Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Chapter 35

Klempner

A dozen of them…

Or more.

I know where to find at least one of Juliana’s heavies. So I might as well reduce the numbers a bit…

Improve the odds.

And oddly, I find I have another motive.

The things we learn about ourselves…

I realise that the idea of coercing the old man’s hard-earned cash away from him offends me.

That’s new…

…

…

Wonder how much they’ve had off him over the years…?

Why do they call it ‘Protection’?

Call it what it is…

Extorting money with menaces…

I make a working assumption that Wonder Boy is liable to turn up at about the same time as on previous occasions. After all, he wants his clientele to know when to have the money available for

pillage and theft.

A lurking spot near Antonio’s bar gives me what I want: a view of the entrance.

He turns up, right on time. The last time our paths crossed, he made it away with the money and delivered it to Juliana, or at least to the poor sap whose arm she was hanging on. I’m intending a slightly different script for our encounter this time.

Hanging around, I wait to see if he follows the same routine with Antonio. He does, except that this time, helps himself to a beer. Then another. All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

Suitably refreshed to face the rigours of the hot day, he makes for the clothes store over the road…

Yup…

Same routine…

Same targets…

And even after the events that befell his comrade-in-arms, he’s not paying attention to what’s going on around him.

So much the better for me.

He works through one bar, restaurant and store after another, exactly the same routine as when I followed him on the first occasion. I follow at a discreet distance on the other side of the street, waiting for that special moment when…

He turns down an alley: a nice quiet… nay, deserted alley…

That will do nicely…

To piss or to snort?

Or maybe to peel ten per cent off the top before he delivers…

A quick shufti around the corner…

A dead-ended passageway occupied by a couple of tall trash cans and not much more. Wonder Boy’s standing just beyond the cans with his back to me, recycling Antonio’s beer against a wall.

A five second, soft-shoe’d sprint and he doesn’t even hear me until I’m almost on top of him. When he does register I’m there, he’s still got his dick in his hand. My hand holds a knife.

He pauses, head cocked, face screwed up, obviously recognising me, but unsure where from.

Seeing him now, close up, his pupils are huge, dilated well beyond what the lighting should permit.

Does he ever learn?

Too late now…

Then light dawns across dull features. Abruptly, he grins, jabbing vee’d fingers towards his eyes, then back at me. “Eu vejo você, Senhor Klempner.” And he reaches for something inside his jacket…

“Realmente?” And I slash out, first at the reaching hand, then across his throat. He drops with barely a sound, his cock still hanging out of his pants, clutching at his throat and gargling blood.

With half-an-eye back to the alley entrance, I wait until he stills. Slit throats are a messy business and it’s broad daylight. I don’t want to have to exit the alley covered in blood.

The something inside his jacket turns out to be a knife, a switchblade. Had he gotten it out in time, the main threat to me would have been biological, judging by the crap amidst the rust and stains. The

blade is dull, the edge barely there. And it’s anyone’s guess if the spring action would have worked on demand. I might use the thing to peel potatoes. Then again, I don’t much fancy food poisoning either.

Amateur…

He was overconfident and flabby, puffed-up with swagger and cocaine. And wayyy… too dependent on his reputation and the fear of his victims, all everyday innocents who only wanted to get on with their lives.

I don’t qualify.

He can keep his boy scout’s blade. I strip out the money belt tucked under his jacket, taking just enough time to eye the amount inside.

Then I leave him lying in a pool of blood and piss.

*****

The rear entrance of Antonio’s bar: skulking in the shadows, I wait for an opportunity. They’ll empty the trash at some point. A nip from my hip flask whiles away the time until…

… There’s the wife…

Maria was it?

Keeping my voice low. “Hey, Maria.”

She spins, eyes wide, her voice shrill. “Quem é esse?” Then as I step out from my shadow, her mouth drops open. “Senhor Hughes…” She scuttles towards me. “Você está bem?”

But I press a finger to my lips. “Yes, I’m fine. Estou bem. Antonio?”

She bobs her head, vanishing out into the bar-front, returning a minute later with her husband. He checks over his shoulder, then draws the curtain closed behind him. “You good Senhor Hughes? You chase very bad man…”

Grinning, I toss the moneybelt to him. “Seu dinheiro, meu amigo.” As his eyes widen, I press a finger to my lips, wink, then turn and leave.

*****