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…

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

and

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

Mitch. Her words stall as

Finchby, standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to

her by an arm, propelling

“I want

but I can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs if

Her eyes cast between me and James. “Larry, I

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

pat on the cheek, then she sashays out of the door,

her with his eyes, then closes the door behind

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

ankles crossed, up on

of bags, “Cashews

“Whatever you’re opening.”

stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine you'll be working up a

at the table where Finchby can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank

table beside James’

box: a set of knives: stainless 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, takes a steel from its slot, drawing

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 of nuts before passing the bowl to

knives, James. Well cared for, I

these are my sushi knives. I brought them down from the kitchen

my speech with the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as

although I've not had any

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,

“Tuna.”

It couldn't have been more than an inch thick when he started,

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

“Your building is a write-off. And the police will be all

hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's

his head and takes his seat again. “All yours,

chooses another. Not

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

I don't know where

we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two paying for your

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 to

knife in hand, looks

memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves in a

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

“No!”

want to

slowly… very, very slowly… he draws

lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel.

the cut too fine, to really hurt,

to say?”

know.

waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

behind the screaming, panicking, shuddering man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next tool from the

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