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 intrigued

and

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

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

him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to

across, seizing her by an arm, propelling her back

resists. “I want to

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

cast between me and James. “Larry,

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

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

with his eyes, then closes the

one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want

feet, ankles crossed, up on the table.

a couple of bags,

“Whatever you’re opening.”

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

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

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

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, takes a steel from its

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

set of knives, James. Well cared

the serrated blade. “That's because these

speech with the bottle in my hand, waving it

do yes, although I've not had any for

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.”

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

violently trembling Finchby, the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner,

a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police

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

his head and takes

places the knife on the table then chooses

Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops

I don't know

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

the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it

pauses, knife in hand,

memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves

down the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he

“No!”

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

slowly… very, very slowly… he draws the blade

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

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

to say?”

know.

don't believe you, Finchby.” Klempner waves his bottle at

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

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

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