The Lover's Children novel Chapter 44

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…?”