The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02] Read Online Free Page B

possibilities when a woman with a large shopping bag and a small child sat down next to me on the bench. I could see why she preferred riding a bus to walking. She had the physique of the Michelin tire man, but she lacked his pleasant smile. She gasped for breath and yelled for Kyle to, “sit still and stop tormenting me.”
    She didn’t look or sound like the sort of mother little Kyle obeyed, and little Kyle didn’t look like he ever sat still, but to my amazement, he suddenly did just that. He sat still and became quiet. He stared in my direction. I followed his line of vision and discovered why. He had zeroed in on Les Grand Tetons .
    Then the Michelin woman saw what he was looking at. She jerked little Kyle off the bench, slung her shopping bag against me, and huffed away.
    I’m five feet, six inches tall and weigh one hundred and forty pounds. Her shopping bag had approximately the same dimensions, and it almost knocked me off the bench.
    The magazine fell to the sidewalk and opened to another page with a picture of a motorcycle with huge saddlebags and a zaftig woman astride the seat with equally large appendages. I decided I had seen all I needed to see of Rio Grande Lofts. And of Chrome Hogs . I threw the magazine in the trash and continued my analysis on the walk home.
    I could drive through the garage entrance if I had a code. I could walk through without a code by following a car, but the driver would surely spot me and call security. I couldn’t linger until the car was out of sight in the garage and then run in. I had been on the bench long enough to see some cars come and go, and the gates on both the entrance and exit operated swiftly and efficiently.
    If I ran in through the exit gate when someone drove out, they could still call security, but at least they wouldn’t be in the basement with me. But there was a serious flaw with that option. The idea of running down a narrow concrete canyon while an average American motorist – probably with cell phone to ear – drove up that same ramp had me imagining being crushed between car and concrete.
    There might be a way to force open the service entrance from the outside, but the only methods that came to mind (a jackhammer, a cutting torch, dynamite) all failed to meet the condition of a surreptitious entry.
    The easiest way in was the only one I handn ’t considered – through the front door. I had walked only a block or two, so I turned back to try it. I took up a casual but determined pace, assumed an expression of confidence, and strode through the front door. I got two steps in before a burly doorman in a maroon blazer with a nametag that read ‘Rawlings’ stepped in front of me.
    “May I help you, sir?”
    “I’m here to see Warner Oland.”
    “We have no resident by that name, sir.”
    “Are you certain? Maybe he just moved in. Could I see the list of residents?”
    “No, sir. Our residents value their privacy. And I assure you we have no Mr. Oland here.”
    “I’m sure there’s some mistake,” I persisted. “I even have his phone number. Can I use your lobby phone to call him? Maybe he’ll come down and vouch for me.”
    “Sir,” he said politely but firmly, “no one enters this building unless a resident is here to receive him. We have no Mr. Oland. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
    He had the sort of voice you expect to hear saying, “Step away from the building and keep your hands in plain sight.” Probably a former cop.
    So I started home again. If the other doormen were like Rawlings, getting past the front door was unlikely.

 
    6
     
    When I reached my shop, Emilio Sanchez was outside my door. He removed his hat as I approached.
    “ Buenos dias, Señor Uberto .”
    “ Buenos dias, amigo, ” I replied, and we shared an abrazo .
    I asked the question I often ask – “ ¿Ingles o español? ”
    “English, of course, my friend. Your Spanish, it is too good for me,” he said with a wide smile.
    “You