Klempner

Although I can hear chaos from down the stairs, up here now, it’s quiet. There’s no-one in the dance room.

In the pool room, the only sound is the crunching of glass under my boots. I carry on to Finchby’s office.

All empty?

It seems so.

The time?

Time to go.

Except… as I’m about to turn and leave a girl, I see her; barely a teenager, some variety of Asian, Indian perhaps. Streaming tears, she skitters out from behind the desk, making for the kitchen.

I follow her and she cringes back into the corner. I offer my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have to leave.”

She babbles at me in I’ve-no-idea-what language, then abruptly, her face swings up to mine and fingers outstretched, leaps up at me, clawing at my face. Reflexively, I jerk back, and she bolts past me and out, back the way I came.

Fuck!

I dash after her, but in the few seconds, she’s gone, vanished.

Where did she go?

Out?

Or somewhere deeper inside?

I check my watch… Three minutes…

Christ!

I have to find her… If she’s on the stairwell, perhaps I’ll hear her. I turn for the bar, heading for the stairs up and down, and there…

Fuck.

Baxter.

I reach for my Glock… And it’s not there.

Damn… When did I put it down?

Baxter flashes brows. And the knife in his hand. “Going somewhere?”

“I was planning on leaving.” I slip the knife from my belt. “Your friend Finchby has already left the building. I believe the money may be with him.”

“I’m not going to weep over Finchby. And I didn't do it for the cash. Well… mainly not for the cash. And I have my half anyway.”

We circle, eyeball to eyeball.

Make the first move?

Wait for him?

I move slowly, watching for the twitch of the hand. The nudge of the shoulder. The tell that he's going to stop talking and...

He slashes out… moves fast…

But it’s a feint and we both know it, calculated to draw a reaction from me.

Testing me…

My speed…

My reactions…

Younger than me...

How much by?

Ten years?

His knife...

maybe eight inches.

Well used…

Left-handed…

that gives

against right-handers.

out. Hard. Fast. Teeth bared.

back and he follows through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple. His blade to my throat. My hand

I

Sweat. Sour.

sour scent of

Not excitement.

Fear.

away, dancing back from me and suddenly I'm

for his neck but

forward, reaching for his blade, slashing

and he

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

I’m not. Just well-practised. As he swerves away from my right hand, my left hand is

rib cage and

Got you, you bastard…

her. The

blind to me and Baxter, she charges between us and I twist

staggering back, my foot skids

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

my arms wind-milling for

I go down...

Baxter’s on top of

gasp as his

rasp of

metallic

Whose?

Mine…

me, grinning maniacally, he hovers, enjoying his moment, the knife poised

reaches

My Glock?

my

not use

the

on my elbows I swing round wildly, one way or the

There are none.

staring straight up the barrel of my

Is this it?

all this time… this is

I could have died over the years, I’m taken out by

I didn’t

Live by the sword…

how the mind works at these moments. The brain does

don’t think I’m

the gun looms close and huge. The rest of the world vanishes around me. My

My throat tightens…

aren't you just the real man.” The voice is sultry, smooth, and drips honey and contempt in equal measure… “A hero with a gun and a knife against an unarmed man. And

know that

eyes swing to its owner.

six feet in the spiked heels. The matching skirt just

and frames a face made up with emerald eyes painted Goth-dark and

“Mitch?”

it. I

So does Baxter.

might be a brothel. It might have been full of women offering

her dressed like this, not even in

lifted, one leg a little curved to strike a pose.

an open silver loop. She hooks a finger into the loop and tooth by tooth, slides

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