The Pot Thief Who Studied Einstein (8 page)

“So he sold the collection, packed up his belongings, disconnected his phone service, and moved.”

“That’s the way it looks,” I said. “But he didn’t clean up like you’re supposed to when you move out. The carpet definitely needed shampooing.”

“So you’ll never see the twenty-five hundred,” she lamented.

“Probably not,” I agreed. “Unless I can find out where he moved to.”

“Carl said he was a recluse. He wouldn’t leave a forwarding address.”

She was probably right. I took a sip of my margarita. It didn’t have quite the zip it normally does, but that was the fault of my mood, not the bartender.

“If you can’t find Cantú,” she suggested, “maybe you can find the driver and he could tell you where Cantú went.”

“How can I find the driver? I never saw him.”

“But you heard his voice.”

I started to say you couldn’t identify someone by voice alone, but of course you can. I would recognize Susannah’s voice in an instant. But could I recognize the driver’s voice?

“His voice was vaguely familiar,” I said, “but it could be just because it sounds like a lot of typical voices. He didn’t have a lisp or a stutter or anything like that.”

“There’s no such thing as a typical voice, Hubie. Think back. Did he speak clearly or slur his words? Did he have a regional accent? Did he make his As long or short? What about pitch? Baritone, tenor?”

I closed my eyes and tried to recall the few things he had said to me. “Well, he sort of clipped his words like maybe he was nervous. He may have been Hispanic. He made his Os round, if that makes sense to you.”

“See, you can tell more than you think about voices.”

“I guess you’re right, but even if I could recognize his voice, how would I go about finding someone based on their voice?”

“Easy,” she said. “You place a want-ad for a driver and then listen to the voices of people who call about the job.”

Susannah is always quick with an answer and enthusiastic in offering it.

“Wait a minute!” she said. “He didn’t take the Cadillac.”

“Probably couldn’t get it started. The thing looks like it‘s been there for years. Did I tell you the hood was cold?”

She shook her head in consternation. “I still don’t understand why you did that. But forget about whether it runs. It has to be registered, and when it comes up for renewal, he’ll have to give his new address to the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

“And I’ll do what, walk in to the DMV and ask to see all registrations in the name of Segundo Cantú?”

“Hmm. What if you just kept an eye on the car? He has to come get it eventually, doesn’t he?”

“Sure. I could go there every day and watch for the next few weeks or months. It would take me that long to finish Martin’s book anyway.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not about how long it would take me to finish the book. But I’m not interested in another stakeout. Look, he probably got a million for the collection. He can afford to just abandon a beat-up old car.”

“It’s not beat-up, Hubie. It’s just old. Actually, it’s a classic, a 1969 Deville convertible. One as sharp as that one is probably worth at least ten thousand dollars.”

“How do you know that?”

“I like cars, remember?”

It amuses me that Susannah knows about cars and football and I know about cooking and making clay housewares. So much for gender stereotyping. It just illustrates SAP number eight: environment and upbringing determine your personality more strongly than does your gender.

“Maybe you could sell the car to get your money.”

“I don’t think you can sell a car unless you have the title.”

I had been ready to forget the whole episode even before walking into
Dos
Hermanas
, but Susannah’s questioning had forced me to keep thinking about it, and even though some of her suggestions seemed weird, she had once again – as she frequently does – led me finally to a fruitful thought.

“But you don’t have to have the title to just drive a car. I could drive it away and park it somewhere. Then I could leave a note for Cantú telling him I have his car and to contact me.”

“Yeah! You could hold the car for ransom!”

I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but she was right.

Then she turned serious and said, “What if it’s not Cantú’s house?”

“I was in it today, remember? It’s the same house.”

“But what if he just rented? What if the car belongs to the landlord, or anyone else for that matter?”

“This is too complicated,” I said, sliding back to my original opinion – forget the whole mess and move on.

“Not really. All we have to do is check the registration.”

“We?”

“Sure,” she said, draining her glass, “partners in crime. Your car or mine?”

So I finished my drink and handed Angie cash for the tab and a tip. It was fifteen percent and not a penny more. Wouldn’t want her thinking I was hitting on her. On the other hand, she does have those dark, deep-set eyes and those... never mind.

We took Susannah’s Crown Vic to 183 Titanium Trail where I used Tristan’s device for a second time.

I didn’t have to loid anything this time because we didn’t need to get into the house, just into the car, specifically the glove compartment, where we found a current vehicle registration in the name of Segundo Cantú.

“O.K.,” she said. “It’s his car and you’re going to hold it until he pays you.”

“But I can’t drive it away. I don’t have the key.”

“You don’t need a key, Hubie.” She took out her pocket knife and slid down under the steering wheel. The next thing I heard was the starter motor, and after a few turns the thing coughed and wheezed and stuttered. Then it actually started and ran.

“How did you do that?”

“I just hotwired it.”

“Huh?”

“It’s easy. You just cut the wires to the ignition switch and thread them together. These old cars don’t have all the fancy interlocks where you can’t move the steering wheel without the key, so they’re a snap to hotwire.”

“And you learned this where, reform school?”

“On the ranch, Hubie. When a switch went bad on a tractor or mower, we didn’t have the time to drive a hundred miles to a parts place, so we just hotwired them.”

“So we’re going to steal his car?”

“You’re the one who suggested it. Anyway, you’re not stealing it. You’re just keeping it safe until he comes back for it.”

“And until he pays me my twenty-five hundred.”

“That too,” she said and gave me one of her great big smiles.

“What if he never comes back?” I asked her, feeling the need to check out this scheme to see if it made any sense.

“Then you still have the car. Maybe there’s some rule about abandoned cars, like you can say he left it, and you don’t know where he is, and if he fails to renew the registration, you apply to be the new owner.”

It made sense. Cars must occasionally get abandoned, and the state must have some way of dealing with that.

“What if Cantú comes back, finds the note, and instead of calling me, calls the police and reports the car stolen? I could be arrested for grand theft auto.”

She solved the car theft issue by leaving a note for Cantú that read, “Dear Mr. Cantú. Your car has been moved to a safe location. To retrieve it, place an ad in the personals section of the
Albuquerque Journal
with the message, ‘Wanted, Titanium Cadillac’ and a phone number where you can be reached.”

Very clever, I thought. If he did report it stolen, there was no way to connect it with us.

You’re probably still wondering about the dog that fell out of the sky.

What actually happened was that the dog, a wretched creature that had probably been abandoned, was being chased by a pack of teenagers. They had seen him enter the alley behind my store and had split up, some running in from the west end and some from the east. When the dog saw them coming from both directions, he had clambered onto the roof of my Bronco which I keep parked in the alley and then jumped over my patio wall. The lower limbs of one of the cottonwoods had slowed his fall but also spun him in an odd way so that he sort of tumbled to the ground, landing awkwardly and probably painfully and then springing up with a menacing growl.

I learned all this after the fact. Except for the falling part. I saw that in person. Father Groaz had seen the boys and was hot on their trail. When they saw the dog go over my wall, they gave up the chase and were just leaving the alley when the big priest confronted them.

The good Father is 6' 4", weighs in at around 240, and has a bushy black beard and penetrating Rasputin eyes. His accent alone – think Boris Karloff with a bass tremolo – would scare most people, but put that voice in a bear of a man in a black robe, and sinners are suddenly clambering for the straight and narrow. He gave the boys a good scolding, took down their names, and told them if they weren’t in mass on Sunday, he would visit them and their parents. They all attended, including the one who was a Methodist.

When the dog descended into my patio, I thought he was rabid. His eyes were full of fear and his growl full of menace. But Martin calmly extended an arm downward and made a long shushing noise, whereupon the animal fell silent and dropped down on his belly. Martin continued with the sound and the pointing, and the dog eventually got up and walked over to Martin who started rubbing him behind the ears.

“What are you, some sort of dog whisperer?”

“Native people know how communicate with animal world,” he said in his Jay Silverheels voice.

“Native man with pony tail full of dog poop,” I responded.

“True, but I’ll bet Hollywood would buy it.”

Looking at the critter at Martin’s feet, I could almost understand why someone would have abandoned him. He looked like a cross between a collie, a chow, and an anteater. The anteater part would have explained the extremely long neck that sagged down from his shoulders and sort of swayed to and fro as he walked. The droopy neck gave him an obsequious look highlighted by big sad eyes.

The chow in him explained the thick auburn coat while the collie accounted for the longish snout and a tail that – unlike the turned-up version on a chow – slanted down at an angle matching that of the neck. The tail had longer finer hair than the body, and that made it seem as large as his neck, the end result of which was that if you saw his profile in the dark, you couldn’t tell front from back.

I had left Martin with his new friend and gone out to the alley where I caught the tail end of the confrontation between Father Groaz and the miscreants and also heard the full story after the boys were allowed to leave. We chatted for a minute before I returned and told Martin what had happened.

“He know where the animal came from?” Martin asked.

“No, he’d never seen him before. And he’s not one of the strays that roam this area.”

“What you gonna do with him?”

I looked at the dog sitting obediently in front of Martin. “I’m not going to do anything with him. He’s your dog.”

Martin put his left hand under the dog’s chin and turned the animal’s gaze in my direction. He pointed at me with his other hand, and said, “Go over there, boy.”

Whereupon the accursed cur did exactly that, walking over to me and plopping down at my feet.

“Now he’s yours,” Martin said, rather triumphantly I thought.

I tried to send him back to Martin, but each time he took a step in that direction, Martin would just hold up a palm and the dog would stay by me.

It was too late in the evening to call the shelter, and I didn’t want to call animal control because I didn’t know what they might do.

“I guess I’ll keep him here tonight and take him to the shelter in the morning,” I said.

“Right,” said Martin. There was a smug note in his voice I didn’t like.

After Martin left, I rolled a pork loin in cumin and coriander and threw it in a very hot frying pan with a thin coat of corn oil. After I had a nice crust all the way around, I pulled the pork out with tongs. Incidentally, never use a fork for such a task. Piercing meat while it’s cooking allows the juices to escape. I put the meat in a pie pan and slid it into the oven to finish.

I uncorked a bottle of Gruet Blanc de Noir, New Mexico’s finest champagne, and poured some in the hot frying pan to deglaze it, stirring up all the little browned bits until they were absorbed in the liquid. I took the pan off the fire and added a little honey and cream and a big handful of cilantro.

I had some cooked black beans in the fridge and I took those out and put them in a sauce pan to warm. I removed the meat from the oven, poured the juices that had come off it into the sauce and set the pork aside to rest. Then I retrieved a champagne flute from the freezer and filled it with Gruet.

I sat down in my favorite chair, a sort of Southwestern version of the papasan but fashioned out of willow instead of bamboo, and I sipped my champagne until the meat had cooled enough to cut.

I put half of it in a bowl and took it out to the patio. The dog sniffed at it and then looked up at me with those sad eyes.

“It’s all you’re going to get tonight,” I said to him, “so take it or leave it.”

Then I went inside and enjoyed a scrumptious meal while he scratched at the door.