The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02] (13 page)

I remembered thinking when I first saw the codes through my telescope that there aren’t that many four-digit numbers, 9999 of them to be exact. I figured the building had eighty units since there were ten floors with residences, and I had seen eight numbered doors on the eleventh floor. So I did the math. The odds of hitting a live code were almost exactly 1 in 125, a lot better than the lottery. I could probably punch in one code every five seconds, twelve a minute, so the odds are I would hit a live one within 10 to 15 minutes. So I started punching codes. #0000, # 0001, #0002, #0003…

And that’s as far as I got because the horn interrupted me. A resident behind me wanted in. I couldn’t back out because the entry is just wide enough for one vehicle, so I made the sign for confusion by throwing my hands up. The resident got out of his car and walked up to lend assistance. He was an elderly gentleman driving a Mercury Grand Marquis. I didn’t tell him I had slept in his car, but I did tell him my code didn’t work.

“First they changed the code for Jenkins on the second floor because someone else used it. Then they welded on this contraption, and I can hardly punch in my code now because when I bend my head down to see under the metal, my bifocals don’t work.”

I made some sympathetic clucking sounds.

“And now they change everyone’s code to five numbers. A feller would think he was living in CIA headquarters.”

“It is sort of overkill,” I agreed. “I not only forgot we switched to five digits; I forgot my five. I’ve been gone several days, and—”

“I understand. I don’t drive much, so I forget the thing all the time. I have mine taped on my dashboard.”

“Well, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I guess you’ll just have to back out so I’ll have room to—”

“Shucks, there’s no reason for all that.” He punched in his own code. Which I didn’t have the presence of mind to catch, but so what? It was on his dashboard.

I did have the presence of mind to walk with my new neighbor to the glassed-in area and, without being too obvious about it, watched him punch in *07061. We entered the elevator and he hit seven and then turned to me. I told him four.

He was Wes, originally from Omaha, a cattle buyer who’d spent a lot of time in New Mexico and decided to move here when he retired. He was an amiable fellow whose health was failing on a number of fronts, but I exited the elevator at four just in time to avoid hearing about his gall bladder operation.

The clay had dried completely and it slid easily out of the bolthole. The stairway doors were extra strong and fireproof, and the locks that held them were industrial rather than residential, their boltholes deep and wide. The clay piece was bulky, and I didn’t have my briefcase this time, so I stuck it in my pocket. Then I went to 404 and rang the bell.

She was even more attractive than I remembered. Her makeup was so expertly applied that she seemed not to be wearing any. I knew she was only because no one has lips that red or cheeks that rosy. Her hair was perfect. Her clothes revealed curvy hips, a small waist, and full breasts.

She greeted me enthusiastically and gave me a wraparound hug. Then she started laughing. “Hubert! Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Oh great, I thought. She’ll think I’m some sort of pervert who carries around a plastic novelty item. But she didn’t look alarmed in the least.

“Hubert, you’re blushing. And it’s very becoming on you.”

She took my hand and led me in to her apartment. “I apologize if I embarrassed you, but I’ve always wanted a chance to use that line, and I couldn’t resist. What is that in your pocket, anyway?”

“Umm, it’s just some clay. Did I tell you I’m a potter?”

“No, the only thing you told me was your wife left you and took the iron. Which is obvious because that shirt is a mess.”

Both Stella and her apartment appeared to be professionally done. The dark wood floors were covered by rugs that looked to have been hand-woven by women in veils in some distant land whose name ends with ‘stan’. The walls were taupe and held oil paintings of sylvan glades. The furniture was mismatched by design, a Queen Anne sofa with a wicker coffee table, a large leather club chair next to a massive ceramic vase with an elephant motif that served as an end table, a Tiffany lamp sitting on a Bombay chest.

Stella wore a white knee-length full skirt that sort of wrapped around her and a loose-fitting raw silk blouse the color of acorns. I suppose it was the casual elegance look. It was also the sexy look.

Her hair was perfect, the highlights understated. Her lips were full and perfectly formed.

We sat on the sofa and drank tea from a silver pot on a silver tray on the wicker coffee table. When she sat her cup down, no lipstick blemished its rim. I began to think she didn’t wear make-up; perhaps she’d been born perfect.

She asked me about my wife, and I said it was too painful to talk about.

Which was true. Making stuff up spur of the moment can be anguishing. Since I’d told her I was a potter, she asked me how pots are made, and she seemed enthralled with every detail. She was an excellent listener, and I began to relax.

We talked about this and that, and the longer we talked the shorter the distance between us became on the Queen Anne sofa. When we first sat down, King Henry VIII would have had no difficulty inserting his considerable bulk between us, but after a while, the petite Anne would have been unable to do so.

I stepped closer and she made a few passes with the iron explaining how to do it. Then she handed it to me. Having been a bachelor all my life, I can wield an iron as well as the next woman, but of course I didn’t want to demonstrate any skill under the circumstances, so I made a few inept movements.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said and took the iron back. “Stand behind me.” I did. “Closer,” she said. I stood closer. “Now,” she said, “reach around me with your right arm and put your hand on top of mine.” She started moving the iron. “See? But you’re at an awkward angle. Give me your left arm.” I did and she pulled it forward and placed it on her stomach so that I was now virtually embracing her from behind. “Now you can get a feel for it,” she said, and by then I was definitely getting a feel for it. By the time she finished, the clay wasn’t the only thing that…well, no need to get graphic about it.

After she released me, she turned around and held up my shirt. “See, not a wrinkle to be seen. Of course you ironed this one with the instructor in the cockpit, didn’t you? It’s time for you to solo, Hubert. You didn’t bring another wrinkled shirt, did you?”

She slowly removed her blouse and held it in her right hand at arms length away from her body, bending her left arm over her breasts in a halfhearted attempt to hide the fact that she was wearing nothing under the shirt.

I was trying but failing to remain composed. “You are astonishingly beautiful,” I told her, “but we really don’t know each other very well, 
and—”

“Are you turning me down, Hubert?”

She dropped the shirt and her left arm. My pulse revved up still further. “No, it’s just that—”

She stepped up and put her arms around me. “I know. You’re a married man. But she left you, Hubert. For a younger man. So why deny yourself?”

Then she kissed me and slid her hands in to my clothes and her tongue in to my mouth, and all resistance melted away.

What can I tell you? It was great. Maybe because it had been a long drought for me, but I think it was mainly because Stella had an incredible body and was quite eager to put it through its paces. You may recall me saying earlier that I was seduced in the elevator. Not technically correct, but that’s where it started. You may also remember my quip that digging up pots might be better than sex. It isn’t.

My romp with Stella is sort of the story of my life. Or at least my love life. I can craft a pot like a thousand-year-old Anasazi. I can dig for ancient artifacts by the light of the moon. I can cook enchiladas to die for. I can solve quadratic equations. But when I try to ask a woman for a date, my talents disappear, my I.Q. drops forty points, and I perspire like a swine in a sweat lodge.

There is, however, an upside to this malady. Some women – for reasons known only to God or perhaps to Charles Darwin – find ineptitude irresistible in a man. To be vulnerable is to be lovable. ‘Tis untrue that faint heart ne’er won fair maiden. Indeed, if it were not for this peculiar adaptation of
homo sapiens
– this desire of some women to embrace the bashful – I might be living the chaste life of a monk.

Mind you, this is not a complaint.

26

“That is so romantic. And sexy, too. Sort of like strip ironing instead of strip poker. But why are you here, Hubie? You should be in Rio Grande Lofts enjoying that night of unbridled passion you were going to mention to the doorman.”

I had told Susannah what happened, but in no more detail than I told you. She and I are best friends, but some things are too personal to share with anyone.

“She had to go to work,” I explained.

“At three in the afternoon? What does she do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does she know what you do?”

“I didn’t tell her I’m a burglar, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I mean does she know you’re a potter?”

“Uh, yeah, she does in fact.” I told Susannah about the piece of clay.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, Hubie! You’re blushing.”

I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “With good reason.”

“So you didn’t ask what sort of work she does?”

“No, she seemed interested in pot making, so we talked a lot about that, and then after…well, she said she had to get to work and for me to give her a call. But now I remember she did say something sort of odd. She asked me not to call her at work.”

“That’s not odd. A lot of work places don’t let employees take personal…oh, I see what you mean. Since she hasn’t told you where she works, how could you call her there anyway?”

“Exactly. She thought I knew her when we first met. Maybe she also thinks I know where she works.”

“Maybe you do.”

“Know her or know where she works?”

“Both.”

“Hmm. Maybe so. I didn’t think I recognized her when I first saw her, but she seems more familiar now.”

“Well, I would think so, Hubert. I would say you two are both quite familiar to each other now.”

“No, I mean I think I may have seen her before. Maybe she’s a waitress.”

“Restaurants don’t have shifts that begin at three, Hubert, and waitresses don’t earn enough money to live in Rio Grande Lofts and hire professional decorators.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve got a bigger problem than trying to remember if I know her somehow.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, my plan was to get to know her, maybe have coffee a couple of times, go to lunch, and then see if I could somehow gain unrestricted access to the building. I never imagined we would...you know, on the first date. And it wasn’t even a date. She was just going to show me how to iron, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, I’d say she accomplished that, Hubert. She heated you up, flattened you out, and took away all your wrinkles.”

“Oh, stop it,” I said, but I couldn’t help laughing.

“Are you telling me you’re disappointed things went faster than your go-slow plan?”

“Yes, I am. O.K., I admit it was great, but I did try to resist. I was taken by surprise. Now she’ll be expecting me to drop down and see her or vice versa.”

“What’s vice versa here, Hubie, see her and drop down?”

I may have blushed again. “No, she may want to come up to my loft on the eleventh floor.”

“And you don’t have a loft on the eleventh floor.”

“Or any other floor, and now she’ll find that out for sure.”

“Well, what did you think, Hubie, that you two would start seeing each other and she wouldn’t ever want to come to your apartment?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. When I was in high school, guys used to talk about sex on the first date, but it never happened.”

“But you were in high school
after
the sexual revolution.”

“I guess the girls in my high school were counterrevolutionaries.”

She leaned back in her chair and sipped her margarita. “You really are a nice person, Hubert. A little naïve, but nice.”

“Thank you, Susannah. You don’t think I’ve stopped being nice because I want to steal those pots?”

“You told me it isn’t stealing, Hubie, and I believe you.”

27

Tristan’s door had a yellow Post-it Note the next morning. He usually sleeps past noon, but if the girl is an early riser, his routine might be disrupted.

Tristan studies computer science and has two sources of income. He does odd jobs I can name but don’t understand like setting up websites, writing macros, and installing software. And he accepts what he describes as loans from me.