James
Klempner snatches up one of the prints, vanishes from the room and after fifteen minutes, hasn’t returned.
What’s he up to?
I follow him out.
He’s not gone far. I find him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, with his arsenal in the pair of sports bags down on the floor close by.
He’s snapping the magazine of a pistol up into the grip of one of his toys. The table is laid out with newspaper, a spray can – some kind of solvent, a small needle-nosed bottle, a series of small brushes and a stack of cotton pads. And laid out next to him, the print of ‘the face’.
“Is that appropriate?” I ask. “Kirstie and Ryan in the next room?”
He aims the gun into a corner, pulling on the trigger a couple of times. It clicks and with a nod, he puts it back into one of the bags. “You ever found that if you do something your hands know well – a familiar task – it frees up your mind? Helps you think?”
“Yes, I do. I generally start cooking when I want to set my brain to autopilot. Michael goes chopping firewood. What are you thinking about?”
“That face. I know that face…” He stands, arms folded, pacing the floor… “And I’m fucked if I can think where from.”
“The mere fact that you know the face tells us something.”
He nods, slowly, face raised to the ceiling, then… “Do you own a gun?”
“No, but Michael does.”
“Tell him to fetch it.”
*****
Mitch places a mug of coffee by him, then takes a seat on the other side of the table, cradling her own mug in cupped hands.
Klempner snaps fingers at Michael. “Let me see that.”
Michael frowns but passes across his pistol.
“Can you shoot?”
“I’ve done some training. Joined a gun club.”
“Why’d you get it? And why’d you choose a Glock?”
“Given Charlotte’s… family connections… and the events of the last few years, I thought I should learn how to use one, in case we found ourselves in a fight. The research I did, and the other guys at the club, suggested this was the most reliable model for an amateur.”
Klempner sniffs and nods. “A hand-gun isn’t for fighting with. It’s for killing people. If you have a fight on your hands, you’re already in trouble… When was it last fired?”
“A couple of weeks ago when I was practising.”
“Cleaned it since then?”
“We’ve been busy.”
Klempner purses his lips, presses a side button and the magazine slips out, dropping into his waiting hand. He click-clacks the slider back and forth a couple of times then looks briefly inside the chamber before pulling the slide back again, pointing the gun down into the corner of the room and pulling the trigger.
Then with casual competence, one hand cupped over the slide, he pulls down the take-down lever with the other hand and rides the slide forward and off the frame.
He looks it over, then removes the barrel from the slide along with what might be a spring guide. In under half a minute, what was a handgun has become a dozen components laid out in careful order on the newspaper.
“You know what you’re doing there,” I comment.
His eyes rise to mine then drop back down. “You’re an engineer, James. You deal with machines….”
On the end of a brass jag, he pushes a cotton pad through the bore, inspecting it as it comes out the other side covered in crud.
“… A gun is simply a machine for spitting out a stone very fast. It needs maintaining. If I’m in a situation where I feel the need to use one, that’s not the moment I want to be wondering if everything is running smoothly.”
With a clean pad, he repeats the procedure, then again. Each time, he inspects the patch until, as one comes out clean, he is apparently satisfied. Then spraying oil over a final pad of cotton, he passes that through the barrel too.
Klempner works through a routine obviously familiar enough that, as he said, he doesn’t have to think about it. His hands work on autopilot. His eyes flick between his hands and Mitch, sitting silently, sipping her coffee as she watches…
Does he realise he’s doing it?
Perhaps…
He’s still obsessed with her…
… just keeping it under control.
Every man has a drug.
Mitch is his.
Another cotton pad, dabbed with solvent, gets rubbed over the frame, the slide rail and inside the magazine well. Klempner inspects it, then scrubs at the rail again with a toothbrush. Another larger one, more of a bottlebrush, gets pushed right through the grip.
Apparently satisfied, he oils minor parts and applies a few drops of grease from a needle-nose bottle to the grooves of the slide and the inside of the frame, rubbing it in with a fingertip. Then too, to the barrel, a drop of oil, rubbed over the surface with a finger.
Does she see it?
Yes…
Does it bother her?
No… I don’t think so.
Klempner disassembles the magazine, prising out the spring and a small plate. Again, he sprays everything with solvent, brush-cleaning, wiping, then lightly oiling. Then he reassembles the magazine, taking some care over the alignment of the spring with its follower. Mitch’s great emerald eyes follow the movement of his hands, occasionally meeting his…
Green eyes…
Jade…
We’re coming for you.
Klempner reassembles the barrel back into the slide then takes up the frame. Grip in hand he peers close to the rear, adds a drop of oil then pulls the trigger once… twice… It clicks smoothly.
He reassembles the slide to the frame, wiping away excess oil and grease, tests the slide a couple of times, moving it back and forth with an easy clack-clack.
He nods; a short, defined movement, then, grip first, hands the pistol back to Michael. “You’ve looked after it well, but it doesn’t hurt to take care.”
“Don’t see the point in having something like that if it’s not in good condition.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” Then he eyes the sports bag and takes out an SMG. Once more, calmly and methodically, he disassembles it.
Mitch continues to watch as, systematically he inspects components one at a time. “You look as if you’re going to war.”
Klempner fixes eyes on her, dropping the carefree facade. “You think I’m not? I just haven’t figured yet who with.” Mitch licks her lips. “Someone has taken Jenny,” he hisses. “They have attacked you. If someone wants a war, they’ve got one.”
She breathes. One breath. Two. Her chest rising and falling. “You came.”
He cocks his head. “What?”
“You came. You came back. You knew I needed help. You knew Jenny was in trouble and you came.”
He speaks quietly. “I’ll always come, Mitch. If you need me… If Jenny needs me…”
“Yes, she needs you. You fetch her back, Larry. You bring her back to me.”
He holds her in his gaze, then he looks away, his face twisting. “Come back with my shield or on it? Is that it?”
“No, it isn’t.” She shoots out a hand, grasping his. “You come back with your shield and you bring Jenny with you.”
Klempner is very still, the tension shooting lightning bolts. “What happened to you not liking the kind of man I am?”
“I know what kind of man you are, and I know what I want. You came. The man who’ll go to war for me. And for her. Larry, whatever happens, you come back with Jenny, but you come back!”
*****