Private Heat Read Online Free Page A

way?” I asked.
    â€œI’d have to figure it.”
    â€œRound numbers?”
    â€œSomething less than three thousand.”
    The phone rang. Ron Craig. I took the call in my office.
    â€œWhat’s the haps, pard?” I asked.
    â€œI want to borrow your rowboat,” he said.
    â€œAnytime, you know you’re always welcome.”
    â€œI want to use it somewhere else.”
    â€œI don’t have a trailer, but if you can figure out how to haul it, you’re welcome to use it.”
    â€œFit in the back of a pickup?”
    â€œSticks out a little, but that’s how I brought it home.”
    â€œGreat! Sunday all right?”
    â€œSure. I’m mowing the lawn if it doesn’t rain, but you may have to wrestle the boys for it.”
    â€œI’ll pick it up before they get out of bed.”
    â€œHow busy are you?”
    â€œGettin’ by, man,” he said.
    â€œHow much do you charge to get shot at?”
    â€œDo they hit me or miss me?”
    â€œI’ll bring the vests.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œTonight, for sure, and tomorrow, maybe.”
    â€œWhat’s the job?”
    â€œAll-night surveillance, in town. And in a sane neighborhood to boot.”
    â€œHow do I get shot at in a sane neighborhood?”
    â€œIt’s a domestic.”
    â€œThings that slow?” he said and then laughed.
    â€œThis one pays good,” I said.
    â€œHow good?”
    â€œFive hundred for openers, and you bill me another five hundred when the job’s done.”
    â€œChrist sakes!” he said. “Who’s the hubby?”
    â€œThe hubby is one of Grand Rapids’ finest, and is guaranteed to have a shitty attitude. He’s supposed to get served with a restraining order when he gets off shift.”
    â€œWho’s your client?”
    â€œLike I’d tell you. You in or out?”
    â€œIn, I need the money. Where’s the meet?”
    â€œSomeplace downtown. How about the fish ladder, say four o’clockish?”
    â€œRoger-dee, I can do that job.”
    â€œSleaze ya’ later,” I said and hung up. I looked at my watch—already after one-thirty. I took the pistol out of my pocket, unwrapped it, and snugged it back into the holster. “Marg,” I called out, “I need to make a deposit.”
    â€œI have a client,” she said.
    I went to the closet and picked out three vests, two in the extra-large size for Ron and me, and one of the ladies’ persuasion—Wendy’s from when she was still a full-time street detective—for Van Pelham’s niece.
    The vests are white cotton clamshell devices that hang from the shoulders on wide straps and fasten at the sides with Velcro closures. The Kevlar ballistic pads can be removed from the front and back so that the garments can be laundered. These had been, so I made sure the sides of the ballistic pads labeled “out” faced away from the body. A large pocket sewn to the front of the vest covers the area of the heart, lungs, and spine. I slid a steel ballistic plate into the pocket of each vest and stowed them in a heavy-duty duffel bag I keep in the closet.
    I picked two radios out of their chargers and tested them. Both hit the repeater nicely, providing the gratifying second click when I let off the push-to-talk button. I loaded them into the bag, along with a couple of extra batteries, a spare radio, and a cigarette lighter power-and-charger plug.
    â€œYou going to Beirut?” asked Marg, standing in the doorway.
    I zipped up the bag and dropped it on top of the clutter on my desk. “Nah,” I said. “I’ll be on the street in town for a couple of days, maybe. I’ll call when I can.”
    â€œYou said you needed a deposit ticket.”
    â€œRight,” I said and sat at my desk. “Five thousand dollars.” I pulled out the top right-hand desk drawer.
    â€œYou silver-tongued devil,” she said