The Lover's Children

Chapter 44 – The Idylls of March #16

KLEMPNER

The kid takes a step in Haswell’s direction, then halts again. “How do I know you’re not trying to trick

me? I don’t know you. Or him.”

“Now you’re asking the right questions. You don’t, but look him up on your phone, Richard Haswell.

Find a photo of him. You’ll see who he is.”

She bobs, almost curtsies. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

She toddles away, her cheap case trundling behind. Haswell’s head cocks as he registers she’s

heading his way. I resist a grin, instead sauntering across to the bench with its watching wolf.

And now, close up, I know who it is. Florence O’Shae. And spoiling for a fight if the set of his shoulders

can be judged…

The day's looking up.

He's a nasty bruiser with a bad rep. But with a face like a lived-in shirt, guileless blue eyes and a mass

of blond curls, he charms those who don’t know any better.

“Long time. No see, Flurry.”

He jolts, jerks his head around, then turns fully to face me, slathering on fake Celtic charm like honey.

“Well, if it ain’t the man himself.” Ireland ripples through his voice. “I heard a rumour you were dead,

Larry…”

“You know what they say about listening to rumours…”

“… Then, I heard you'd left the City...”

“As you see...”

“So, you're back.”

I show him my teeth. “As you see.”

He settles back, stretches out legs crossed at the ankles, spreads arms across the back of the bench.

“And what can I do for you, Larry?”

“You can leave that one be for a start.” I nod towards Suitcase Girl, now sitting at the table by Mitch,

talking animatedly to Haswell…

Cut off her hands, she’d be struck dumb…

“Oh?” He scans around the square. “I'd not seen any of your spotters on her.”

“You're not supposed to. Move on.”

The smile freezes. “What puts you at t’head of the queue? You think you can just breeze in and take

over again? Besides, I saw her first.”

“There’ll be others. There always are.”

He shrugs. “S’pose. But professionals don’t trespass on each other’s turf.” His eyes linger over the

table. “Nice looking women there. They yours?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing I s’pose.” He cocks his head. “Another rumour… I heard you did for that charmer, Finchby.”

“Finchby had the charm of a blocked nostril. No one’s going to miss him. Why don't we discuss it over a

beer...” I offer out a hand toward the nearest bar, let O’Shea lead the way. “There’s a table in the shade

over there at the back…”

An alleyway edges the bar, cool and gloomy…

… Beckoning…

O’Shea slides along the side of the table. At the last moment, from behind, I grab him by belt and collar,

propelling him down the alley…

“What the fuck!”

The alley may be gloomy only, not dark, but against the brilliant sunshine of the square, we’re

effectively invisible.

And alone…

While he’s still mouthing off protests, I slam O’Shae, face-first, against the wall. Air Oomphs from his

chest as he impacts and the Crack! of his face crashing against brickwork echoes in the confined

space.

He screams, breaking free of my grip with panic-induced strength, spinning to face me. But the sense

is rattled from him and before he gets it together again, I follow up with my right fist into his belly, then

finish the job the wall started with the left. Cartilage cracks under the impact, blood spurting from both

nostrils.

He doubles over, clutching at his gut, then drops to the ground, gasping. “Christ Jaysus, Larry.

What’cha playing at?”

I lean over him, deliberately looming, supporting myself with one hand flat on the wall, reaching behind

to my belt sheath with the other. “It’s Mr Klempner to you. I'm finding you tedious, Flurry. I don't like

tedium. It irritates me. If you continue to irritate me, I'll slit your throat. If you trespass here again, I'll slit

your throat. What’s mine is mine, and you’ll get the fuck away without asking questions. Got that?”

He wheezes around his belly, retching at the ground, splashing gore onto nicely laid stone flags. “Got

it.”

“This square’s out of bounds to you and your business. If I see you hanging around here, or any of your

cronies, we’ll continue this discussion. And…” I rest the edge of my knife to the pulse at his neck... “…if

the next words I hear aren't, Yes, Mr Klempner, I'll slice you open here and now.”

He raises a surrendering hand. “Yes, Mr Klempner.”

“Good. So long as we understand each other. Kneel up.” Eyes wild, he obeys, his nose streaming red

down over his shirt.

The edge of the knife still pricking at his throat, I fish the other blade from my pocket. “Now… don’t

move unless you want to wear your smile wider than that clown back there.”

“What…?”

“I said, stay still.” I bring the razor-edge to his face. “You wouldn't want me to fumble this, would you.”

“What the fuck…?” His eyeballs swivel sidelong. Smooth against the skin, I slide the edge down

against his left cheek. Blond hair flutters to the ground. O’Shea’s trembling. Violently trembling. More

hair slices away from his cheek, spinning into the breeze.

“To answer your earlier point, this is my turf, and you will stay the fuck...” I nick the skin... “... off it.” He

flinches, not quite suppressing a shriek. “I did tell you to stay still. Now you’ve cut your face.” Blood

trickles down his neck, joining the flow from his nose. In the shadow of the alley, the steel edge glints

bright next to his cheek.

A final stroke of the blade and most of the facial hair on the left side of his face has gone. Swiping my

blade over a clean bit of his shirt wipes away a few stray hairs.

O’Shae shudders out of his freeze. “What kind of fucking maniac carries a knife and a cut-throat razor

in his pocket?”

“Guess.” Snapping the blade close, I shove it back in my pocket. “I’ll see you around, Flurry. But not

around here.” I straighten my jacket, roll my shoulders, dust down my pants.

Back out in the square, the sky is blue. The sun is bright. Above me, saplings burst brilliant green buds.

My knuckles sting. Wiping them clean of blood with a tissue, I snap fingers open and closed a couple of

times, then crack the joints.

Inhaling air sweet with tree blossom, I stroll back to join my wife and daughter.

What a beautiful day…

*****

JAMES

Klempner breezes back. Richard gifts him a look that would shrivel paint…

A neat trick from behind mirrored sunglasses…

“That was a dirty move. I had to invent a training post on the spot.”

Klempner’s cheeks suck hollow and his eyes crease as he sits. The waiter hovers. “Another beer, sir?”

“Thank you, yes.” Apparently in high good humour, he glances around. “Where’s the kid?”

“She has a name…” Richard could be chewing a wasp. “… Lydia. You didn’t take the time to learn

that?”

Klempner’s forehead wrinkles. “Should I have?” He flexes and re-flexes the fingers of his left hand.

Mitch peers close. “How did you skin your knuckles?”

“Belt buckle.”

Richard nods across the square to where Lydia is walking away, her suitcase rattling behind. At the

edge of the square, she looks back over her shoulder, shoots a sunny smile at Klempner, then lifts her

hand in a wriggle-fingered wave. He stares at her, quite blankly…

Freakin’ clueless…

Richard continues, “I sent her to The Imperial. Told her she could work there for bed and board until I

can get HR to interview her next week. Should you decide to rearrange my staff on another occasion,

I’d appreciate a little notice.”

Klempner rocks back onto two chair legs, his tone airy. “I can see the publicity…” He swipes palms up

and over an invisible billboard, then writes headlines in the air with a forefinger. Speaking in orator

mode, somehow enunciating capital letters onto each word, “City Billionaire Philanthropist Opens

Training Centre For Runaways And Homeless Teenagers…”

Twin mirrors hold on Klempner for a long pause before Richard takes off the sunglasses, setting them

on the table, then props his chin on a fist, the forefinger pressed to his lips. I inspect the bottom of my

coffee cup while I rearrange my features to an expression of polite interest.

Klempner hasn’t finished. He jabs a forefinger at Richard. “You are always complaining there’s not

enough practical training around. I’ve heard you comment on several occasions about job applicants

coming in for interview with paper qualifications and nothing else. Often not even that. So, put your

money where your mouth is. If kids like that…” He aims a finger at Lydia’s retreating back… “… had

ready alternatives, it wouldn’t be so easy for the likes of yon…” He jerks a thumb behind him, to where

a figure stands at the end of an alleyway, blood streaking down his shirt, creased double and gasping…

“… to get their foot in the door.”

I focus on the wheezing figure. He’s just too far away for a clear view of his features, but, “What

happened to his beard?”

Klempner gives a wolf-grin. “Bad hair day.”

Charlotte matches the grin. “You’re supposed to be keeping out of trouble. What if he reports you?”

He huffs and shrugs, gulps at his beer. “O’Shea was stalking a minor. He’ll have a boxer’s nose and

razor burn. What’s he going to report me for? Intimidation with intent to inflict a nasty rash?”

Richard sucks at his teeth, silently, staring into space. Then, “James, what's the state of play with

Finchby’s old rats’ nest?”

It takes me a moment to focus on his question…

Aahhh… This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

Sheer genius…

Poetic justice…

“The site’s been cleared. Groundworks are about to start. I'd tentatively designated it for apartments,

being right by the waterside. But nothing’s set in stone.”

Richard Hmmms, chewing at his lower lip, then fishes in his pocket for his phone. Tapping in, "Francis?

I want you to make me an appointment with Mayor Vandervoort and whoever's his head of Social

Services." He pauses, then, "Also, tell them to have the departmental head from the City Employment

and Training Section there."

He taps off, sets the phone down, gives a satisfied Hmmph. “I believe there would be a certain justice

in recycling that particular venue in that particular way.”

Beth slips a hand over his. "You know, sometimes, I’m very proud to be your wife."

Richard smiles white against tanned skin. "Good business sense. The more of the City population

that’s trained and employed, the more can afford to buy what I build."

But I notice that Mitch too has taken Klempner's hand in hers.

*****