HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2), JACKIE ELLIOTT [best ereader for graphic novels .TXT] 📗

the stairs was a rotting weather-beaten door that to his delight wasn’t even locked. Inside he’d found two rooms, empty save for an old orange flowery couch and a plastic table and fold-up chair. Kevin tried out the couch. A cloud of dust billowed up when he sat down, and there were mouse droppings everywhere. But Kevin didn’t care. He couldn’t believe his luck when he flicked the light switch and the single light bulb glowed. There was running water too.

A fuckin’ palace. Close enough to keep an eye on Ricky too. Kevin trusted no one. And besides, he knew Ricky was stupid enough to fuck up a good thing. He wasn’t serious about the business.

When Ricky opened the Smoke Room, Kevin hung out there all the time he wasn’t working. Ricky had a trailer in the park, but Kevin wasn’t welcome there. Ricky did too much entertaining, and the girls complained about Kevin watching.

Stupid bitches jiggling and bouncing up and down on Ricky, pretending he was some big fuckin’ stud. He’d seen Ricky’s limp dick. No way he kept it up.

Kevin rubbed his own crotch absent-mindedly. Nothing. Pills and weed did that to you, eventually. Women were a distraction anyway. He’d tried to warn Ricky. Women would be Ricky’s ultimate downfall, Kevin was certain of that.

The new boss didn’t like Ricky “entertaining”. He’d promised Ricky fuckin’ bricks of cash if he’d run the Coffin Cove patch for him.

And the dude definitely had cash.

Kevin had seen the fancy new car when the boss came to visit. It glided to a halt outside the Smoke Room one evening, the engine hardly making a sound. The boss wore the same clothes as the men at golf clubs who left their laptops and wallets in full view. The boss entered the Smoke Room. Kevin hadn’t been invited to the meeting. Didn’t matter. He hurried to the back of the building, scaled the rusty fire escape to the flat roof and ran across to the Smoke Room. Being as quiet as possible, Kevin opened the wooden hatch and tiptoed down the staircase, as far as he dared. Ricky kept the inside access to the roof hidden behind a door marked “Staff Only”. He liked his privacy, and it was handy for Kevin when he needed to know what Ricky was up to.

This was the third business meeting Kevin had spied on. The first two were with the boss’s lieutenants. They arrived on bikes, noisy throbbing engines and gleaming chrome. The two large men removed their old-school crash helmets, not caring who saw them, and met with Ricky in the store.

Ricky always told Kevin he wasn’t intimidated by bikers. His old man, Dennis, had “connections”, he used to boast. If ever he needed protection or a little “work” done, he’d said, tapping the side of his nose, he knew who to call.

On this day, Ricky was pissed. He’d been told how to operate, what to sell and how to sell it. They’d left him with an assortment of “shit”, he said. They wanted to test him out before the boss trusted him with the new product.

Kevin shrugged. Seemed fair enough. Ricky was arrogant, being the son of the mayor and all, but that also made him a potential risk. Plus, Dennis Havers dropped in at unscheduled intervals to check the inventory and cash, and just to see if Ricky had bothered to turn on the “OPEN” sign.

Dennis was bankrolling the Smoke Room. He’d paid for the licence, filled in all the forms and purchased the order of government-sanctioned supplies.

Ricky was overjoyed. He loved weed — considered himself an expert in the various strains — but had no intention of selling weed from his new shiny store. He and Kevin discussed this many times. Since legalization, there was no money in weed. Everyone was growing their own now. Sure, there were some consumers who paid a little more for their favourite flavours and the oils and edibles were a hit with the girls. Their business model, Ricky decided, would focus on opioids.

Kevin had agreed. Opioids were easy. Easy to get and easy to sell. He liked them too. The intense feeling of warmth and euphoria as he sunk into oblivion — much better than a joint.

Ricky had banged on about “bread-and-butter revenue” and “wide customer demographics” for opioids, but Kevin tuned him out. He found Ricky annoying when he got like this. He loved the sound of his own voice, got all high and mighty, as if he were going to build some fuckin’ empire by selling asshole junkies a handful of fuckin’ painkillers.

Kevin sighed. Ricky could never keep his mouth shut. That had got him killed.

Kevin had sold Ricky’s first consignment of shit for the new boss. The goons on the bikes seemed pleased and promised Ricky a meeting with the boss.

Ricky had been excited but evasive. Kevin sensed he was being dumped. He could tell Ricky didn’t want Kevin involved in this extra money-making venture. Kevin smirked to himself. Ricky needed him. Ricky wasn’t a salesman. For all his big words and fancy business talk, all he’d done was rely on Daddy for handouts. Kevin said nothing and watched and waited, pretending not to notice as Ricky called on him less and less.

The new boss was older than Kevin had imagined. Kevin strained to hear the conversation, as the boss was quietly spoken. He could hear Ricky’s arrogant tone as he showed the boss around the premises. As they got nearer the door to the staircase, Kevin shrank back, ready to scoot back to the roof if he saw the door handle turn. It didn’t, and the two men in the store carried on their conversation, near enough for Kevin to hear every word.

Kevin was puzzled. The boss seemed more interested in Dennis Havers than anything else. He asked pointed questions about Dennis’s involvement