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…

does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms

breaks. Weeping and shaking. “Oh,

you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby,

It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she takes in

close; staring him in the face. The vein

an arm, propelling her back towards the door. “Mitch,

“I

Gripping her at both shoulders, “I can't tell you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry

James. “Larry, I do believe these two are rubbing off on

Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't

then she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back

follows her with his eyes, then

the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or there's wine if

sits, slinging his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table. “Beer's

couple of bags, “Cashews or potato

“Whatever you’re opening.”

the contents into a couple of bowls, then stack

up from where he is opening up his box,

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

set of knives: 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

by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a

of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look a little delicate for heavy

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

speech with the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as I speak. “You like sushi,

do yes, although I've not had any

some for Larry 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 best sushi. That knife he's sharpening...

“Tuna.”

tuna. It couldn't have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you know he

the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner, what exactly did you want to

is a

know, Larry.” He’s babbling, his gaze fixed on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped

his head and takes his

the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this one

shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to

I don't know

don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t

the shirt

pauses, knife in hand,

your memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves in

knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he

“No!”

move. You wouldn't want to jolt

very, very slowly… he draws the blade

stopping at the navel. A thin trickle

sharp, the cut too fine, to really hurt, but Finchby

to say?” asks

know.

Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle at

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

panicking, shuddering man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his

following the line of the spine. As