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.

breaks. Weeping and shaking. “Oh,

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

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

the face. The vein

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

“I want

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

Her eyes cast between me and James.

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

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

follows her with his eyes, then closes the door behind

cooler. Speaking

ankles crossed, up on the

of

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

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

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

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

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

blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I

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

yes, although I've not had

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

casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner, what exactly did you

Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it now. So, where's Baxter

ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done

head and takes his seat again. “All

chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’,

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

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

better 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 of these

one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing it to one side, leaving Finchby naked

pauses, knife in

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow in

“No!”

want to jolt my

very, very slowly… he draws

clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through scattered

too fine, to really hurt, but

say?” asks

know. I don't

Finchby.” Klempner waves his

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

He meets my eye, holding it for a second

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