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…

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

and shaking.

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

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

staring him in the face. The

her by an arm, propelling her back

“I want to

tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not

and James. “Larry,

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

quick pat on the cheek, then she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back

with his eyes, then closes the door

to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler.

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

a couple of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray.

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

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

One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied, takes a steel from its

bottle, I set it on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking

set of knives, James. Well cared for,

“That's because these

with the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as I speak. “You like

do yes, although I've not had any

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 slicing up... What was it,

“Tuna.”

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

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

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

his gaze fixed 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

and takes his

the knife on the table then chooses

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

please. I don't

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

then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste

knife in hand,

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square

“No!”

still. Don't move. You wouldn't want to jolt

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

the breastbone and stopping at the

the cut too fine, to really hurt, but

say?”

I don't know. I

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

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

Finchby, following the line of the spine. As he moves, slowly, deliberately, Finchby’s face