"Red's hardest to get. You never know how it'll turn out," Dan said. "It has to get just so much oxygen, or it fades out. That's why you don't see much red pottery — honest-to-gosh red, I mean. Would you fellows like to peek in the kiln?" Dan uncovered the spyhole in one of the kilns, and the newsmen peered into the blazing red inferno. "You get so you can tell the temperature by the color of the fire," the potter said. "Yellow-hot is hotter than red-hot."
"How long does it take to fire a mess of pots?"
"Two days on the average. One day heating up, one day cooling down. Know why a dish cracks in your kitchen oven? Because your stove heats up too fast. Betcha didn't know that."
"Well, let's shoot some pictures," Bunsen said. "Dan, we'll get you standing behind the table with the crockery in the foreground. Too bad these pictures aren't in color. . . Now, we'll put Old Nosy into one of the biggest pots. You'll have to take his harness off, Qwill . . . Where's Old Nosy?"
Koko had wandered off and found a loose-leaf notebook on one of the other tables, and he was sharpening his claws on the cover.
"Hey, don't do that!" Qwilleran shouted, and then he explained: "Koko uses a big dictionary as a scratching pad — it's one of our family jokes — and he thinks that's what all books are for."
The photographer said, "You slip him in the pot, Qwill, hind feet first. Then step back out of the way and hope he stays put. Dan, you hang on to the pot so he doesn't kick it over. Old Nosy's got a kick like a mule. If he tries to jump out shove him back down.
I'll shoot fast. And don't look at the camera." Qwilleran did his part, jamming the squirming cat down into the square vase, and then he stepped away. He missed the rest of the performance; he was curious about the notebook Koko had been scratching. The cover was labeled Glazes. With a casual finger Qwilleran flipped open the cover and glanced at a few words written in a familiar scrawclass="underline"
Wuuuuu . . . . . . .66
Quuuz . . . . . . . . 30
Cwuuuy . . . . . . . .4
He riffled the pages quickly. Even without his glasses he recognized Joy's cryptic writing from cover to cover.
"Okay," said Bunsen. "That should do it. Old Nosy's turning into a pretty good model. What do you want next, Qwill?"
"How about some pictures of Dan in his living quarters?"
"Great!" said the photographer.
Dan protested. "No, you fellows wouldn't want to take any pictures up there."
"Sure we do. Readers like to know how artists live. "
"It's a rat's nest, if you know what I mean," the potter said, still balking. "My wife isn't much of a housekeeper."
"What are you scared of?" the photographer said. "Have you got a broad up there? Or is that where you hid the body?"
Qwilleran kicked him under the table and said to Dan, "We just want to give the story a little human interest, so it won't look like a commercial plug. You know how editors are. They'll give the story more space if there's a human interest angle."
"Well, you fellows know how it's done," Dan said reluctantly. "Come on upstairs."
The Giahams' loft was one large cave, with Indian rugs on the wall, lengths of Indian fabric sagging across the ceiling, and a floor carpeted from wall to wall with old newspapers, books, magazines, half- finished sewing, and dropped articles of clothing. Crowded in that one room, without arrangement or organization, were beds, barrels, tables, kitchen sink, chairs, packing boxes covered with paisley shawls, and mop pails full of pussy willows. Two pieces of luggage were open on one of the beds.
"Taking a trip?" asked Qwilleran in his best innocent manner.
"No, just packing some of my wife's clothes to ship down south." He closed the suitcases and set them on the floor. "Sit down. Would you fellows like a beer or a shot? Us potters have to drink a lot because of the dust." He winked broadly.
"I'll take a beer," Bunsen said. "I've swallowed a little dust myself."
Qwilleran, who had carried Koko up the stairs, now placed him on the floor, and the cat hardly knew which way to turn. He stepped gingerly across a slippery stack of art magazines and sniffed a pile of clothing in odd shades of eggplant and Concord grape. They were obviously Joy's garments; they had the familiar look of old curtain remnants that had been given a homemade dye job.
The newsman plied Dan with questions: Is it true they used to glaze pottery with pulverized jewels? What's the temperature inside the kiln? Where does the clay come from? What's the hardest shape to make?
"A teapot," Dan replied. "Handles can crack in the kiln. Or the spout drips. Or the lid doesn't fit. Sometimes the whole thing looks like hell, although the ugliest ones sometimes do the best pouring."
Bunsen took a few more pictures of Dan gazing out the window at the lights across the river, Dan reading an art magazine, Dan drinking a can of beer to counteract the dust, Dan scratching his head and looking thoughtful. The photographer had never shot a series so complete, or so ridiculous.
"You've got good bones in your face," he commented. "You could be a professional model. You could do TV commercials."
"You think so?" Dan asked. He had loosened up and was relishing the attention.
By the time the shooting session was over, Qwilleran and Koko had examined every inch of the room. There was a phone number written on a pad near the telephone, which the newsman memorized. Koko found a woman's silver-backed hairbrush, which he knocked to the floor while trying to bite the bristles. The cat also showed interest in a large ceramic jardiniere containing papers and small note- books and a packet of dusty envelopes tied with faded ribbon. Qwilleran managed to transfer the envelopes to his inside jacket pocket. A familiar prickling sensation on his upper lip had convinced him it was the right thing to do.
The newsmen finally said good night to Dan, promised him some copies of the pictures, and trooped back to Qwilleran's apartment, dragging a reluctant cat on the leash.
"Okay, let's have it," Bunsen demanded. "What's this playacting all about?"
"Wish I knew," Qwilleran admitted. "As soon as I find out, I'll buy you a porterhouse on my expense account and fill you in on the sordid details."
"How are you going to explain to that poor guy when the Fluxion runs a half-column head shot and twenty words of copy?"
Qwilleran shrugged and changed the subject. "How's Janie?"
"Fine, considering everything. We're expecting another in August."
"How many have you got now?"
"Five. . . no, six."
Qwilleran poured a stiff drink for Bunsen and opened a can of crabmeat for Koko and Yum Yum. Then he dialed the number he had found on the Grahams' telephone pad. It proved to be an overseas airline.
He also thought about Joy's silver-backed hairbrush; he had given it to her for Christmas many years before. Wouldn't she have taken it if she intended to leave town? A hairbrush was as important as a toothbrush to that girl. She used to brush her long hair by the hour.
"Say," Qwilleran said to Bunsen, "do you still hang around with that scuba diver you brought to the Press Club last winter?"
"I see him once in a while. I'm doing his wedding pictures in June."
"Would you ask him to do us a favor?"
"No sweat. He loves the Fluxion after that layout we gave him in the magazine section. What did you have in mind?"
"I'd like him to go down under the wharf behind this building. Just to see what he can find. And the sooner the better."
"What are you looking for?"
"I don't know, but a large unidentified object was dumped into the river in the middle of the night, and I'd like to know what it was."
"It could be halfway to Goose Island by now."