Cheap Heat

  Also by Daniel M. Ford

  THE JACK DIXON SERIES

  Body Broker

  THE PALADIN TRILOGY

  Ordination

  Stillbright

  Crusade

  Copyright © Dan Ford 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopying

  recording or any information storage and retrieval system without permission

  in writing from the Publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ford, Daniel M., 1978- author.

  Title: Cheap heat : a Jack Dixon novel / Daniel M. Ford.

  Description: Santa Fe, NM : Santa Fe Writers Project, [2020] | Series: Jack

  Dixon | Summary: “Jack Dixon takes his PI talents on the road when a pro

  wrestler’s outlandish Civil War-themed act results in death threats.

  Jack accompanies the self-styled “U.S. Grant” — an old college buddy —

  and his regional wrestling promotion on their fall tour in hopes of

  sniffing out the mystery and escaping his troubled past...and to avoid

  any more harrowing run-ins with the deadly Aesir gang. Struggling with a

  budding romance, the specter of his college-era mistakes, and the

  undercurrents of a fanatic pro wrestling fandom, some of whom may just

  be willing to kill, Jack soon finds himself dragged into the limelight -

  and squarely into the crosshairs of his most dangerous enemies”—

  Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019022790 (print) | LCCN 2019022791 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781733777711 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781733777728 (kindle edition)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3606.O728 C48 2020 (print) | LCC PS3606.O728

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022790

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022791

  Published by SFWP

  369 Montezuma Ave. #350

  Santa Fe, NM 87501

  (505) 428-9045

  www.sfwp.com

  To Gary, for the scotch. And to the rest of the Craigcon crew, I guess.

  Chapter 1

  A steady gray rain fell, the kind of cold pelting rain that made everyone who was forced to be out in it miserable, and everyone who had a roof glad to huddle under it, preferably in front of a heater or a fireplace.

  It drummed off my helmet and streaked down the visor. It kept up a steady noise that must’ve driven my boss, on the open end of a phone call via the helmet’s Bluetooth, nuts.

  I couldn’t have been happier.

  Despite only having owned It for a couple of months, I found riding so infinitely preferable to driving that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t bought a motorcycle sooner. I’d thought all the talk about the freedom and comfort and joy of it to be just so much bullshit, but every bit of it turned out to be true for me. The bike—a recent, not vintage, Indian Scout—had proven to be as right for me as living on my boat had been.

  So, naturally, my boss found ways to take advantage of it at every turn.

  “You got the tracker on yet or what?”

  Jason’s voice crackled inside my helmet. There was an echoey quality to it that told me he had it on speakerphone. Our principal was probably in the room with him. Maybe another employee.

  “I can get it at the next traffic light.” I was on Route 40 in Cecil County, Maryland, but probably heading for the Hatem bridge and the Harford County line. “Why don’t I just follow this guy all the way to his destination?”

  “Because he’ll notice the biker in the nerd helmet following him eventually. Especially if you pull into the same parking lot he does. And because this isn’t about confronting him.”

  “Fine, fine.” By then the light had changed and the sedan I was tailing from two cars and one lane away had started off again.

  I picked up speed, signaled to get into his lane with one hand, and hoped the driver that stood in my way wasn’t the kind who aimed at motorcyclists. They were out there, or so I’d been told, but I had yet to experience that kind of malice, only the occasional moment of negligence. Usually when a driver was looking at their phone instead of me.

  From what I could see in the front of the Audi I was tailing, the driver was not busy with his phone. He was distracted, certainly, but it seemed more to do with the woman in the passenger seat. At least one of her hands was in his lap, and one of his hands roamed freely inside her coat.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna notice me,” I said. “He, uh, seems pretty occupied.” There was a discreet cough over the phone connection.

  Oh, I thought. Right. His wife is listening.

  I took it pretty slow to stay behind him. I was pretty sure I could’ve taken care of this and sped off with a backfire and as much rumble as I could pull out of my bike’s engine, but orders were orders.

  We were coming up on another red light. He was going slow enough now—his head was rolling back on the headrest—that the other cars behind us had long since shifted into other lanes and passed. The light was barely yellow but he stopped anyway. Probably on the edge of losing fine motor control. His companion’s arm was pumping a little more furiously now.

  The driver’s seat was, in fact, rocking a bit.

  As we stopped at the light I inched up closer and closer. Then I bent down as if I had to check my boot laces or something on my bike.

  And while I bent down, I slipped a small magnetic case out of my pocket. I leaned forward and slipped it under the bumper of the Audi. It seated home easily.

  The light changed. The car took off.

  “Is it broadcasting?”

  “U-turn at the next opportunity and we’ll be sure.”

  I did as he asked, turning onto a mostly empty road. Early Tuesday afternoons as gray and cold and miserable as this one don’t often see a lot of traffic.

  “We got him.”

  “Am I off the clock, then?”

  “Seeing as how you can’t take photos worth a damn on your phone, and there’s no room on that ridiculous vehicle for a camera bag, yes. We’ll have someone else stake out the stopping point.”

  Given the number of motels, hotels, and B&Bs in the direction that Audi had been headed, the couple with cheating on their minds was limited only by their budget and imagination. And since it was a late model Audi with what appeared to be lots of bells and whistles, budget didn’t seem like a problem.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dixon,” said an unfamiliar voice. The wife who was, even now, being humiliated while her husband broke vows they’d made together. She seemed to be holding it together well.

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Jackson,” I said.

  “We’re signing off now, Jack,” Jason said. Then the line went dead.

  Suddenly the rain felt a lot colder and I was glad to be heading home.

  Chapter 2

  Home wasn’t exactly warm, though. There were only so many hatches I could shut and tarps I could put up, and I didn’t like running the heater too hot or too long. Not least because if I did, Marty—the manager who handled my arrangement with the marina—would realize I was home and probably come bother me about helping him with something.

  Technically, a certain number of hours of manual labor a month were a part of my rent. I entertained myself by avoiding it at all costs.


  So it was a bit chilly inside the Belle of Joppa this time of year. And in another month or so, shipboard living might become entirely untenable unless I made some investments in equipment or was prepared to run the climate control a lot more than I liked to. Last winter was the first I’d lived aboard her, and I had been lucky enough for it to be a mild one. Still, in layers—a t-shirt, a thick thermal Henley, a fleece vest—the drumming of the rain outside my sealed compartments wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

  The prospect of Thanksgiving being only a week and two days away didn’t precisely thrill me, though. I was certainly expected to show up at my family dinner, at my parents’ house in Perry Hall. But I was starting to think that things were going too well for me to bother spending any time around my dad. I’d have to think on that some more, but for now, I decided to think about the Saturday after Thanksgiving. That was the day I truly looked forward to, the balm after dealing with my dad. But before that could get here, I had an important question to ask.

  I was, even now, beginning preparations in that vein. The bar was open and a pair of cocktails were taking shape in the galley. I squeezed out some blood orange halves, then pressed ice-spheres—really ice Death Stars, if I were being completely honest—into the oranges so that the peel enveloped half the ice. I placed one in each glass, then I mixed bourbon, smoked tea liqueur, and bitters with ice in the shaker. A few seconds of brisk mixing later, and I was pouring the two drinks through a strainer, over the ice and blood orange.

  I clicked on a few electric candles—no open flames on my Belle—and then retrieved a wide-brimmed fishing hat, my rain coat, and an umbrella from where I’d stashed them, and headed out into the parking lot.

  When a silvery-blue Honda pulled up, I was already standing by with the umbrella open. Gen got out in her own ankle-length rain coat and immediately ducked under it.

  “You know, Jack, dinner nights on your boat seemed a lot more romantic in October weather than they do now.”

  “I bet I can change your mind,” I said, as we walked the short distance to my slip. Once we both got inside and had our rain jackets off and the umbrella and hat safely stowed, I took just one moment to look at her.

  Even at the end of a workday, with rain flattening her short blonde hair and the fatigue of the office wearing on her, Geneva Lawton was a beautiful woman. She’d let her hair grow a little, although even dry and loose it wouldn’t have reached her chin. Her cheeks were smooth, the tan she cultivated with weekly running starting to fade since it was late fall, but her skin still had a glow. Her eyes were large and brown and deep and focused on me for reasons I could not really fathom.

  I handed one of the cocktails to her.

  “What’s this,” she said, smelling it, still eyeing me over the rim.

  “A Ghost Story,” I said. “Blood orange, bourbon, smoked tea liqueur.” She took a sip. She smiled. My heart did a little flip.

  She turned around to look at the candles I’d laid out, the cheeseboard on the dinner table—which, for once, had been cleared of books—and the ramekins flanking it, with olives, a spicy mustard, and a garlic mayo—and sighed.

  “You do make this look better than I’d think it could,” Gen admitted.

  “Not nearly as good as it looks when you’re here,” I said. I set my drink down and slid an arm around her back. She slid up against me and we kissed. It was a good kiss, as end-of-work-day kisses went. I would say that it suggested but didn’t necessarily promise anything more. I enjoyed it.

  She slid away from me and sipped her cocktail again and eyed the cheese I’d set out, then slid her brown eyes back to me.

  “BellaVitano raspberry,” I said, pointing to a hard cheese with a dark purple rind. “And just a little bit of D’Affinois Double Creme.” That was a soft cheese, pale yellow and just oozing out of its rind.

  She sampled both, using the cheese knives I’d set out, nodding approvingly, watching me with a smile in her eyes the whole time.

  “You know,” she said, “it’s a little cold to have just cheese and crackers for dinner.”

  “Which is why I’m making Galician Broth,” I said.

  “And that is?”

  “Some ham, some cannellini beans, potatoes, some garlic, cumin, Spanish paprika, homemade broth…”

  “You made broth in here?” Gen gestured to my galley, which wasn’t much bigger than a half-bath in most suburban houses.

  “Every few months Dani lets me use her kitchen to make a few giant stock-pots of the stuff. She keeps it in her deep freeze and I take some now and then.”

  We ate a little more cheese and then I started getting ingredients out of my tiny fridge, and gathering a pot from the rack above the stove. How the designers got four burners on it I don’t know, but they did.

  “Speaking of Dani’s house,” I said casually as I turned a burner on and set the pot on it, followed by a quickly chopped handful of garlic cloves.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, next Saturday…two days after Thanksgiving. We kind of…do a thing.”

  I heard her stand up and slide up behind me. She put her arms on the back of my shoulders and leaned her head against the back of my neck.

  “You’re so bashful when you try to ask me to things. It’s cute.”

  I felt my cheeks go absolutely nuclear. I did not quite know how to handle compliments from Gen, though she wasn’t shy about offering them.

  “Well,” I said, slowing but not stopping the rhythm of my knife through a potato, “it would be great if you could come. It’s a little bit of a second Thanksgiving.”

  “Who’ll be there?”

  “Me, Dani, Emily, usually people from their church and neighborhood. Maybe one of Dani’s veteran friends if they’re in town.”

  “That where you met Dani? The Navy?”

  Gen and Dani had met in passing, at the gym, but they hadn’t had a long face to face. I wasn’t quite sure how to bring the two of them together. It had bested better men than me.

  “Nope.” I set my knife down and turned around, carefully, so that I had my arms around her again and was facing her. “I’ve known Dani since we were sophomores in high school.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “Church function. Then I took her to homecoming,” I said.

  She chuckled softly and patted me on the cheek. “That must’ve been an interesting date.”

  “Eye opening, sure. She made it clear she didn’t want to go on another, but we liked a lot of the same things…books, sports, MMA…” I shrugged. “Helped me realize that there wasn’t really a whole lot in gender and friendship, you know? A person is a person, you get along or you don’t.”

  She nodded. Neither of us moved. I reached one arm behind me for my cocktail and sipped it. “You know, the garlic’s gonna burn, you don’t let go of me.”

  “Or you could turn the heat off and we could eat later.”

  It took a stern grip to hold on to my drink. As a gentleman, I did not want to appear too eager, so I set it down carefully. “I do think these ingredients will keep,” I said speculatively. I set my drink down and lifted an eyebrow at her. I tried to summon one of the carefully managed smiles I put on while working.

  I could never, ever control the kind of smile I showed her. I was sure I looked like an idiot, or a sled dog, or both.

  She knocked back the rest of her own drink and stepped away, took me by the wrist.

  I turned the heat off on the stove before we slipped through the hatch into my bunk.

  * * *

  Dinner wasn’t served until nine, which was later than I liked to eat, but I was willing to make allowances for present company. It was good, and served the job of keeping everyone warm. Two bodies moving around inside my buttoned-up galley had warmed the small space up considerably and I was puttering around in just shorts and a t-shirt. Gen had put on an old
orange sweatshirt of mine that had “ILLINOIS” across it in faded blue.

  We ate quietly, sitting across from one another with our knees touching under my tiny table. For a long time, the only sound besides spoons and bowls—or the occasional tearing of a piece of bread, from her side of the table—was the quiet mix of music I’d turned on.

  “So, next Saturday,” she said, returning the last conversation we’d been having.

  “Right. So…would you want to come?”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “It’s Second Thanksgiving. But the best one I know how to cook, with the able assistance of any volunteers.”

  “And Dani invited me?”

  “She and Emily were emphatic that I should bring you if you wanted to come.”

  “Well, I think I do.”

  “Good.” I was lost for a moment. “Uh, do you want to come with me, or meet me there, or…”

  She hadn’t taken her eyes off me. She laughed a little. I think she enjoyed how flustered I got. I tugged at my shirt for lack of anything else to do.

  “Why wouldn’t I just come with you?”

  “Well, I have to get there pretty early and I spend all morning and afternoon cooking.”

  “Well,” she said, “I would like to help.” She set her arms on the table and leaned slightly forward, over her empty bowl.

  “Why that and not Thanksgiving Day, with your family? I know it’s only been a couple of months,” she was quick to add. “It just seems really important to you, but it’s not, you know…the actual holiday.”

  “Ehh,” I said, lifting a hand and giving it one of those back-and-forth shaking kind of gestures. “For me, and Dani, Second Thanksgiving is more of a holiday.”

  If I was ever going to let my parents—my dad—meet Gen, it was going to be under circumstances I could control a lot more easily than Thanksgiving Day.

  “I get it,” Gen said. “I can handle friends-giving. I would love to come,” she said, sitting up straighter, jokingly formal. “Please tell Danielle I would be delighted to accept her invitation.”