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…

jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a

and

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

creaks open. “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

seizing her by an arm, propelling

resists. “I want

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

James. “Larry, I

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

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

his eyes, then

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

his feet, ankles crossed, up on the

up a couple of

“Whatever you’re opening.”

contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James?

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

James’ ‘work

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

I set it on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a handful of nuts before passing the bowl to

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

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

speech with the bottle in my hand, waving

not had any for

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... A couple of weeks back, he was

“Tuna.”

when he started, but you know he sliced

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

is

the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me.

shakes his head and takes his seat

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

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

sobs. “Larry, please. I don't know where

can find him, well… what use are

the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls

in

your memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he

“No!”

You wouldn't want

very, very slowly… he draws

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

cut too fine, to really hurt,

say?” asks

I don't know. I don't

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next tool from the

the line of the spine. As he moves, slowly, deliberately,