I abandoned my surveillance and left. Getting past the exit gate was still easy, and I wondered idly if there were buildings where security is so high you need a code to leave.

30

On Sunday mornings I sometimes allow myself the luxury of
chorizo
for breakfast. These are not the bland, thick, chunky, preservative-laced Spanish or Portuguese sausages manufactured at major meat packers and available in supermarkets across the country. These local delicacies are fine-grained, no thicker than your pinkie, and loaded with flavor and fat. I had four that morning before going to my workshop.

Why do I call having
chorizo
a luxury? Because they cannot be good for you, so I eat them sparingly. And I never read the ingredients list. I did that once, saw “saliva glands” and stopped reading. If only I could blot that memory from my head.