Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Read Online Free PDF

always end up losing any amount of money that mysteriously materializes in their pockets.
    There are no terraces for the punters at the dog track, this problem is remedied by numerous screens fixed to the ceiling above the tables in the gambling area.
    I drink my whisky by myself, musing over my next bet, when Eton’s familiar pig-face appears before me. Half-ogre, with a furtive air, thin for his wretched sort. His smile reveals a mouth full of crooked, sharp beige teeth. Disgusting.
    “Hey, boss! You bettùng, boss?”
    “Well, well. Someone who owes me a favour.”
    A couple of weeks ago I caught Eton dealing Onirò in a lurid street packed with junkies on Seventh. After I confiscated the drugs (they never made it to the evidence room) I let the poor shit go, he scarpered promising to return the favour.
    “Hot tùp. Number four, four boss.” He shows me his hand. “You and me, ùs even, eh?” he asks hopefully, four filthy fingers still sticking up.
    “Almost. Fix me up with a couple of lines and we’ll be just
fùne
.”
    Nodding, he melts into the crowd and returns a few minutes later and discreetly passes me a wrap of Onirò under the table. Fatso doesn’t like other people dealing in his places, but Eton likes living on the edge. Or: I’ve always thought that Eton was beaten too much as a child or not beaten enough, therefore he’s not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer. Just to give more of an idea, he always tries to wink at me when he says hello, but he closes both eyes and confuses himself and ends up scratching his arm like a lost child. I shake my head. Who knows which drug ultimately liquefied his brain.
    I put the last bit of cash I have in my pocket on the tip he gave me, and go back to the table to wait for the race to start. Drinks are on the house for all the different kinds of cops, but when it comes to the bets, the rules are the same for everybody. Very democratic.
    There’s just five minutes to go before the start of the race when a hand as big as a boulder slams down on my shoulder in a less than polite fashion and makes me choke on my last mouthful of whisky. I’m still spluttering when I recognise the pungent tang of ogre sweat emanating relentlessly from the creature alongside me. Ugube’s efforts to give his gorillas a respectable air always have comical results. This orange-skinned beast in his double-breasted jacket resembles a pile of sausages wrapped in newspaper, while the handkerchief peeking out of his top pocket vaguely echoes a picnic blanket.
    “Khan wants talk you,” he informs me, carefully avoiding “i” and syntax.
    The office he roughly takes me to is quite elegant for the operative centre of someone from pig mafia. Ever since I met him, I’ve been convinced that Ugube suffers from an acute inferiority complex compared to human beings, which says it all. To start with he’s the only ogre who uses “i” correctly when speaking. Secondly, he’s obsessed with fashion. Thirdly, he constantly forces himself to be
polite
. He’s aggressive, intimidating, sometimes deliberately offensive, but always remains within the boundaries of politeness. Listening to two tons of sweaty mafia blubber threaten you
courteously
is ridiculous as well as bizarre. But the victims don’t usually enjoy the luxury of laughter, and if they do, not for very long.
    “Lieutenant Arkham. What a pleasure. Please take a seat.”
    Inside the office there aren’t any other chairs apart from his extra-large armchair. Fat old arsehole.
    “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, massaging my bruised deltoid courtesy of the thug.
    The gorilla plants himself behind me with his hands behind his back. Slowly, Ugube peels his gaze off one of the security monitors and appraises me, this is accompanied by a slimy smirk while he gears up for one of his stupid fucking monologues.
    “I thought we’d cleared up the betting issue. No more bets until you pay off your debt, I thought that’s what I told