{"product_id":"dead-of-winter-isbn-9781641293488","title":"Dead of Winter","description":"\u003cb\u003eA shadowy Detroit real estate billionaire. A ruthless fixer. A successful Mexicantown family business in their crosshairs. Gentrification has never been bloodier.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAuthentico Foods Inc. has been a part of Detroit’s Mexicantown for over thirty years, grown from a home kitchen business to a city block–long facility that supplies Mexican tortillas to restaurants throughout the Midwest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Detroit ex-cop and Mexicantown native August Snow has been invited for a business meeting at Authentico Foods. Its owner, Ronaldo Ochoa, is dying, and is being blackmailed into selling the company to an anonymous entity. Worried about his employees, Ochoa wants August to buy it. August has no interest in running a tortilla empire, but he does want to know who’s threatening his neighborhood. Quickly, his investigation takes a devastating turn and he and his loved ones find themselves ensnared in a dangerous net of ruthless billionaire developers. August Snow must fight not only for his life, but for the soul of Mexicantown itself.\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eFinalist for the 2022 Nero Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Review Editors' Choice\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e Top 10 Crime Novel of the Year\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA 2022 Michigan Notable Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDead of Winter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A P.I. story with an eye toward social issues and a firm grasp on the tropes of the genre, making it fresh and familiar at the same time.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eS.A. Cosby\u003ci\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Four years ago, Stephen Mack Jones introduced August Snow, the caustic, mordantly funny hero of his private detective series, at a time when the subgenre appeared to be on the ropes. What a difference an interval marked by civil unrest, an ongoing pandemic and growing income inequality makes: P.I. fiction has never seemed more relevant, and Snow’s third outing, Dead of Winter, stands out among the crowded pack.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Weinman, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Fending off super-baddies from running real-estate fraud in his beloved Mexicantown neighborhood of Detroit, August Snow tussles with enemies old and new in this edgy thriller that includes cannily delivered observations on climate change and systemic racism.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—The Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Bebop and Norteño, cool jazz and salsa, reading \u003ci\u003eDead of Winter\u003c\/i\u003e was like listening to all the good music. This latest by Stephen Mack Jones is an astounding composition, an ode to a diverse city known for big engines and bigger hearts. Welcome back, August Snow!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Rachel Howzell Hall, author of \u003ci\u003eAnd Now She’s Gone  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“August Snow is a terrific character; rough and tumble, undaunted and implacably tenacious, his wit so sharp it’ll make you bleed. In Stephen Mack Jones’s new book, \u003ci\u003eDead of Winter\u003c\/i\u003e, Snow protects his neighborhood from rapacious one percenters, Mack Jones skillfully weaving relevance into a blue streak, bone-breaking story. Highly, highly recommended.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Joe Ide, author of the IQ Series\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are echoes of Spenser in August Snow. [Robert B.] Parker's Spenser, who was also portrayed on television in the Spenser: For Hire series, is an excellent cook and likes to drink. Spenser and Snow both balance their own moral codes with the violence they enact in order to live up to them.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eMichigan Radio's \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMorning Edition\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Dead of Winter\u003c\/i\u003e moves at lightning speed with crisp, smart dialogue, believable characters and an affection for Detroit and its residents . . . Jones gives readers a character worth rooting for.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Oline Cogdil, \u003ci\u003eThe South Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eJones’ characters and settings are always colorful and vibrant.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—The Seattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eThe intricate descriptions of savory food and “fashionating” clothes will keep you entertained.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Florida Times-Union\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eA superb tale that bobs, weaves, and hits hard . . . There's action aplenty, but also rich characterization, wonderful writing, and a strong sense of place . . . A superb crime novel from an author with a distinctive voice and something to say.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dark humor abounds and there is a high level of community support; the tension mounts as the exciting tale draws to an unexpected conclusion . . . \u003ci\u003eDead of Winter\u003c\/i\u003e is almost impossible to put down.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Lansing State Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like Walter Mosley and Joe Ide, Jones builds a raucous and endearing cast of characters from his inner-city setting, fusing neighborhood camaraderie with streetwise know-how and head-banging action. This is a fine thriller in the grand hard-boiled tradition, but it's also a sensitive, multifaceted portrait of race in America.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gritty . . . Snow remains a distinctive lead capable of sustaining a long series.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where Spenser had Hawk at his side, August has a whole community, including one of the men he basically took off the streets and who now helps him to flip houses. While there’s almost a fantasy element in these books, it’s no different that the one Lee Child presents in his Jack Reacher novels.  We all need a little superman in our lives, and why can’t it be a Mexican, African American, kindhearted soul from Detroit who loves to cook? I’m all in.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Aunt Agatha's\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A true revelation . . . A crime novel that takes on big social issues with style and insight.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e—CrimeReads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Too much fun to miss.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Kingdom Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Dead of Winter\u003c\/i\u003e is not just explosions and fisticuffs . . . [O]ne should come to this story for the action and stay for the scenery and the characters.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Bookreporter.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003e[\u003ci\u003eDead of Winter\u003c\/i\u003e] will appeal to readers who like Detroit, Jack Reacher-style violence, and enticing references to local cuisine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—New York Journal of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the mood for some gritty, hard-punching crime? Meet Detroit ex-cop and Mexicantown native August Snow, Hammett Prize winner Stephen Mack Jones’ hard-hitting hero.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Traverse City Record-Eagle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eAugust Snow is an amazing character to explore our divided city and country.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BridgeDetroit\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eMr. Jones as a major league mystery writer. He belongs on the shelf alongside Detroit's other peerless mystery writers Loren Estleman and Elmore Leonard.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Michigan In Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for the August Snow Novels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e AUGUST SNOW: \u003cbr\u003eWINNER OF THE NERO AWARD \u003cbr\u003eWINNER OF THE HAMMETT PRIZE \u003cbr\u003eFINALIST FOR THE SHAMUS AWARD \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLIVES LAID AWAY: \u003cbr\u003eA NATIONAL BESTSELLER \u003cbr\u003eSHORTLISTED FOR THE CRIME WRITERS’ ASSOCIATION STEEL DAGGER \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Has echoes of Raymond Chandler’s banter and bursts of Dashiell Hammett’s violence, with a tip of the porkpie hat to Walter Mosley.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Jones, a Detroit-area poet and playwright brings the city, its environs, and its eateries to vital life in a mystery coiled around the contemporary crime du jour of cyber-finance meddling.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] gung-ho protagonist . . . cleaning up his beat-up neighborhood in Mexicantown.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eStephen Mack Jones\u003c\/b\u003e is a published poet, an award-winning playwright, and a recipient of the prestigious Hammett Prize, Nero Award, and the Kresge Arts in Detroit Literary Fellowship. He was born in Lansing, Michigan, and currently lives in the suburbs of Detroit. \u003ci\u003eDead of Winter \u003c\/i\u003eis his third novel.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My house is quietly becoming Frankenstein’s monster.\u003cbr\u003e      Carlos Rodriguez and Jimmy Radmon, my good friends and partners in the business of flipping houses in the southwest Detroit neighborhood of Mexicantown, have for the past several years used my house as a laboratory guinea pig for features they’d like to integrate into our renovations. Several months ago, it was “smart house” features: light switches, door locks and thermostats I could operate through an app on my smartphone.\u003cbr\u003e      “It’s seamless technology, boss man,” Jimmy told me. “You don’t even need no key or nothin’!”\u003cbr\u003e      “What if I drop my phone in a gas station toilet?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e      “Then you’re kind of screwed, boss,” Carlos said. “You don’t want to reach inside a gas station toilet. Toilet snakes are poisonous, man.”\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eToilet \u003c\/i\u003esnakes?” Jimmy said.\u003cbr\u003e      “He’s yankin’ your chain, Jimmy,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e      “Don’t be \u003ci\u003edoin’\u003c\/i\u003e that, man!” Jimmy said, punching Carlos in the shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e      Without my having given them my permission to install it, or even a key to the house, a vented gas fireplace log (with remote) appeared in my living room. I hadn’t used the fireplace since I’d moved back to the house, my late parents’, after my $12 million wrongful dismissal dustup with the Detroit Police Department. Every Michigan winter since then the hearth had seemed like a sad waste of a hole in the wall.\u003cbr\u003e      In the winters of my childhood, my parents would sometimes sit in front of the fireplace staring at a wood log burning, my mother swaddled in a wool throw blanket, my father’s strong arm around her shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e      “What are we doing?” I’d ask after a while, not understanding how something with no plot or exposition could be so interesting.\u003cbr\u003e      “Thinking,” my father once answered.\u003cbr\u003e      “Or \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e thinking,” added my mother.\u003cbr\u003e      It’s quite possible I hadn’t used the fireplace for exactly this reason: remembrance of those long-ago times with my beloved parents might prove a bit difficult on top of whatever moderate Afghanistan-induced PTSD I brought with me here back in the world.\u003cbr\u003e      I was even less keen on the new-tech voice-assistant pods: The wonderful women in my life hardly ever listen to me anyway. Why add the disembodied female voice of a robot to the mix?\u003cbr\u003e      “I’ve got an idea,” I said, when I came home to find the pods installed. “How’s about this, guys? Maybe you could install door locks on my house that even \u003ci\u003eyou guys\u003c\/i\u003e can’t pick?”\u003cbr\u003e      Carlos and Jimmy exchanged a look, then burst out laughing.\u003cbr\u003e      “Ain’t no such luck with no such lock, Mr. Snow,” Jimmy said.\u003cbr\u003e      Begrudgingly, I let the boys work on the house. Mainly because when I saw them these days, I felt guilty: what had looked like promising employment for a kid with no future (Jimmy) and a Mexican immigrant not authorized to work in the US (Carlos) had come down to one last house to renovate and flip on Markham Street. Certainly, there were other properties in Mexicantown, but with Detroit’s recent renaissance, more suburbanites and real estate companies were buying up properties with a solid promise of a 300 percent return on investment. Instead of a one-and-a-half-square-mile lower-to middle-income working-class brown-and-Black “ghetto,” Mexicantown was quickly becoming the hipster, urban-chic place to be. I couldn’t find properties fast enough, and when I did, I was outgunned on fair market price.\u003cbr\u003e      My real estate agent (who is, I suspect, part-time Oracle of Delphi) had warned me this day was coming five years ago.\u003cbr\u003e       “What was lost, abandoned and forgotten all them years will be found again, young Snow,” Miss Jesse had told me over hibiscus tea and gingersnaps at her 6,000-square-foot Neo-Renaissance Louis Kamper-designed Indian Village home. “Everybody done forgot about the ’08 mortgage meltdown. The pirates are soon to find your little island nation of Mexicantown, and they will spread they money like cancer.”\u003cbr\u003e      Had I known I’d be responsible for the livelihoods of two good men, I would have listened a bit harder to Miss Jesse.\u003cbr\u003e      “You guys haven’t touched anything in the kitchen, have you?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e      They were tinkering with the personal-assistant pod on my fireplace mantel.\u003cbr\u003e      “No, on account we know you like it just like it is,” Jimmy said.\u003cbr\u003e      “And somehow that didn’t translate to the rest of my house?”\u003cbr\u003e      Carlos and his family, who had been chased out of the US by white nationalists wearing federal badges, were now hardworking, taxpaying, poutine-and-hockey-loving Canadian residents living only fifteen minutes south of Mexicantown (via the US\/Canada bridge across the narrow churn of the Detroit River) in Windsor, Ontario. He’d started a heating-and-cooling business that was struggling but promised growth if he could just hold on for another year. A bridge pass made for easy commuting to this side of the Detroit River for Carlos to work on my flip jobs and collect cash infusions.\u003cbr\u003e      I’d convinced Jimmy to take a few college classes between his reno work, karate lessons at Club Brutus and video game nights. He’d been sure he would fail. His first term at Wayne State University he’d brought home a 4.1 GPA for a course load including Introduction to Electrical Engineering and Mechanical Engineering 101. Still, we were down to the last house on Markham, and I had no dependable employment to offer him. He was worried because he had become a homeowner. And as every middle- to upper-middle-class working stiff knows, money is how you keep a home running. I’d told Jimmy he didn’t need to worry. I’d be there for him.\u003cbr\u003e      “Boss,” he’d said, “I don’t mean no disrespect, but a grown man don’t want no charity. He wants his shot. He wants what he earns.”\u003cbr\u003e      Hard to argue with that.\u003cbr\u003e      “Okay, Mr. Snow,” Carlos said. “Check it out.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Check what out?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Ginger! Your personalized home assistant,” Jimmy said. “Go ahead! Ask her something.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Ginger,” I said reluctantly, “can you make a Guadalajara-style mole sauce?”\u003cbr\u003e      The pod on the mantel of my now-functional fireplace lit up. After a second, the pod said, “I’m afraid I can’t make a Guadalajara-style mole sauce. I did, however, find a number of recipes for mole sauce. Would you like to hear the top five? Or shall I print them for you?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Hey, Ginger,” I said, “who do you like more, Smokey Robinson or Marvin Gaye?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Both were award-winning musical artists signed with music impresario Berry Gordy’s Motown record label in—”\u003cbr\u003e      “Ginger,” Carlos interrupted, “what’s today’s temperature—in \u003ci\u003eCelsius\u003c\/i\u003e?” Carlos smiled and gave me a sideways glance. “That’s what we use in Canada.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Socialist,” I said with mock disgust.\u003cbr\u003e      “Today will have a high of seven degrees Celsius,” the pod said.\u003cbr\u003e      “She plays chess and \u003ci\u003eJeopardy!\u003c\/i\u003e, too, Mr. Snow!” Jimmy said.\u003cbr\u003e      “Be still, my beating heart,” I said feeling fairly creeped out by the prospect of having more data points collected on me. “Guys, I’ll be honest with you—I’m not too keen on having some machine connected to an eighty-acre corporate server farm listening to my every whisper, fart and flying fornication.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I told you,” Carlos said to Jimmy.\u003cbr\u003e      “You can turn it off anytime!” Jimmy said.\u003cbr\u003e      “Then what’s the sense in having it in the first place?” I said.\u003cbr\u003e      “But you can order food for delivery, boss,” Jimmy said with a tinge of desperation. “You don’t have to go out or nothing!”\u003cbr\u003e      “When I get that hungry or lazy, shoot me. Ginger ain’t my kinda gal, guys.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Doggone it,” Jimmy said as he fished a five-dollar bill from a pocket and handed it to Carlos.\u003cbr\u003e      “Yep,” Carlos said, accepting the money. “Told you.”\u003cbr\u003e      “You mind if I go to Windsor for a couple days to help Carlos out, Mr. Snow?” Jimmy said as the two men collected their tools. “Drywall for this last house ain’t coming in until Friday, and Carlos got a restaurant heating job.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Help Carlos out,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e      The two men unplugged and boxed up the three personal assistant units they had installed in the house. Then Jimmy scrubbed any memory of Ginger from my router before both men left, one of them five dollars richer.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was in the middle of steam cleaning my face by hovering over a pan of chicken, shrimp and oyster paella (no mussels—too much work for too little return) when my phone rang. \u003cbr\u003e      “Octavio!” Elena said. “Do you have a moment?”\u003cbr\u003e      “For you,” I said to my beloved godmother, “always.” I sprinkled a bit more cayenne pepper into the aromatic mix.\u003cbr\u003e      “You think perhaps you could come with me tomorrow morning to Authentico Foods to meet with Mr. Ochoa?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Old man Ochoa?” I said. “What’s going on?”\u003cbr\u003e      “He has some sort of business proposition for you,” Elena said. “Plus, Jackie will be there. You remember Jackie.”\u003cbr\u003e     I did; she was my unrequited middle- and high-school crush and a teen-in-heat top of the list at Saturday confession.\u003cbr\u003e      “I’m sure you’d like to see her.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’d love to see Jackie,” I said, slowly stirring my concoction. “But to be honest with you, Elena, I’m not much on expanding the Snow business empire, or investing in someone else’s.”\u003cbr\u003e      “He’s dying, August,” Elena said with sincere gravitas. “Por favor.”\u003cbr\u003e      “I’ll drive,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e      “No, querido,” Elena said. “\u003ci\u003eI’ll\u003c\/i\u003e drive.”","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304476791013,"sku":"NP9781641293488","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641293488.jpg?v=1767724833","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/dead-of-winter-isbn-9781641293488","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}