![The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02]](/res/aob/book1.jpg)
The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02] by J. Michael Orenduff Page B
Authors: J. Michael Orenduff
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according to their values and they enjoy such simple pleasures as are available to them. So being with them makes me happy, not sad.
23
My previous discussion with Susannah ended with her convincing me I had nothing to lose by calling the glamorous Stella in Rio Grande Lofts. After further consideration, I decided she was wrong.
I could call as Susannah had suggested and hope the doorman would put me through even if I couldn’t give Stella’s last name. “Good morning,” I’d say, “can you please put me through to Stella?”
A polite but indifferent voice would ask, “Which Stella would that be, sir?”
“The one on the fourth floor,” I would reply, hoping that knowing her floor would legitimize my request. But the haughty doorman might ask, “Do you have her surname, sir?”
“I’m sorry,” I might reply, “I met her the other day and she asked me to call, but I don’t remember her surname.”
Might work. Saying she asked me to call might do it. A doorman could get in trouble by not putting through requested calls even if the caller didn’t know the resident’s full name.
But even if I got the call past the doorman, Stella would still have to accept it. Susannah seemed certain she would. I was less sanguine. If Stella did take the call, my troubles were just beginning.
“Hi, Hubert,” I could hear her saying, “I’m glad you called. Why don’t you pop down to the fourth floor and pick up my iron.” Or worse, “Why don’t I bring my iron up to eleven and show you how to use it?”
I ran through a dozen imaginary conversations with both Stella and her doorman, and I didn’t like any of them. And I didn’t know how the phone system worked at Rio Grande Lofts. Maybe they could dial each other directly, and the fact that I called the doorman would alert her that I was not in the building, and the first thing she would ask is where I was calling from… and, well, you get the picture. Calling the building didn’t seem nearly so simple as Susannah and a couple of margaritas had made it sound.
So I decided to find out Stella’s apartment number. My plan to accomplish this was the very soul of simplicity. Namely, watch the fourth floor and see which door she came from in the morning.
I had no desire to spend another night in the basement of Rio Grande Lofts, so I drove the Bronco up to the keypad at 7:00 Monday morning and noticed a metal sleeve had been welded around it. You couldn’t see the numbers unless you were directly in front of the keypad. My first thought was I’d been spotted spying the numbers through my telescope, and when I punched in #2330 and nothing happened, I was sure of it.
I tried the other code I had seen, #9999, not thinking it would work, but it did, so I decided the changes didn’t mean I had been spotted. Maybe the resident with code #2330 just decided to change his code the way people sometimes change their passwords. At least that’s what my nephew Tristan tells me. I don’t have any passwords.
There was a clicking sound from the direction of the gate, then a clank, and then the gate drew back and I drove in.
I was dressed in business attire and carrying a brief case, so when a resident came through the door of the glassed-in area and I grabbed the door and let myself in, he didn’t even look back. Maybe clothes do make the man.
I elevatored up to the fourth floor, walked down the hall, and opened the door to the stairwell. Once on the stairwell side of the door, I removed metal shears, wire mesh, a screwdriver, and a clay plug from the briefcase. I pressed the clay in to the slot where the bolt goes. I worked the metal shears around the wire mesh to create a piece the width of the metal plate around the bolthole. Then I removed the two screws from the plate, put the mesh over it, and reinserted the screws through the mesh. The mesh would do triple duty, holding the clay in place, allowing it to dry, and preventing the bolt from lodging in the
23
My previous discussion with Susannah ended with her convincing me I had nothing to lose by calling the glamorous Stella in Rio Grande Lofts. After further consideration, I decided she was wrong.
I could call as Susannah had suggested and hope the doorman would put me through even if I couldn’t give Stella’s last name. “Good morning,” I’d say, “can you please put me through to Stella?”
A polite but indifferent voice would ask, “Which Stella would that be, sir?”
“The one on the fourth floor,” I would reply, hoping that knowing her floor would legitimize my request. But the haughty doorman might ask, “Do you have her surname, sir?”
“I’m sorry,” I might reply, “I met her the other day and she asked me to call, but I don’t remember her surname.”
Might work. Saying she asked me to call might do it. A doorman could get in trouble by not putting through requested calls even if the caller didn’t know the resident’s full name.
But even if I got the call past the doorman, Stella would still have to accept it. Susannah seemed certain she would. I was less sanguine. If Stella did take the call, my troubles were just beginning.
“Hi, Hubert,” I could hear her saying, “I’m glad you called. Why don’t you pop down to the fourth floor and pick up my iron.” Or worse, “Why don’t I bring my iron up to eleven and show you how to use it?”
I ran through a dozen imaginary conversations with both Stella and her doorman, and I didn’t like any of them. And I didn’t know how the phone system worked at Rio Grande Lofts. Maybe they could dial each other directly, and the fact that I called the doorman would alert her that I was not in the building, and the first thing she would ask is where I was calling from… and, well, you get the picture. Calling the building didn’t seem nearly so simple as Susannah and a couple of margaritas had made it sound.
So I decided to find out Stella’s apartment number. My plan to accomplish this was the very soul of simplicity. Namely, watch the fourth floor and see which door she came from in the morning.
I had no desire to spend another night in the basement of Rio Grande Lofts, so I drove the Bronco up to the keypad at 7:00 Monday morning and noticed a metal sleeve had been welded around it. You couldn’t see the numbers unless you were directly in front of the keypad. My first thought was I’d been spotted spying the numbers through my telescope, and when I punched in #2330 and nothing happened, I was sure of it.
I tried the other code I had seen, #9999, not thinking it would work, but it did, so I decided the changes didn’t mean I had been spotted. Maybe the resident with code #2330 just decided to change his code the way people sometimes change their passwords. At least that’s what my nephew Tristan tells me. I don’t have any passwords.
There was a clicking sound from the direction of the gate, then a clank, and then the gate drew back and I drove in.
I was dressed in business attire and carrying a brief case, so when a resident came through the door of the glassed-in area and I grabbed the door and let myself in, he didn’t even look back. Maybe clothes do make the man.
I elevatored up to the fourth floor, walked down the hall, and opened the door to the stairwell. Once on the stairwell side of the door, I removed metal shears, wire mesh, a screwdriver, and a clay plug from the briefcase. I pressed the clay in to the slot where the bolt goes. I worked the metal shears around the wire mesh to create a piece the width of the metal plate around the bolthole. Then I removed the two screws from the plate, put the mesh over it, and reinserted the screws through the mesh. The mesh would do triple duty, holding the clay in place, allowing it to dry, and preventing the bolt from lodging in the
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