There was a red Jaguar parked directly outside. A livened chauffeur held the back door open for Big Daddy. Minchell was rubbing his brow with the fingers of one hand. `Who was that?’ Rebus asked. `That was Major Weir.’ `Wish I’d known, I’d've asked him why I can’t get Green Shield stamps with my petrol any more.’ Minchell wasn’t in the mood for a joke. 116 `What was the note all about?’ Rebus asked. `The Major doesn’t say much. He communicates better on paper.’ Rebus laughed: communication breakdown. `I’m serious,’ Minchell said. `I don’t think I’ve heard him say more than a couple of dozen words all the time I’ve worked for him.’ `Something wrong with his voice?’ `No, he sounds fine, a little croaky, but that’s to be expected. Thing is, his accent is American.’ `So?’ `So he wishes it was Scottish.’ With the Jag gone, they walked out to the car park. `He’s got this obsession with Scotland,’ Minchell went on. `His parents were Scots migrants, used to tell him stories about the “old country”. He got hooked. He only spends maybe a third of the year here T Bird Oil stretches around the globe but you can tell he hates to leave.’ `Anything else I should know?’ `He’s a strict teetotaller, one whiff of alcohol from an employee and they’re out.’ `Is he married?’ `Widower. His wife’s buried on Islay or somewhere like that. This is my car.’ It was a midnight blue Mazda racing model, low slung with just enough room for two bucket seats. Minchell’s briefcase all but filled the back. He hooked his phone up before turning the ignition. `He had a son,’ Minchell went on, `but I think he died, too, or was disinherited. The Major won’t talk about him. Do you want the good news or the bad?’ `Let’s try the bad.’ `Still no sign of Jake Harley, he hasn’t returned from his walking holiday. He’s due back in a couple of days.’ `I’d like to head up to Sullom Voe anyway,’ Rebus said. Especially if Ancram were going to be able to track him to Aberdeen. `No problem with that. We’ll get you up there on a chopper.’ `What’s the good news?’

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baby stores `Good news is, I’ve arranged for you to take another chopper out to Bannock to talk to Willie Ford. And as it’s a day trip, you won’t need any survival training. Believe me, that’s good news. Part of the training, they belt you into a simulator and tip you into a swimming pool.’ `You’ve been there?’ `Oh, yes. Anyone making more than ten day trips a year has to. Scared the hell out of me.’ `But the helicopters are safe enough?’ `Don’t worry about that. And you’re lucky just now: a nice window.’ 117 He saw Rebus’s blank look. `A window in the weather, no major storms brewing. See, oil is an all year industry, but it’s also seasonal. We can’t always get to and from the platforms, it depends on the weather. If we want to tow a rig out to sea, we need to plot a window, then hope for the best. The weather out there …` Minchell shook his head. `Sometimes it can make you believe in the Almighty.’

`Old Testament variety?’ Rebus guessed. Minchell smiled and nodded, then made a call on his phone. They came out of Dyce and into Bridge of Don, following signs to the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre. Rebus waited until Minchell had finished his call before asking a question. `Where was Major Weir headed?’ `Same place we are. He’s got to make a speech.’ `I thought you said he doesn’t speak.’ `He doesn’t. That man with him was his PR guru, Hayden Fletcher. He’ll read the speech. The Major will sit beside him and listen.’ `Does that count as eccentric?’ `Not when you’re worth a hundred million dollars.’ Chapter 13 The Conference Centre car park was full of upper tier management models: Mercs, Beamers, Jags, the occasional Bentley or Roller. A huddle of chauffeurs smoked cigarettes and swapped anecdotes. `Might have been better PR if you’d all come on bikes,’ Rebus said, getting his first view of a demo outside the prism shaped dome which marked the entrance to the Centre. Someone had unfurled a huge banner from the roof, painted green on white: DON’T KILL OUR OCEANS! Security personnel were up there, trying to haul it in while still retaining their balance and dignity. Someone with a megaphone was leading the chant. There were demonstrators in full combat kit and radiation hoods, and others dressed up as mermaids and mermen, plus an inflatable whale which, gusted by the wind, was in danger of snapping its moorings. Uniformed police patrolled the demo, speaking into their shoulder radios. Rebus guessed there’d be a wagon nearby with the heavier artillery: riot shields, visors, US style defence batons It didn’t look like that kind of demo, not yet. `We’re going to have to go through them,’ Minchell said. `I hate this. We’re spending millions on environmental protection. I’m even a member of Greenpeace, Oxfam, you name it. But every bloody year it’s the same.’
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He grabbed his briefcase and cellphone, remote locked the car and set its alarm, then headed for the doors. `You’re supposed to have a delegate badge to get in,’ he explained. 118 `But just show a warrant card or something. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’ They were close to the main demo now. There was background music through a portable PA, a song about whales, or maybe it was Wales. Rebus recognised the vocal style: The Dancing Pigs. People were shoving flyers at him. He took one of each and thanked them. A young woman was pacing in front of him like a caged leopard. She controlled the megaphone. Her voice was nasal and North American. `Decisions made now will affect your children’s grandchildren! You can’t put a price on the future! Put the future first, for everybody’s sake!’ She looked at Rebus as he passed her. Her face was blank, no hate, no recrimination, just working. Her bleached hair was rat tailed, threaded with bright braids, one of which fell down the middle of her forehead.

`Kill the oceans and you kill the planet! Put Mother Earth befbre profits!’ Rebus was convinced even before he reached the door. There was a bin inside, where the flyers were being dumped. But Rebus fblded his and put them in his pocket. Two guards wanted to see ID, but his warrant card, as predicted, was effective. There were more guards patrolling the concourse private security, uniformed, wearing shiny caps which meant nothing. They’d probably had a one day crash course in menacing pleasantry. The concourse itself was full of suits. Messages were being relayed over a PA system. There were static displays, tables piled high with literature, sales pitches for God knows what. Some of the booths looked to be doing good business. Minchell excused himself and said he’d meet Rebus at the main doors in about half an hour. He said he had to do some `schmoozing’. This seemed to mean shaking hands with people, smiling, giving them a few words and in some cases his business card, then moving on. Rebus quickly lost him. Rebus didn’t see too many pictures of rigs, and those he did see were tension legs and semi submersibles. The real excitement seemed to be FPSOs Floating Production, Storage and Offloading Systems which were like tankers, but did away with the need for a platform altogether.

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Flowlines connected straight to the FPSO, and it could store 300,000 barrels of oil. `Impressive, isn’t she?’ a Scandinavian in a salesman’s suit asked Rebus. Rebus nodded. `No need for a platform.’ `And easier to scrap when the time comes. Cheap and environmental.’ The man paused. `Interested in leasing one?’ `Where would I park it?’ He walked off before the salesman could 119 translate. Maybe it was his tracker’s nose, but he found the bar with no difficulty and settled at the far end with a whisky and a bowl of nibbles. Lunch had been a petrol station sandwich, so he tucked in. A man came and stood next to him, wiped his face with a huge white handkerchief and asked for a soda water with lots of ice. `Why do I still come to these things?’ the man growled. His accent was pitched somewhere in mid Atlantic. He was tall and thin, his reddish hair thinning. The flesh around his neck was slack, putting him in his early fifties, though he could have passed for five years younger. Rebus didn’t have an answer for him, so said nothing. The drink arrived, and he downed it in one, then ordered another. `Want one?’ he asked. `No, thanks.’ The man noticed that Rebus’s photocard was missing. `Are you a delegate?’ Rebus shook his head. `Observer.’ `The newspaper?’ Rebus shook his head again. `Thought not. Oil’s only news when something goes wrong. It’s bigger than the nuclear industry, but gets half the coverage.’ `That’s good, isn’t it, if the news they’re printing is all bad?’ The man thought about this, then laughed, showing perfect teeth. `You’ve got me there.’ He wiped his face again. `So what exactly are you observing?’

`I’m off duty right now.’ `Lucky you.’ `So what do you do?’ `I work my guts out. But I have to tell you, my company’s just about given up trying to sell to the oil industry. They’d rather buy Yank or Scandinavian. Well, fuck them. No wonder Scotland’s down the pan and we want independence.’ The man shook his head, then leaned forwards over the bar. Rebus did likewise: co conspirator. `Mostly what I do is, I attend boring conventions like this. And I go home at night and wonder what it’s all about. You sure about that drink?’ `Go on then.’ So Rebus let the man buy him a drink. The way he had said `fuck them’ made Rebus think he didn’t swear that often. It was just something he did to break the ice, to show he was speaking man to man. off the record, as it were. Rebus offered a cigarette, but his friend shook his head. `Gave them up years ago. Don’t think I’m not still tempted.’ He paused, looked around the bar. `Know who I’d like to be?’ Rebus 120 shrugged. `Go on, guess.’ `I wouldn’t know where to start.’ `Sean Connery.’ The man nodded. `Think about it, with what he earns per film, he could give a pound to every man, woman and child in this country, and still have a couple of mill left over. Isn’t that incredible?’ `So if you were Sean Connery, you’d give everyone a pound?’ `I’d be the world’s sexiest man, what would I need money for?’ It was a good point, so they drank to it. Only thing was, talking about Sean reminded Rebus of Ancram, Sean’s lookalike. He checked his watch, saw that he had to leave. `Can I buy you one before I go?’ The man shook his head, then produced his business card, doing so in a slick movement, like a magician. `In case you ever need it. My name’s Ryan, by the way.’ Rebus read the card: Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division, and a company masthead: Eugene Construction. `John Rebus,’ he said, shaking Slocum’s hand. `John Rebus,’ Slocum said, nodding. `No business card, John?’ `I’m a police officer.’ Slocum’s eyes widened. `Did I say anything incriminating?’ `Wouldn’t bother me if you did. I’m based in Edinburgh.’
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`A long way from home. Is it Johnny Bible?’ `Why do you say that?’ `He’s killed in both cities, hasn’t he?’ Rebus nodded. `No, it’s not Johnny Bible. Take care, Ryan.’ `You too. It’s a mad bad world out there.’ `Isn’t it just?’ Stuart Minchell was waiting for him at the doors. `Anything else you’d like to see, or shall we head back?’ `Let’s go.’ Lumsden called up to his room, and Rebus came downstairs to meet him. Lumsden was well dressed, but casual the blazer swapped for a cream jacket, yellow shirt open at the neck. `So,’ Rebus said, `do I call you Lumsden all night?’ `First name’s Ludovic.’ `Ludovic Lumsden?’ `My parents had a sense of humour. Friends call me Ludo.’ The evening was warm and still light. Birds were noisy in the gardens, and fat seagulls were picking their way along the pavements. `It’ll stay light till ten, maybe eleven,’

Lumsden explained. `Those are the fattest seagulls I’ve ever seen.’ 121 `I hate them. Look at the state of the pavements.’ It was true, the slabs underfoot were speckled with birdshit. `Where are we going?’ Rebus asked. `Call it a mystery tour. It’s all within walking distance. You like mystery tours?’ `I like having a guide.’ Their first stop was an Italian restaurant, where Lumsden was well known. Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand, and the proprietor took him aside for a quiet word, apologising to Rebus beforehand. `The Italians up here are docile,’ Lumsden explained later. `They never quite managed to run the town.’ `So who does?’ Lumsden considered the question. `A mixture.’ `Any Americans?’ Lumsden looked at him, nodded. ~Thev run a lot of the clubs and some of the newer hotels, Service industry stuff. They arrived in the seventies, never moved away. Do you want to go to a club later?’ Rebus shrugged. `It sounds almost respectable.’ Lumsden laughed. `Oh, you want sleaze? That’s supposed to be what Aberdeen’s about, right? You’ve got the wrong idea. The city is strictly corporate. Later on, if you really want, I’ll take you down by the docks: strippers and hard drinkers, but a tiny minority.’ `Living down south, you hear stories.’ `Of course you do: high class brothels, dope and porn, gambling and alcohol. We hear the Stories, too. But as for seeing the stuff…’ Lumsden shook his head. `The oil industry’s pretty tame really. The roughnecks have all but disappeared. Oil’s gone legit.’ Rebus was almost convinced, but Lumsden was trying too hard. He kept talking, and the more he talked the less Rebus believed. The owner came over for another word, drew Lumsden away to a corner of the restaurant. Lumsden kept a hand on the man’s back, patting it. He flattened his tie as he sat down again. `His son’s running wild,’ Lumsden explained. He shrugged, as if there were nothing more to say, and told Rebus to try the meatballs. Afterwards, there was a nightclub, where businessmen vied with young turks for the attentions of the daytime shopworkers turned Lycra vixens. The music was loud and so were the clothes. Lumsden nodded his head to the pulse, but didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. He looked like a tour guide. Ludo: player of games. Baby Snowsuit
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Rebus knew he was being sold a line, the same line any tourists to the north would be sold this was the country of Baxter’s soups, men in skirts, and granny’s hieland hame. oil was just another industry, the city and its people had 122 risen above it. There was still a sense of Highland perspective. There was no down side. `I thought you might find this place interesting,’ Lumsden yelled over the music. `Why?’ `It’s where Michelle Strachan met Johnny Bible.’ Rebus tried to swallow, couldn’t. He hadn’t noticed the name of the club. He looked with new eyes, saw dancers and drinkers, saw proprictorial arms around unwilling necks. Saw hungry eyes and money used for mating.

The hotel was dubbed “the Waldorf of the West” but was eventually forgotten and neglected as a retirement home. Restoration started in 1978, and the hotel again became a lovely clifftop retreat for guests including Burt Reynolds, Kevin Costner, Olivia Newton John, and Terri Garr. Trouble started a few years after the 1978 restoration, when they reopened the third floor honeymoon suite. One day, in the few moments the third floor hallway was empty, something turned every wall sconce upside down. Janet says, “It took the maintenance man half a day to turn them all back.” On another day, she says, “A guest comes in from the parking lot. She slaps her hands down on the counter and demands, ‘Is there something I should know about? I just saw a woman with dark hair, in a white gown, throw herself from the tower and disappear.’” According to Janet, a honeymoon bride in the 1930s killed her husband in the third floor suite, then jumped from the hotel’s tower, landing in the parking lot. Just recently, another honeymoon couple sat in bed and watched a woman in white emerge from their bathroom, stand looking at them for two minutes, and disappear. new uggs 2011
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AH over the third floor, water starts running in the bathrooms while the maids clean. Fires start by themselves in fireplaces. In empty rooms heavy furniture moves up against the door so no one can enter from the hallway. “Nobody’s ever gotten hurt,” Janet says. “Nobody’s ever had more than the wits scared out of them.” One bartender, Michael, stays over some nights and reports the television turning itself on and off and a phantom hand being placed on her face. A hotel maid, Millie, nicknamed the spirit or spirits “Oscar” after she started finding flowers left every day in the exact same place on the attic stairs. In the attic, marbles roll out of the shadows. They roll uphill against the slanted floor. To find the hotel, take Interstate 84 east for about 1.5 hours. Take exit 62 and turn left at the stop sign. Cross back over the freeway, toward the river, and turn left again. The hotel will be between you and the cliffs. It’s that yellow building with the tower. 16. POWELL’S RARE BOOK ROOM Employees swear that the ghost of Walter Powell, the bookstore’s founder, still walks the mezzanine outside the Rose Room. Check for Walter near the drinking fountain. Steve Fidel in publicity says Tuesday nights are the most likely time. Also check out the sculpture of stacked books outside the northwest street door. Inside the carved stone are the ashes of a man who wanted to be buried at Powell’s. The canister of his cremains sat on a bookstore shelf for years until it was sealed inside the new sculpture. (a postcard from 1988) This year I’m living in a two story town house at 1623 SW Montgomery Street with severed heads and hands hidden in the back of every kitchen cabinet.

Come pick through the bins of unsorted, unwashed goods at 8300 SE McLoughlin Boulevard and pay for your new wardrobe by the pound. Phone: 503 230 2076. PERIODICALS & BOOKS PARADISEThe world’s largest store for used magazines is right here at 3315 SE Hawthorne Boulevard. From nudie mags to Sears catalogs, it’s waiting for you to spend a rainy day here. Phone: 503 234 6003. THE REBUILDING CENTER Here are salvaged chunks of Portlands best buildings, selling for cheap. For doors, lights, masonry ornaments, ironwork, lumber, and plumbing fixtures, go to 3625 N Mississippi Avenue and drool. Phone: 503 331 1877. RED, WHITE, AND BLUE THRIFT STORE It’s courting death to tell you about every local’s favorite used clothing and junk store. But it’s at 19239 SE McLoughlin Boulevard. Phone: 503 655 3444. Good luck with parking. WACKY WILLY’S SURPLUS An always changing mix of craft and medical supplies, electronics, toys, sporting goods, and more. Here is your next big art project waiting to happen. One store at 2374 NW Vaughn Street.

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Another store at 2900 SW Cornelius Pass Road. Phone: 503 525 9211. (a postcard from 1989) It’s August in the Swan Island shipyards, and I’m exploring the inside of an old cruise ship while it sits in dry dock. The ship is the S.S. Monterey, a forgotten passenger liner. She’s been mothballed in the Alameda section of San Francisco Bay since the 1960s, until the Matson Lines towed her to Portland for hull work. They’ll do just enough work in the United States to allow her to be registered here, then tow her around the world to Finland, where she’ll be gutted and refitted for luxury cruises to Hawaii. The man showing me around is a marine architect named Mark. I met him at a potluck, and Mark told me about living aboard the ship while it was moored at the seawall along NW Front Avenue, waiting for its turn in dry dock. Without fuel or passengers, he says, the ship rides high in the water so high that when anything from a barge to a canoe goes past, the towering ship will rock from side to side. The white hull is streaked with rust and bird shit, and the staterooms inside are hot and dusty.

Some are male, most are female. My roommate, Laurie, works as a window dresser at the downtown Meier & Frank department store and tells me about meeting guys and fucking them in the store’s big display windows along SW Fifth Avenue. You have about two feet of dark, filthy room to maneuver, she says, between the inside wall and the scenic partition that the mannequins stand in front of. Beyond the mannequins is nothing but plate glass and a zillion people walking past. The narrow space limits your sex positions but it’s private. Plus, Laurie says, you get the thrill of rush hour crowds waiting for their bus only a couple feet away. Unless you want to get fired, she says, you can’t go too wild or you’ll make the mannequins shake.

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When we drink, Laurie tells me about her childhood. How her mother used to get up every Sunday morning to cook a hot breakfast. While her mom was busy, Laurie would crawl into bed with her dozing father and suck his cock. This was every Sunday morning for years, and after a few gin and tonics Laurie can see how this might color the rest of her life. At home our severed hands and heads are mannequin samples, and Laurie shows me how the dummy industry designs them for each market. Mannequins made for California have bigger breasts. They’re sprayed to look tan. Mannequins made for Chicago aren’t. The creepy clutching hands. Or the bald heads with high cheekbones and staring glass eyes. We stash them everywhere. Under the bathroom sink with the extra toilet paper. In the cabinet with the breakfast cereal. The one time Laurie’s dad comes to visit, he goes hunting for coffee filters and almost has a heart attack. The only mannequin Laurie has all of is a female she calls Constance. Connie’s made to sit, with both legs stretched out in front, her knees bent a little. She’s made for the Portland demographic: pale and small breasted with a dishwater brown wig. Laurie dresses her in a pink chiffon gown from the thrift store St. Vincent de Paul on Powell Boulevard. It has yards of flowing pink chiffon that hang down, like angel wings. Up the back of the dress, you can see thick black tire treadmarks that suggest a very ominous end to some prom night. One Saturday, we’re drinking gin and tonics before watching the Starlight Parade. The official kickoff event for the annual Rose Festival, the parade features lighted floats and marching bands and starts at dusk, moving through downtown in the dark. It also features the year’s crop of Rose Festival princesses, all of them in pink prom gowns, standing on a float and waving with gloved hands. The more gin and tonics we drink, the more important it seems to make a political statement.

You know, attack the idea of women as objects on display. We have to put Constance on the boot of Laurie’s MG convertible and sneak her into the parade. We have to reveal the Rose Festival for the sexist institution that it is. Really, we just want our share of the attention. In the North Park Blocks where the parade assembles, we tell the officials we’re part of a local car club but we’ve missed our entry time because of traffic. kenly uggs
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Near us, the parade float full of real princesses glares at our dummy with the black tire tracks up her back. As troublemakers, we cannot be more obvious. But as each official mentions a real car club or a detail like parade entry dues, we latch onto said detail and roll it into our story. Each time we’re passed up the ladder to another official, our story has more heft. More validity. Yes, we say, we’re with the Columbia Gorge Car Club. Yes, we’ve paid the $200 entry fee. As extra proof we show people a map of the parade route that an earlier official has given us. Our every exhale is a lie. At the edge of the parade one last official gives us the go ahead. We’re in. We’re ready. Heady stuff. Then he warns us, two blocks away is the judges’ platform, and if we aren’t an official entry, they’ll hit us each with a $1,000 fine. And then arrest us for trespassing. By then, our gin and tonic political enthusiasm has worn off. We don’t have the spare two grand to risk. But the crowds love Constance and people run out into the street to touch her stiff fiberglass hands. The real princesses glower. Those willing tools of sexism. A block away the police are waiting to catch us, Laurie and me, but for just these few minutes, people wave and smile at us. They laugh and applaud. Despite all the terrible shit we’ve done, these total strangers seem to really want us here. Souvenirs . Where You Have to Shop TO GET A MANNEQUIN of your own, check out Grand & Benedict’s “Used Annex” at 122 SE Morrison Street. They usually have enough naked dummies for a creepy afternoon in the Twilight Zone. For a cheap souvenir or a relic from Portland’s history we all have that magpie urge to acquire stuff check my favorite places for finding something unique without spending a ton. THE “As ls” BINS Officially, this is the Goodwill Outlet Store, but locals have called it “the bins” forever.

As the ship rocks, Mark says, doors swing open and shut. When she was mothballed, china was left on tables in the dining room. Pots and pans were left on the stoves. Now, these things slip and fall to the floor in the middle of the night when Mark’s the only person aboard. He sleeps in the ship’s old nursery, where murals of Babar the Elephant dance around the walls. He keeps the nursery doors locked. There’s no power aboard the ship, so he uses a flashlight to get down the pitch black passageways to shit outside, in a chemical toilet installed near the faded shuffleboard outlines on deck. short ugg boots

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By August this massive hulk of iron and steel has been soaking up heat all summer. She never cools down, and the temperature inside bakes a crust of dried sweat and dust on your skin. The marine architect, Mark, he thinks I love old ships enough to sleep with him. This is capital NOT going to happen, but Mark leads me through the security gates and into the huge floating dry dock. He tells me about his viral load, the amount of HIV in his bloodstream, and says how he’s nicknamed his last two white blood cells “Huey and Dewey.” He’s twenty something. He looks healthy. We crouch underneath the ship, next to the wooden keel blocks that balance the gigantic baking hot hull above us. Mark winks and asks if I want to see the “ship’s balls.” Instead of an answer, I ask about the huge fans and sheets of plastic that hang inside the ship. Mark says it’s asbestos containment and removal. The air is hazy with floating strands. The gray dust coats portholes and stairway railings. In the ship’s ballroom little tables and chairs stand around the edges of a wooden dance floor, warped and buckled into waves from the heat. Planters around the room hold the papery dried stalks and leaves of a tropical jungle, real plants mummified by decades of California summers and rooted dead in potting soil dry as talcum powder. The floor is crunchy with broken china and wine glasses. In the ship’s big stainless steel kitchens, the saucepans are streaked with food at least thirty years old. With flashlights we explore the ship’s theater and find an upright piano lying on its back. Up on the bridge Mark shows me the ship’s balls. These are two spheres of cast iron that flank the compass. They counteract the magnetic pull of the ship’s mass, forward and aft. In an empty stateroom Mark says that when the ship gets to Finland everything inside will be trashed. The china and furniture and carpet and framed hotelish paintings. The bedspreads and sheets and towels. Mark with his two white blood cells flops down on a dusty bed. The stateroom baking hot, it’s the honeymoon suite.