Snuff Racket: A Paignton Noir Mystery by Leins Tom

Author:Leins, Tom
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dirty Books
Published: 2018-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

Lay down with cops, and you wake up with a whole other set of lice.

That’s what my uncle, Ian, used to tell me.

He wasn’t really an uncle, obviously.

If he was, what he and mother did would have been in contravention of sections 64 and 65 of the Sexual Offences Act...

He was one of the first after father died, and I remember very little about him – just the fact that he had a big knife, and an even bigger cock.

Chapter 8: Bad Karma Follows You Around.

It is Happy Hour by the time I arrive at the Dirty Lemon, which suits me fine, as I’m determined to drink like a fucking drain.

A Turkish girl with a transparent blouse and orange bikini bottoms is performing the floorshow. I’ve seen her before. I remember her calloused feet. An eerie hush descends on the half-empty room as the barman changes the tape.

I hear footsteps behind me on the bare wooden floor. I swivel around and jam my elbow into soft flesh, hoping it’s a windpipe. I turn around to see Martin, the Auctioneer’s hired-hand, rubbing his throat irritably.

He places a meaty hand on my shoulder.

“Beer garden. Now.”

I nod and try to drain my drink, but he wrenches it out of my hands.

Fuck it. I never like to leave a half-drunk drink on the bar at the Dirty Lemon anyway. The staff here like me – as much as they like anyone – but they would probably let someone spike it just for the sheer fucking hell of it.

Martin nudges me in the back and I stumble through the front door.

It’s not a beer garden – it’s not a garden of any kind – but it is outside. I walk down the wheelchair ramp as casually as possible. The Auctioneer languishes against one of the half-rotted picnic benches, trying to look casual. He’s wearing a lemon yellow roll-neck sweater under a rust-coloured suit. The left hand side of his fat face looks badly bruised.

Despite his weight, he moves easily across the tarmac, his enormous gut straining against his yellow sweater. He hits me. It doesn’t hurt, but I act like it does, to make sure Martin doesn’t have a crack at me instead.

The Auctioneer’s aftershave makes my eyes water. It reminds me of the smell at Paignton Yards when council sanitation workers got caught burning hazardous materials in open pits.

Fucking disgusting, in other words.

He attempts to throw another punch, but it barely makes contact. He is now sweating with the exertion, so Martin takes over. He hits me three times, each punch harder than the last, and the third one knocks me off my feet.

The Auctioneer leans down, red-faced, upper lip coated in thick globules of sweat. A malicious smile splits his broken features

“I may look like a figure of fun, Mr Rey, but I assure you that I’m deadly serious. Fuck me around again, and I’ll feed you your own teeth.”

He rummages in my hip-pocket with his fat fingers, and withdraws the cash-stash.

I look up at him as he counts the money.

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