The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier by J. Michael Orenduff Page B

you start dating some other women? Don’t rush into anything, but just see how it feels to think of someone as a potential wife.”
    “I can’t date other women while I’m with Dolly.”
    She stared at me for a few seconds. “You haven’t said anything to Dolly that would make her think you don’t date other women, have you?”
    “No, but we’ve been dating for three or four months and we sleep together, so in my view it would be wrong for me to start dating other people.”
    “What if you told her?”
    “That I was going to date other women?”
    “Yes.”
    “That would be cruel. I couldn’t do it.”
    “So you’ve never broken off a relationship?”
    “You know I have. You were there when I ended it with Stella Ramsey. That was tough. But I can do that. If I decided to break up with Dolly and had a good reason for doing so, I could do it. But I couldn’t look her in the eyes and tell her I want to date other women.”
    “Why don’t I meet guys like you, Hubie?”
    “Why? You like wishy-washy guys?”
    Her laughter ended in one of those crooked smiles except with her big brown eyes wide and bright. “I know a good reason for you to break up with Dolly.”
    I could tell she was joking, so I played along.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah, that legion of husbands.” She leaned over the table towards me, still smiling. “Come on, aren’t you curious about how many?”

28

    Over a hundred people passed through Spirits in Clay Friday night. Not one of them made a purchase.
    As they exited the store, many of them said they might come back later. None of them did.
    It was a little depressing, but I had the five thousand from Tristan’s sale, less the commission I had decided to pay him.
    I sometimes don’t open on Saturdays until noon, but the Saturday after Holiday Stroll is usually busy, so I decided I’d open at ten. In order to fortify myself for the onslaught of customers, I ate some breakfast tacos. I had only one glass of Gruet because it was a work day. I crammed a whole chicken in a glass bowl just large enough to hold it. I filled the bowl with lime juice and put it in the fridge. I was hoping to wow Dolly that evening with what I call Ave Tampico.
    Then I opened and sat there watching the shoppers pass by.
    Martin showed up at noon, which was convenient for him because I was fixing lunch and for me because I needed the roller back in my workshop and the kiln back in my patio. Martin is my height but about twenty pounds heavier, all of it muscle, so he was the right man for the job.
    “How’d you get this kiln in the truck?”
    “The head dishwasher helped me.”
    “Meaning he put it in and you watched.”
    “I had to carry the extension cord.”
    “So you exploited the lowest-skilled worker in the restaurant.”
    “You expect one of the chefs to carry a kiln?”
    “Good point.”
    After he brought the slab roller in, I said, “The last time you came, I gave you breakfast. Now I’m making you a lunch. You out of groceries on the Rez?”
    “I didn’t come for lunch. I came to bring your dog home.”
    “So you’re not going to eat lunch?”
    “Of course I am. It’s payment for keeping him.”
    “Was he a good doggie?” I asked as I rubbed him behind the ears and deftly avoided being licked on the mouth.
    “I guess you could say so. He didn’t chase the livestock or pee in the house.”
    “He’s a gentleman.”
    “He also didn’t chase the prairie dogs or the lizards and there were a lot of them running around. He seems to be missing his chase instinct.”
    “What about a stick?”
    “Sticks don’t run,” he said deadpan.
    I told him about seeing M’Lanta Scruggs coming out of Molinero’s office in the middle of the night.
    “The dishwasher you made carry the kiln?”
    “I didn’t make him do it. He volunteered. I like the guy, although I suspect he’d be surprised to hear it. He has a chip on his shoulder, but he seems to be an honest and straightforward guy. And unlike most