Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Chapter 17

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…

what he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

Intended to use her. And you planned to sell

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

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

arm, propelling her back

resists. “I want

not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you

and James. “Larry, I do believe these

scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You

sashays out of the door, throwing a

eyes, then

the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry?

crossed, up on

of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine you'll be

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

James’

box: 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

next to Klempner, knocking

set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look

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

hand, waving it in the air as I speak. “You like sushi,

do yes, although I've not had any for

voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese

“Tuna.”

have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you

knife held, apparently casually, between his

low voice, “Your building is

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

head and takes his seat again. “All

chooses another. Not one

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

“Larry, please. I don't

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

A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart,

in hand, looks

your memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves in a

the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets

“No!”

wouldn't want

he draws the blade downward, scoring the

and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through

is too sharp, the cut too

to say?”

I don't know. I don't

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

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

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

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