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…

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

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

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

Mitch. Her words stall as she takes in the

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

strides across, seizing her by an arm, propelling her back towards the door. “Mitch,

resists. “I want

tell you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're

me and James. “Larry, I do believe these two are rubbing

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

then she sashays out of the door, throwing a

his eyes, then closes

him to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or

his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table. “Beer's

up a couple of bags,

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

standing at the table where Finchby can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box,

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

of his 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 one,

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

“That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look a little delicate for

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

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

although I've not

make some for Larry while he's staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James

“Tuna.”

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

held, apparently casually, between his fingers.

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

I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just

shakes his head and takes his seat again. “All

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

pops off

please. I

And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of

sleeve of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so

in hand, looks

your memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves in

picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square

“No!”

want to jolt my hand,

then slowly… very, very slowly… he draws the blade

most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at

cut too fine, to really hurt,

to say?” asks

don't know. I

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

eye, holding it for a second

long 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 raises, his