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…

he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit, I'm quite

Weeping and shaking. “Oh,

use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my

Mitch. Her

The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to do to

arm, propelling her back towards the door.

resists. “I

shoulders, “I can't tell you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what you're not

James. “Larry, I do believe these two are

a finger.

she sashays out of the door, throwing a comment back over her shoulder. “Have fun,

his eyes, then

the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or there's wine

ankles crossed, up on the

up a couple of bags, “Cashews or potato

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

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

on the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing

the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses

seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer.

of knives, James. Well cared

inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi

bottle in my hand, waving

do yes, although I've not had any for a

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 here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening... A couple of weeks back, he was slicing up... What was

“Tuna.”

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

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

in hand, stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it now. So,

hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s

head and takes his seat again.

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

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

please. I don't know

find him, well… what use are you to us?

across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He

in hand, looks

memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves in a

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

“No!”

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

slowly… he draws the blade downward,

of cuts. The most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through

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

to say?”

don't know. I don't

believe you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

holding it for a second then, putting

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