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ISBN 0-425-15849-7
It’s March, and someone is selling drugs to the employees of a Prudhoe Bay oil field company, and the company hires Kate to apprehend the dealer. But coke isn’t the only illegal substance the Slopers are dealing in.
I worked on the Slope for six years. Was it this crazy? Yup. Would I do it again? Nope. But I wouldn’t have missed the experience for the world.
About the Dedication
for Tony Kinderknecht
the last of the original Slopers
I left out the story about Milo’s pigs
because no one can tell it like he can
Like it says, he’s the last of the Original Slopers. He went up on April 1, 1969. He retired in 1997 and now spends his time in Florida at a clothing-optional resort. He says he’s earned it. I agree, but I still won’t dance with him naked.
Audio Excerpt
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Book Excerpt
It’s all business in the Prudhoe Bay oil field…
Saturday was race day and business as usual in the Western Operating Area of the Prudhoe Bay Field was suspended for the duration.
The deal with the turtles, Toni had told Kate on her first day up, was that a turtle representing each of the departments would race in the Base Camp Saturday evening. “Why?” Kate had asked, she thought a valid question, and Toni had replied, “Because it’s there.” “What does the winner get?” Kate had inquired further, and Toni had raised her face to the heavens, closed her eyes and intoned, “Glory.”
The model for Kate’s talisman, described in A Cold-Blooded Business. It belongs to friends Mary Kallenberg and Bob Hartzler, who have deserted their native land for Santa Fe and environs, taking the otter with them.
No one was ever able to explain to Kate’s satisfaction from whence the idea of racing turtles had sprung, let alone why race them at all, but the Slopers threw themselves into the event with passion and verve. Each department had one turtle, each turtle had two departmental trainers, and bribery and corruption was the order of the day. Saturday morning an official race judge was named, bribed, impeached, removed and replaced in the space of two hours, Saturday afternoon Deputy Dawg was kidnapped again, and Saturday evening began with a junk food junkie’s dream come true set up in the dining room. Gideon had outdone himself, having scattered individual stands for hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza and tacos among the dining tables. A fifth, with by far the longest line in front of it, dispensed hot fudge sundaes piled high with real whipped cream and chopped walnuts and even the cherry on top. Kate had two. She would have had three if Dale hadn’t forcibly dragged her from the room. The turtles hadn’t even raced and already Kate was disposed to approve.
The race was to take place in the Astroturf room. The Astroturf room occupied the center section of the second floor of the main module of the Base Camp, overlooked by the windows of every inside room of the two residence floors in the module. All of them this evening were flung wide and shoulder to shoulder with spectators. Every now and then someone fell out, but no one was hurt because the room was so packed with people they never made contact with a hard surface.
A roll of green plastic tarpaulin was spread in the middle of the room and two white circles painted thereon. One was large and touched the edges of the tarp, the other small and occupied its center. The turtles would race from the outer circle to the inner one, a distance of precisely five feet. The race would be in three heats, the winner the turtle with the shortest average time.
Cheerleaders appeared, dressed in down snowsuits, bunny boots and baklavas pulled over their faces and with mopheads for pompoms. They were unsteady on their feet, and they forgot their cheer halfway through, but Kate was charitably inclined to think their snowsuits had constricted the vascular flow to their heads, limiting brain function.
The cheerleaders retired and Production’s Xaviera arrived in a gilt sedan chair borne on the shoulders of her pit crew, followed by Control Systems’ champion pulled in a chariot and escorted by a twenty-man honor guard. Kate wondered who was manning the production centers’ control systems. Probably the same guy who had stolen Frank Jensen’s truck, for which a security bulletin had been issued over the public address system that afternoon. Catering’s Hump appeared in a mayonnaise jar, led by a drum majorette dressed in the most beautiful kuspuk Kate had ever seen. The knee-length parka was made of cinnamon-colored corduroy with gold cord and red fox fur edging hem, wrists and hood. The wearer was a redhead with pale redhead skin and the combination was enough to cause a momentary pause in the din, but only momentary.
“What a gorgeous kuspuk,” Kate said.
Dale looked around. “Oh yeah, one of Cindy Sovalik’s. I think she makes more money making kuspuks than she does making beds.”
For a moment Kate couldn’t place the name, and then remembered the close encounter with the snow machine her first day up. She looked back at the redhead. Cindy Sovalik sewed better than she drove.
Projects’ turtle, Tom the Twertle, arrived at the head of a conga line of Twertle cheerleaders, followed by Safety’s RP 1 on a miniature fire truck complete with hook, ladder, lights and siren. Deputy Dawg, rescued from kidnappers for the second time that week, rode in in Glen Lefevre’s shirt pocket. Behind Kate someone hissed, “I hear Deputy Dawg’s high on Absorbine Jr.”
“No!”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Hey! Judge! Judge! Deputy Dawg’s been doped!”
The first heat was delayed while race officials called in Official Race Veterinarian Jerry McIsaac to administer a breathalyzer test. Deputy Dawg passed, and Security lodged an official complaint with the officials, alleging slander, calumny and harassment. A loud yelp of electronic sound cut across the uproar, the crowd pressed forward, the noise level increased exponentially and the race was on. During the first heat, trainers inspired their champions with shouts of “Turtle soup!” and “”Tortoiseshell combs! Think tortoiseshell combs!” During the second heat a motorized turtle materialized out of the crowd and with silver antennae whipping back and forth ran circles around the mortal turtles. During the third heat, Hump was humped.
It was no contest. Deputy Dawg won all three heats by a good five lengths. Second place was tied three ways, and officials announced a runoff between Xaviera, RP 1 and Tom, during which Deputy Dawg took off on his own and again finished first. Attempts on Security’s part to claim both first and second place were thwarted. Catering’s complaints of sexual harassment against their runner were ignored. During a post-race interview conducted by a reporter from the Campfollower, the company’s in-house newsletter, Glen Lefevre attributed Deputy Dawg’s resounding success entirely to his trainer, Chuck Stange, who had been drafted by Security specifically for his experience and expertise in amphibian athletics. He added that they were looking forward to more competition next year.
For a moment, for just one, admittedly fleeting moment, Kate wondered who was ahead in the Iditarod. She was pretty sure she was the only person in camp that night who did.