Nestucca Spit Press

On August 21, 1993, Matt Love and his friend became the chief suspects in the biggest jewelry theft in Portland history. No one was ever arrested in the case, the jewelry never recovered. The statute of limitations on the crime, grand larceny, finally expired. At long last, Love is free to confess what really happened in this crazy caper. His confession is called Rose City Heist: A True Crime Portland Tale of Sex, Gravy, Jewelry and Almost Rock and Roll. And it’s all true, meaning creative non-fiction.

Rose City Heist unfolds in the languid pre-Portlandia era when Portland wasn’t a coffee or dog or bike or quirky indie rock city. It was a cheap gray town with nothing to do where you never waited in line for anything, especially not to eat breakfast. No one ever talked about beer in public, but you could smell and hear it being produced at the Weinhard’s downtown brewery. There were no sideburns or kickball leagues. Martinis were martinis. Donuts were donuts. Strippers were strippers. The sole food cart served only one item—corndogs—and the server was 70 years old.

The plot of Rose City Heist involves Magic Johnson, a German jewelry salesman, a Colombian crime cartel, sex, the Grateful Dead, the FBI, tequila, a substitute teacher who looked like Emily Dickinson but danced like Uma Thurman, a fry cook named Tony, Tony’s magical biscuits and gravy, Tony’s magic mushrooms, a Miranda warning, a high speed chase, and a somewhat obscure movie called The Flight of the Phoenix.

It’s a tale so unbelievable that it has to be true.