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…

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

Weeping and shaking. “Oh, God…

pregnant wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my guess he doesn’t

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

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

her by an arm, propelling her back towards the door.

“I want

can tell you what you're not doing. And

hovers, then dimples. Her eyes cast between me and James. “Larry, I do

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

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

his eyes,

head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want

crossed, up on the table. “Beer's good

of bags,

“Whatever you’re opening.”

a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I

see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box,

James’ ‘work area’, passing

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 the blade along,

next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a handful of nuts before passing the bowl to

a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they

the blade up to the light, inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my

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

not had any

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

“Tuna.”

an inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so

casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner,

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

on the 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 it himself to me. But I don’t know where

his head and takes

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

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

I don't

don’t know where we can find him, well…

way up the inside sleeve of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs

in

memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves in a carry-on

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

“No!”

You wouldn't want to jolt my hand,

then slowly… very, very slowly… he draws the

of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of

knife is too sharp, the cut too fine, to

say?” asks

know. I don't

his bottle at me.

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a

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