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…

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

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a

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

in the face. The vein at her

across, seizing her by an arm, propelling her back towards

resists. “I

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

dimples. Her eyes cast between me and James. “Larry, I do believe these two are

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

quick pat on the cheek, then she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back over her shoulder. “Have fun,

follows her with his eyes, then closes the door

wave him to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or there's wine if

sits, slinging his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table.

up a couple of

“Whatever you’re opening.”

both bags, tipping the contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A

he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes.

the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing around the bottles and 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 from its

to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer.

“That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can

serrated blade. “That's because these

with the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as I

although I've not had any for a

“You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening... A couple of

“Tuna.”

inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so fine. Four

knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner, what exactly did

In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will

don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of

takes his seat again. “All

places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one of

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

“Larry, please. I don't know

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

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

pauses, knife in hand,

your memory coming

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

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

“No!”

move. You wouldn't want to jolt my hand, would

very slowly… he draws

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

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

to say?”

don't know.

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws

of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As he moves,