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 wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit,

breaks. Weeping and shaking.

Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for

is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall

the face. The vein

arm, propelling her back towards the door.

“I want

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

cast between me and James. “Larry, I do believe these two

strolls back to Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You

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

his eyes,

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

slinging his feet, ankles crossed, up on the

of bags, “Cashews

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes. A

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

steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied,

knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a

Well cared for, I can see. But they look a

to the light, inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I brought them

my hand, waving it in the air

not had

Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening... A

“Tuna.”

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

held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner,

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

babbling, his gaze fixed on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like

head and takes his seat again. “All

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

eases the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to the next. One at a time, he removes the buttons until the

please. I

do better than that. And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to

the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing it to one side,

in hand, looks

memory coming

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves in a

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

“No!”

want to jolt

slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring the

stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of

cut too fine, to really hurt, but Finchby

say?”

don't know. I

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

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

eye, holding it for a

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