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…

going to sit back and watch what he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll

and shaking.

his ear. “You kidnapped his pregnant wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to

“James, is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words

moves to Finchby, standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs.

seizing her by an arm, propelling

resists. “I

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

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

to Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby, will you.

on the cheek, then she sashays out of the door,

with his eyes, then closes

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

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

up a couple of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine

can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes. A beer

tray on the table beside James’

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, drawing

then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a handful of

cared for,

holds the blade up to the light, inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi

my hand, waving it

yes, although I've not had any for

to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs.

“Tuna.”

It couldn't have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so fine.

casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner, what

stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will

on the 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

head and takes his seat again. “All yours,

chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this one

button pops off and he moves down to the next. One at a time, he removes the buttons

please. I don't know where

him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two paying for

of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs

knife in hand, looks to

memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves in a

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

“No!”

want to jolt

very, very slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring

from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood

sharp, the cut too fine, to

say?”

I don't know. I don't

don't believe you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

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

gestures, he draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As