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…

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

and

you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my guess

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

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

by an arm, propelling her

resists. “I want to

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

me and James. “Larry, I do

under the chin with a

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

follows her with his eyes, then closes the door behind

then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly,

slinging his feet, ankles crossed, up on the table. “Beer's good

up a couple 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? I

from where he is

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

set of knives: stainless steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects

then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a handful

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

these are my sushi knives.

waving it in the air as I

do yes, although I've not had any for a

make some for Larry while he's 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, he was slicing

“Tuna.”

he started, but you know he sliced it so fine. Four slices,

casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner,

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

I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just

and takes his

table then chooses another. Not one of

the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he

“Larry, please. I don't know where he

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

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

pauses, knife in hand,

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

He waves in

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

“No!”

want

slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring the

most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the

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

to say?”

I don't know.

Klempner waves his bottle at me. “Do you believe

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then,

down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of the spine. As