Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Michael

The Ahhh marches across Klempner's face.

Footsteps sound outside, drawing closer and James re-enters.

In a few minutes, he’s changed. From the winter woollens, heavy jeans and boots he was wearing before, he changed into a fresh shirt, suit and polished shoes. His face is clean, barring the swollen eye, and he’s combed his hair. And under one arm, he’s carrying a wooden box. For a second, I can’t think what it is. Then I realise…

To me, this is just my old friend James.

But what will Finchby see?

He flashes a glance at the still unconscious man. “How long before he wakes up?”

Klempner rocks a hand. “I didn’t give him much. Anytime now. Within the next few minutes certainly.”

“Good. Michael…” He snaps fingers towards the cooler. “Ice bucket.” Then he aims a finger towards the table behind our dangling houseguest.

And now I know what he has in mind.

I grin. “My pleasure.”

Klempner, obviously bemused, watches in silence as I scoop ice into the bucket and add water. I place it on the table and James drops in his toys into the chinking mix.

A groan…

Finchby stirs. “What…?”

I eye-point Klempner to a chair. He’s sucking in a smile as he takes his place in the ‘viewing gallery’.

“What’s going on?” Finchby’s eyes blink open, hazy and unfocussed, then his face sharpens as realisation penetrates. His eyes fling wide, showing the whites. “Christ…” Struggling against the restraints, he writhes and twists. But he’s going nowhere.

His eyes settle on Klempner. “Hey… Larry…” He tries for a cheesy grin but fails.

Is he going to piss himself?

Klempner smiles pleasantly. “Afternoon, Finchby. Good to see you’re back with us. Comfortable?”

The man is pasty, his breath short and quick. “Hey, Larry, what are you playing at? It wasn't personal. It was business. You know how it is.”

Klempner lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. Standing, he stalks a few paces to stand by Finchby, speaking to the side of his face.

“Yes, I do know how it is. And for coming after me, I'd have simply slit your throat and called it evens…”

Finchby’s breathing shudders…

“… But it stopped being business the moment you took my daughter and chained her up in your dungeon of a cell. You imprisoned her in conditions calculated to make her sick and to risk her child. You made it your business to demean and humiliate her…”

He draws breath. Any trace of compassion slides from his expression. For the first time, the fury shows. His voice morphs to a hiss.

“… And you planned to sell my granddaughter for parts? This stopped being business some while ago, Finchby. This is very definitely personal.”

Finchby hangs, lungs jerking and juddering. He blinks rapidly, moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

He tries to speak, his throat working, then tries again. “What are you going to do, Larry?”

Abruptly, Klempner’s pleasant expression pastes back into place. “Nothing. Nothing at all…”

Finchby pants, quick shallow breaths, eyes darting here and there…

his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit, I'm quite intrigued to see what he has

Weeping and shaking. “Oh,

planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my guess he

everything…” It’s Mitch. Her

standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going

seizing her by an arm, propelling her

“I want to

but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not

me and James.

scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby,

out of the door, throwing

with his eyes, then

of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly,

ankles crossed, up on

couple of bags, “Cashews

“Whatever you’re opening.”

contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto

where he is opening up his

set the tray on the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing

stainless steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied, takes a steel from its slot,

knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss

sips his drink. “That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look

blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I brought them down from the kitchen for

in my hand, waving

yes, although I've not had any for a

while he's staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the

“Tuna.”

inch thick when he started, but you

apparently casually, between his

beer in hand, stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is

he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done it himself

takes his seat again. “All

impassive, places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one

Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to the next. One at a

“Larry, please. I don't

we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I

A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing

in

your memory coming

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves in a carry-on

Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow

“No!”

still. Don't move. You wouldn't want to

then slowly… very, very slowly… he

of cuts. The most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of

sharp, the cut too fine, to

say?”

know. I don't

waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

panicking, shuddering man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it

down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the