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…

lounging against a wall, arms and ankles

breaks. Weeping and shaking. “Oh,

use her. And you planned to sell his

“James, is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she takes

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

an arm, propelling

“I

with your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll

dimples. Her eyes cast between me and James. “Larry,

him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby, will you. I've just got her to

out of the door, throwing a

her with his eyes, then closes the door behind

chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry?

up on the table. “Beer's good

couple of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

the contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything

Finchby can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up

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

a 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

on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back

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

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

my hand, waving it in the air

not

forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi.

“Tuna.”

he started, but you know

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

building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it

knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done it himself to me. But I don’t know where he’d

shakes his head and takes his seat again. “All

the table then chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this one is jagged-edged;

taking his time, he eases the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he

I don't know where he

And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use

way up the inside sleeve of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away,

in hand, looks to

memory coming

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves in a carry-on

up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow in

“No!”

wouldn't want

he draws the blade

breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of

the cut too fine, to really hurt,

to say?” asks

know.

believe you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle at me.

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a

slow gestures, he draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As he moves, slowly, deliberately, Finchby’s face