The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02] by J. Michael Orenduff

thanks to you.” I told her what I had in mind and why she deserved credit for it. She suggested a different plan.
    “From the way you describe it, the door doesn’t sound that strong. Why don’t you just take a crowbar and pry it open?”
    “I don’t want to damage it.”
    “Geez, Hubie, you’d be breaking in to the man’s house. Why the compunction about merely damaging his door?”
    “I don’t want him to know he’s been broken in to.”
    “Won’t he figure that out when he sees the pots are gone?”
    “The pots may not be there. Maybe they’re in one of those rental storage places or at his cabin in the mountains.”
    “He has a cabin in the mountains?”
    “I have no idea. But if they’re not in his apartment, I don’t want him to know there was a break-in.”
    “Because it would put him on alert, and he might move the pots out of the cabin you don’t know whether he has?”
    “Right. But the first order of business is to find out whether the pots are in his apartment.”
    She took a sip of her drink and looked at me over the rim of the glass. “That should be easy now that you’ve got a girlfriend in the building.”
    “She’s hardly a girlfriend.”
    “Oh, Hubie,” Susannah said in a falsetto, “come by my place and I’ll teach you how to iron.”
    “She was just being a good neighbor.”
    “Come on, Hubie. That’s as obvious a come-on line as I’ve ever heard.”
    “That’s ridiculous, Suze. She’s better looking than me, taller than me, and younger than me. Why would she come on to an unshaven guy in wrinkled clothes who smelled faintly of gasoline fumes?”
    “Don’t sell yourself short, Hubie. Oops, bad choice of phrase. What I meant to say is you’re a handsome guy, and the unkempt look is in these days. You should call her up. Maybe you are in for a night of unbridled passion in Rio Grande Lofts.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, I can’t call her. I don’t have her number, and I can’t look it up because I don’t know her last name.”
    “Just call the building and ask for Stella.”
    “Hmm. What if they ask who’s calling?”
    “Tell them it’s Hubert.”
    “What if they want a last name? That doorman Rawlings is very thorough.”
    “Make one up. She doesn’t know your last name, does she?”
    I felt myself perking up. “You know, Suze, you might be right. A call could get me back in the apartment the easy way, and even if she refuses to take the call, what have I lost?”

 
    22
     
    Saturday morning broke clear and crisp. At least I suppose it did. I was blissfully asleep at the time, but the day was clear and crisp when I awoke several hours after it actually broke.
    A sunny October day is perfect for eating Consuela Sanchez’ cooking. Of course the same could be said of a rainy day in May, a snowy day in February, or a windy day in March.
    I drove up the north valley to my favorite butcher where I made a large purchase and then reversed direction and drove down the south valley until I reached the unnamed dirt road to the residence of Emilio and Consuela Sanchez.
    “ Bienvenido, Señor Uberto. ”
    “ Buenas dias, Señor Sanchez. ”
    “Consuela, she is in the garden. She is anxious to see you.”
    “I am anxious to see her as well, but first you can help me carry this box inside. It requires a strong man like you, Emilio.”
    “I am no longer strong, amigo . I fear the years have stolen my strength.”
    “Take one end of the box and we’ll see.”
    He hoisted his end and we carried it inside.
    “You see, you are still strong, and you will need your strength to care for Señora Sanchez.”
    “I pray to the Virgin and to San Vicente to keep me strong. What is in 
the box?”
    “It is meat. You know my friend Susannah. Her family has a large ranch to the east. When they have a matanza , they bring her meat. It is more than she can eat, so she gives some to me. It is also more than I can eat, so I bring it to you.”
    “But the box is so