Chapter 15 - Winter Wedding #14


    MICHAEL


    Tucking the phone back in his pocket, Klempner jumps down again, brushing his jacket straight as he


    McGuire beams. “Shall we discuss the price first, Sor?”


    “Get out what you have on that list. Let me see it in decent light.”


    McGuire nods to Jimmy. “You heard the gentleman.” Then, “It’ll take a few minutes. Can I get you a


    coffee, Sor, while you’re waiting?”


    “Thank you. ck, no sugar. My man here will have one too.”


    McGuire awards me the kind of look normally reserved for something with too many legs found living


    under the kitchen sink. I give him my best smile. “Milk. No sugar.”


    Klempner epts coffee in a paper cup. For all his nd expression, humour lurks behind his eyes as


    McGuire scribbles on a scrap of paper, chews on the end of his pencil, then scribbles some more.


    “That’ll be seventeen-fifty with everything. But, for you, Sor, I’ll say fifteen hundred.” He thrusts the


    paper forward for inspection.


    Klempner surveys the contents. “There’s no welding kit.”


    “Ah, sorry, Sor. If you’d turned up earlier, you could have had it. But I sold what I had earlier this


    morning. A good quality MIG. Very well looked after.”


    “Could you get another? For next week, say?”


    “I might well do that, yes.”


    “How much?”


    “Shall we say five hundred?”


    “That’s a good price.”


    “It is, Sor. But I always give a good price to a good customer. I charged seven hundred for the one I


    sold this morning.”


    “Is that right?” Klempner scribbles an extra note on his list. “Alright, load it all onto the pick-up.”


    “Jimmy, you heard the man. Now, Sor. It’s cash, I assume?”


    I set my cup down, freeing my hands…


    Here’s where the fireworks start…


    “Nope,” says Klempner. “Just load up what we’ve agreed. I’ll be on my way.”


    McGuire havers. “I’m not following ya, Sor?”


    “It’s very simple. You load these goods onto the pickup. You can give me the seven hundred paid for


    the welding kit. I’ll drive away and we’ll say no more about it.”


    Colour rises from McGuire’s cor. “Jimmy, go get Donovan, and be quick,” he hisses.


    The errand boy darts off, vanishing into the crowd. Klempner stands, hands thrust in his pockets,


    sucking in his cheeks, apparently casual. But something about the way he rocks on the balls of his feet


    Please check at N/?vel(D)rama.Org.


    says the nonchnce is feigned.


    McGuire bullies up close, eye-balling Klempner. “What the fuck you talking about?” Spittle arcs from his


    lips.


    Klempner leans back a little, tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. “It’s very simple,


    Mr McGuire. These goods have been stolen from friends of mine. I’m here to reim them. You load


    the equipment onto the truck. I’ll drive away and you’ll hear no more about it.”


    “Now, look here…” snarls McGuire. “This stuff’s mine. All bought and paid for. Legal like.”


    “That, I doubt. But if it’s so, you’ll have no problem with my calling in the local cops, will you.” Klempner


    produces his mobile from a pocket, ambles around the airpressor, aims, and the camera clicks


    and whirrs. “I have the list of serial numbers, so there’ll be no difficulty establishing that the goods are


    legally yours… Will there?”


    McGuire’s chin juts.


    Klempner continues, his voice mild. “Or if you prefer, I’ll put the photos I just took of your stolen goods


    up on social media. Hash-tag stolen-goods Hash-tag handcuffs. What do you think?”


    From somewhere in the crowd, Jimmy reappears, swaggering in with apanion. The stranger is


    short, heavy-set and was born destined to y the part of the heavy with the low forehead.


    McGuire spits onto the tarmac. “These gentlemen are leaving. Jimmy… Donovan… Escort them to


    their vehicle, would you. And get the phone off that bastard there.” Arms folded, legs akimbo, he stares


    Klempner in the face…


    … or tries to…


    Klempner’s not looking at him, but at the stranger. His head tilts and he sucks in his cheeks, then


    delivers a jack-o''ntern grin. “Long time, no see, Donnie. I thought you were working for Vince


    Caproni? Moved down-market a bit, haven''t you?”


    ‘Donnie’ double-takes on Klempner, gawks and pales, then mutters something to hispanion, who


    halts in mid-step.


    “What the fuck’s wrong with you two?” snarls McGuire. “Get this pair of fuckers out of here.”


    Neither moves, instead shuffling their feet.


    “Get on with it, then.” McGuire looks set to foam at the mouth.


    Still, neither makes a move, but Donnie moves close to his boss, muttering something under his breath.


    McGuire jolts and blinks, flicking a nce at Klempner. “Youe looking for trouble?”


    “No.” Klempner’s voice would oil wheels. “As I exined, I''vee to recover my friends’ goods.


    Trouble is an optional extra.”


    “I got this stuff legal and above board. I got receipts.”


    “I’m sure you have. But you’ll have to discuss that with your supplier. I’m leaving with this equipment.


    You and your retinue of monkeys are going to load it on the truck. As for my phone, the photos are


    already saved to the cloud. You stealing my phone wouldn’t stop me posting anywhere that appeals to


    me. ”


    McGuire''s face passes through red and moves into purple. “I’m out of pocket on this, you know.”


    “I daresay. I suggest that you check the provenance of your stock in future.”


    “This is racism. It’s because I’m Irish, isn’t it?”


    Klempner raises brows, lifts his chin. Without taking his eyes off McGuire, “What d‘you think of that,


    Michael?”


    I fight down myughter, keep my face straight. “I think you don’t have a racist bone in your body. You


    treat all thieving, lying, shites with equal contempt; regardless of race, creed or colour.”


    “I’m d you said that.” He gives a small satisfied nod. “In my experience, McGuire, criminality crosses


    racial boundaries equally. And since the rightful owner of these goods is himself part-Irish, the


    argument is moot. Now, are you going to load up the truck, or do we move along to that trouble you


    mentioned?”


    McGuire toes at the ground, grunts, then jerks his chin at Jimmy and Donnie. “Get on with it, then.” The


    pair slide by us to the nearest item, the cement mixer, Donnie angling a wide berth around Klempner.


    Klempner gives a small satisfied nod. “Michael, could I trouble you to secure the load, please.”


    “Happy to.”


    It takes twenty or thirty minutes, but as each item is loaded up, Klempner makes a show of ticking it off


    his list. “You can add those and that.” He jabs a finger at a toolbox, a mallet, a couple of shovels and a


    pick-axe.


    McGuire splutters, “Them came from somewhere else.”


    “Do you still have the ones that came with this batch of equipment? I’d prefer to take those?”


    The Irishman scowls. “Already sold.”


    “In that case, you can supply recements. Donnie, load them on the truck.”


    Donnie scuttles to load up the tools without so much as a nce at McGuire.


    “I suppose ya’ll want the fucking fillings out o’ ma teeth before ya go?”


    “No. I’m happy to leave that to your orthodontist. But you can hand me that cash-belt you’re wearing.”


    McGuire gapes, clutching at the belt and backing off.


    Klempner surges forward. Somehow, a knife is already in the other hand, a wicked-looking, saw-edged


    thing. McGuire shrieks as the de shes out, but Klempner simply snags his hand around the belt,


    slices and it drops into his hand. “Michael, I’d like a witness. Count out the contents, would you,


    please.”


    “Sure thing.” A grin is fighting for front seat on my face.


    On a trestle table, in in sight, I count the notes. Klempner stands close by. “You keep a knife like that


    down the back of your suit pants?” I hiss.


    “Be prepared, Michael, is always my motto,” he murmurs. “I’m sure you were yourself once a Boy


    Scout.”


    “So, I was, but they taught me to use a knife for cutting out turf before I lit a fire.” Klempner sucks away


    a smile, but his eyes are fixed on McGuire.


    There’s quite a wad inside the belt. “I make that nine hundred and… ten… twenty… twenty-five…


    twenty-six.”


    “Thank you.” Klempner scribbles on a sheet of paper, passes it to the apoplectic Irishman. “A receipt for


    nine hundred and twenty-six. Seven hundred, I think was mentioned as the price you obtained for the


    welding kit. However, the insurance value on it was nearly two thousand. So, we’ll take this with us and


    deliver it to the rightful owners of the goods.”


    *****


    Driving back, Klempner nts me a look and grins. “That felt more like old times.”


    “Yes, I could see you were enjoying yourself. What would you have done if McGuire’d refused?”


    “Nothing. I believe my understanding with the policemissioner is fragile as yet. If McGuire had


    resisted, I would have emailed the photos of the equipment and the serial number panels to the police


    station.”


    “You could have done that anyway.”


    “I could, yes. But if I had, the goods would have been seized as evidence. Ryan and Kirstie would have


    been no better off, at least for several months. As it is, they can get on with their work again now.”


    “Are you really missing old times?”


    He doesn’t reply, instead pulling a face, and twisting to reach into a pocket. He fumbles for a moment,


    thenys a knuckle-duster on the dash. “It was digging in,” he exins.