The Pot Thief Who Studied Einstein (15 page)

The wooden hand-carved sign outside the church reads, “
Iglesia de San Felipe de Neri – Fundada 1706
.”

The
fundador
was Don Francisco Cuervo y Valdez who originally named it San Francisco Xavier. Cuervo y Valdez is also the man who founded our fair city and named it after the
Duque de Alburquerque
. The
Duque
subsequently ordered the name of the church changed to
San Felipe de Neri
in honor of King Philip of Spain. We don’t know who ordered the first ‘r’ dropped from the spelling of ‘Albuquerque’.

I also don’t know of any connection between the Saint and the King other than their names, and I don’t think the King was named for the Saint because there are eighteen different saints named Philip or Filipe, and the one called Neri was an Italian noted for his sense of humor. The King, on the other hand, had little sense of humor. He had the city of Xàtiva burned to the ground when they lost a battle, and then he renamed the city after himself. Today, a portrait of Philip V still hangs in the local museum there, but it’s deliberately displayed upside down.

I like the fact that the sign in front of Old Town’s church is in Spanish. While national political debates rage over things like “English First” and “Bilingualism,” Albuquerqueans live in a city where Spanish and English peacefully coexist. One might even say lazily.

The policy debates are inane. People who live in America eventually learn English no matter what their native tongue. People who live in Albuquerque usually learn Spanish, even if English is their first language. But nobody worries about it. If you don’t pick up Spanish, you miss out on much of the charm of the city, but it’s your loss and there are no language police.

I was contemplating adding to Schuze’ Anthropological Premises a new SAP on the topic of language when mass finally ended and Father Groaz eventually made his way out to find me sitting on the adobe banquet as I often do on Sunday afternoons.

“Gud afternoon, Youbird,” he greeted me.

“Hi, Father. Can I have a word with you?”

“Yass,” he said and then smiled. “Do you want to make confession?”

“I’m not Catholic, Father.”

“I know thot, Youbird, so we can make it informal here on the sidewalk.”

He sat down beside me.

“I’m worried about Miss Gladys,” I told him.

“You do not trust her new suitor.”

“You know about him, huh?”

“Yass. Several people have mentioned this to me. Bot no one has said he has done something bad to her.”

“Yet,” I said.

He leaned his head back in thought and stroked his bushy beard. “God made man and woman to be together. He also gave us each the ability to choose. We should not judge Mr. Fister. And we must not assume that Miss Gladys is gullible old woman.”

“That’s why I haven’t said anything to her. I didn’t want her to feel patronized. But I also don’t want her to be hurt.”

“If you interfere, you will certainly hurt her. If you do not, she may still be hurt, but is not certain. Better to have romance and risk a hurt than to have a hurt inflicted on you by a well-meaning friend.”

We sat in silence while I thought about it. I felt certain the good father was right. But I also felt certain that T. Morgan Fister was up to no good. To not interfere seemed wrong. To interfere seemed worse. I was like one of those subatomic particles – uncertain.

I had a meeting with Chris, so I strolled back to my shop and found him waiting. I apologized for being late and told him I’d been at
San Felipe de Neri
talking to the priest. Chris seemed pleased that a church in New Mexico was named after a saint from his home town of Florence, and he told me he had studied Neri’s teachings which included a simple motto – Be good, if you can.

I offered Chris a beer. He asked if I had red wine. I apologized that I did not. He ended up with water. He started telling me more about Neri, and between the subject matter and his fractured locutions, I admit my attention drifted.

The Cadillac was where no Albuquerque policeman or Highway patrolman could spot it, and the three copies were safely tucked away in my secret compartment. Yet I was still worried. I needed time to think it through just to make sure there wasn’t some further precaution I needed to take, and I wondered when I could do that because I had promised to have dinner with Dolly Aguirre and her father that evening. So I was wishing Chris would leave, and I stopped correcting his English because that only prolonged his visit. And I was uncomfortable that he always sat so close even though Susannah had explained that it was just part of Italian culture.

In fact we were talking about Susannah at one point, so I wasn’t surprised when he asked me if I thought he was attractive. I told him he was, and he told me I was, and I assumed he was just being nice and returning the compliment.

And then he leaned over and kissed me passionately on the mouth.

Dolly greeted me at the door wearing a yellow blouse over a long green skirt. She looked like a plump sunflower.

It was a good look, casual but dressed for dinner, and it almost matched my choice of a yellow cotton button-down shirt over chinos. No jacket or tie.

I brought a present for her father, David McCullough’s acclaimed recent biography of John Adams. Bringing nothing would’ve been bad manners, and I’d rejected flowers because they would reinforce the ambiguity of the event. She hadn’t actually asked me for a date. But I hadn’t asked her on a picnic either, and look what happened.

Frank Aguirre looked exactly as I imagined he would, the same face that evidenced a Native American grandparent or two, now wrinkled and topped by silver hair, but the same intelligent eyes.

“It’s great to see you again after all these years, Mr. Aguirre,” I said to him after Dolly led me into the living room.

“Call me Frank,” he said, but I didn’t.

“I remembered how much you loved reading,” I said and thrust the book out awkwardly.

He smiled and held it with two hands as if trying to assay its intellectual heft. Then he looked up at me sharply, “How did you know I haven’t read this?”

I looked towards Dolly and he smiled.

She asked me if I’d like a drink before dinner, and I asked Mr. Aguirre what he was having.

“Decaffeinated coffee,” he said with disgust. “Doctor’s orders.”

Dolly said she was having wine. I knew it wouldn’t have bubbles, so I chose the decaf.

The interior décor of the Aguirre home belied the exterior, which was like every other house on the street. The beige carpet had been replaced with hardwood floors covered here and there by worn Navajo rugs. The walls were the color of cantaloupe with a gouache artfully applied to make the gypsum board appear to be genuine plaster. Non-structural ceiling beams had been added by a skilled carpenter. The furniture was rustic campaign, the chairs and sofa cushions covered in various brocades, and the parchment-shaded lamps cast a candlelight glow. Unfortunately, the cream-colored window shade remained. The overall feel was slightly kitschy but mostly homey, and we sat and talked while the chicken roasted, the house redolent with garlic and rosemary.

Dolly adored her father and proudly told me he’d been the first teacher at Albuquerque High to receive a doctorate. Politeness required me to ask about it, and he told me he had written his dissertation at UNM on how U.S. immigration policy between 1864 and 1893 affected the labor market of that period. Evidently the most important step to ensure a successful dissertation is to define the topic so narrowly that no one else has written on precisely that subject.

Not knowing enough about the topic to ask an intelligent question, I asked instead what the significance of the specific time period was.

“1864 was the first Congressional attempt to get a handle on the topic. They passed a law creating a Commissioner of Immigration and authorizing contracts wherein would-be immigrants could exchange a pledge of wages for transportation to the U.S. The end of the period, 1885, marked the passage of the first contract labor law, effectively bringing policy full circle.”

I nodded as if that meant something to me, and Mr. Aguirre broke into a smile.

“Even more boring than my American history classes, right?”

“I liked your classes,” I said honestly, “but I don’t remember us discussing immigration policy.”

“I had to stick to the approved curriculum. Can you still name all the presidents and their dates in office?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t think so. And who cares when Franklin Pierce was president?”

“There was a president named Franklin Pierce?”

He and Dolly laughed.

“The theory in the public schools,” he explained, “is that social studies prepare you for responsible citizenship. If all the students I taught and all the students all the other history teachers taught over the last thirty years had studied immigration policy instead of memorizing the presidents, we might be having a more intelligent national debate about what to do about illegal immigration.”

My mother advised me not to discuss religion or politics at the dinner table, but that evening we discussed little else. Aguirre’s position was that immigration policy is driven by labor considerations. When the unions have their way, immigration is restricted and there is less competition for jobs and therefore better pay. When capitalists have their way, immigration is encouraged as a source of cheap labor. It reminded me of the stories Emilio told me about the
Bracero
program, and when I mentioned that to Mr. Aguirre, I was surprised to find that he supported the reinstatement of such a program despite the fact that he was basically a Marxist on the labor issue.

Aguirre excused himself shortly after dinner. Dolly refused my offer to help with the dishes, insisting instead that we move to the living room for coffee and dessert. The latter was an excellent flan, the former a thin impotable brew. Even though we didn’t remember each other from high school, reminiscences came easily because we had in common a few friends and many experiences at the old AHS before it was abandoned and later turned into condos.

When I finally took my leave, she walked me to the door. When I opened it and turned to say goodnight, there ensued an awkward moment of silence. I moved my hand out in a deliberately uncertain manner that could be interpreted as either the start of a handshake or a friendly embrace. She took my hand in both of hers, tugged me gently towards her, and gave me a demure kiss.

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“I’d like that,” I answered.

Another brief moment of silence, but not quite so awkward.

“In that case,” she said, “maybe we should have a proper goodnight kiss.”

And we did, except that improper might have been a better description of it. When it was over, she said goodnight and I went home.

Having spent an alcohol-free evening with Dolly and her father, I decided a nightcap was in order, and no one would be surprised that I selected Gruet Blanc de Noir.

The bottle was already in the fridge, but I transferred it to the freezer while I selected a flute from my extensive collection and put it in the freezer next to the bottle. I gave Geronimo some fresh water, went back inside and washed my hands, opened a can of chocolate covered peanuts, and then took out the champagne and flute – both now properly chilled – and settled in for some serious thinking.

I had experienced two very interesting kisses that day. Chris was a handsome devil, but Dolly was definitely a better kisser. I wasn’t offended by Chris’ kiss, although I would have avoided it had I seen it coming. I don’t find homosexuality abhorrent nor do I think gays are deviants. Chris likes men. I like women. So the problem wasn’t Chris; it was Susannah.

I wondered if I could put a positive “spin” on it as they say these days. “Hey Susannah, I’ve got good news. You know how you were wondering why Chris hasn’t tried to put a move on you. Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore because...”

Then I thought about not telling her. Just let her figure it out. Miss Gladys could handle T. Morgan and Susannah could deal with Chris. It wasn’t my place to butt in. This approach had the
imprimatur
of the Roman Catholic Church. Or at least Father Groaz, a man who is wiser than I am and also a lot holier.

I guided my thoughts to Dolly. She had a cute round face, a creamy complexion, and lovely long lashes. She was a pleasant, easy-going person with a good sense of humor, and she liked Geronimo. She didn’t set my heart to pounding like Izuanita did, but I did feel a little pitty-pat when we kissed. Her full lips felt terrific, not to mention the other parts of her anatomy that she squeezed against me when we kissed.

I didn’t know where I stood with Izuanita. The truth is I hadn’t broached the subject for fear that she would consider me an old fool. I guessed she was in her early thirties, so that made me around fifteen years older than she was. I might just as well tell her I was abducted by aliens as to let her know I viewed her romantically. In all likelihood, I was to her just an odd but mildly entertaining shopkeeper she happened to meet.

My mind kept going back to Susannah. I knew it was not my place to tell her about Chris, but my heart didn’t agree, and the longer I thought about it, the more I came to believe she would be disappointed in me if I didn’t tell her.

So I woke up Monday morning determined to tell Susannah that evening at
Dos Hermanas
, dreading doing so, and knowing I’d probably spend the whole day obsessing about how to phrase it. But as fate would have it, I spent most of the day in jail.

Whit Fletcher was leaning against the wall across the street when I opened for business. He strolled across the street and said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be—” Well, you know how that goes, so I won’t repeat the entire Miranda warning.

After he read me my rights, he said, “I had a hunch you knew that stiff you said you couldn’t identify. What I never suspected was that you killed him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I replied.

“That’s what I said when the report came back from the crime lab. Schuze is a pot thief, he don’t murder people. That’s what I told ‘em. But evidence is evidence, and my opinion that you couldn’t kill anybody even if you wanted to ain’t evidence. It wouldn’t even be allowed in court seeing as how I’m not a shrink. So even though I know you don’t have the
cojones
to kill anyone, there’s nothing I can do but take you downtown and wish you luck.”

“What evidence?”

“Your fingerprints are on the glass that had the poison in it. Didn’t it occur to you to wipe the glass off, Hubert? If you’d done that, I wouldn’t be arresting you.”

Half of my brain was panicking and picturing scenes from prison life, but the other half was thinking. “Was it a pilsner glass?”

“What’s that?”

“A type of beer glass, tall and shaped like an ice cream cone.”

Whit shook his head in disappointment. “First you forget to wipe off the glass, then you admit to knowing what the glass is after I already Mirandized you. I always figured you was smarter than that.”

“I know what the glass is because I saw it when I was at his house.”

“This just gets worse and worse for you. Maybe you should shut up until you talk to your lawyer.”

“No, listen to me. I went there to give him an estimate on his pot collection. That glass and a bottle of beer were sitting on the coffee table. After I finished doing the estimate, he went to get my money and insisted I drink the beer. That’s how my prints got on the glass.”

“I thought you didn’t know his name.”

“I didn’t. I still don’t. The deal was set up by Carl Wilkes.”

“The guy who got you to break into the museum?”

“I didn’t break in.”

“Maybe you should find some new friends.”

“There was nothing illegal this time. Carl said there was a pot collector who had decided to sell his collection and needed an appraisal of its value. The collector didn’t want me to know his name. So when you asked me at the morgue if I knew the name of the deceased, and I told you I didn’t, I was telling the truth.”

“But not the whole truth. You coulda said you’d seen him before.”

“What good would that have done you? You still wouldn’t have known who he was.”

“We coulda gone to his house and found out.”

“I didn’t know where his house was.”

“You just told me thirty seconds ago that you was there pricing out his pots.”

“I was, but I didn’t know where the house was. I was blindfolded when they took me there and when I left.”

He stared at me for a few seconds. “Hubert, I don’t know whether you’re making up a smokescreen or losing your mind.”

Then it came to me. “I was framed!”

“Funny how often that happens,” he said. “Down in Cerillos we got hunnerds of guys was framed.”

“But I really was. Think about it. The guy practically insisted that I drink the beer. In fact, I was afraid he wasn’t going to pay me until I did, so I opened the bottle, poured it in the glass—“

“Pilner glass.”

“Pilsner; there’s an ‘s’. Anyway, I poured it in the glass and...”

I didn’t finish the sentence because it hit me that what I was saying didn’t make sense. Why would the collector want my prints on the glass? Frames are constructed by murderers so that someone else takes the fall. But the collector wasn’t the murderer. He was the
victim
.