Burned: A Steamy, Standalone, Larry Klempner Thriller

By Simone Leigh

Paying It Forward...
Larry Klempner has a Past, and it’s not one he’s proud of.
But the ex-trafficker is trying to forge a hopeful future from his wasted years.
When an old acquaintance thrusts him into a situation that has ‘The Past’ written all over it, what are Klempner’s choices?
Fighting takes on many forms and running isn’t an option.
Klempner will need to bring his A-Game to the front for this one.
When you’re drawn Into the Fire, someone will burn. But who?
A Steamy Standalone Larry Klempner Thriller

Approx 23,700 Words

PLEASE NOTE:
This novella-length story was originally published as part of the 'Into the Fire' anthology (now out of print).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simone Leigh
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005250683

Simone Leigh

Simone Leigh is a writer of intelligent, romantic erotic fiction.Her recent erotic thriller, ‘Target’, won the Reader Voted #BestBook Award in the‘Inks and Scratches’ Summer Splash Book Awards.Although English, Simone has lived in Spain for the last few years.Here, she divides her time between working on her tan, decorating her beautiful villa, writing hot romance and thrillers, and swimming naked in her swimming pool.

Book preview

Previously Published Elsewhere

Please note, ‘Burned’ was originally published

as part of the ‘Into The Fire’ anthology (now out of print).

Note From The Author

Perhaps you have met my reformed villain cum anti-hero Larry Klempner before.

If you haven’t, no problem. I wrote this to be readable as a standalone novella. So far as I can with a million and a half’s worth of previous story, I hope I’ve achieved that.

You might like to note though, that Larry Klempner also goes by the name of ‘Lars Waterman’

Enjoy!

If you have met Klempner before in my previous series, you might want to know where this fits into the overall scheme of things...

Have you read ‘The Lover’s Children’? Part Four – ‘Solstice’

James trying to prise a little info from Klempner...

SOLSTICE - CHAPTER Eleven

Klempner sits beside Mitch, hidden behind what looks like Richard’s scrounged newspaper, while she works on one of her eternal knitting projects. They wince in tandem as Cara’s shrieks climb an octave.

Trying to ignore the background noise, I give a nod to Klempner. You’re back then?

The newspaper doesn’t move. A voice emerges from behind it. As you see.

Where have you been the last few days?

The paper still doesn’t move. Here and there.

Hmmm...

It’s going to be one of those conversations...

Michael flops into an armchair.  We were beginning to think we'd lost you. His tone is innocent, but a glint in his eye says he’s enjoying the opportunity to bait the man.

A touch of irritation enters Klempner’s voice. I told Mitch where I was. No one needed to be concerned. Mitch Hmmms agreement, counting under her breath as, with a long fingernail, she flicks stitches along the knitting needle.

Where was that, then?

The newspaper drops. I needed some air and time to think. I got caught up in something else. Doing a favour for a friend.

WHEN YOU’VE READ ‘BURNED’, you’ll know what Klempner was doing.

Happy Reading 😊

Simone

Burned

Chapter One

The barman swipes a towel over the counter, spreading wide a slurry of slops and peanuts. Yes, sir? What can I get you?

A beer. And another for the little one at the end of the bar.

He follows my pointing finger and grins, reaching for a crate. That’s a reliable way of getting Mickey’s attention.

Mickey Miller, well-known around the City, making his living as a source of rumour, scandal and occasional hard facts. Any information, in fact, which might have value in the right places.

And he’s exactly where I would expect to find him, in the ‘Lucky Time Bar’, wearing a backwards-facing cap, exchanging gossip with a gaggle of the City’s bottom-feeders. Expounding some piece of wisdom to the acolytes, he waves an empty brown bottle through the air as though conducting some invisible orchestra.

If they ever cut his hands off, he’ll be struck dumb.

The barman uncaps two beers, slides one to me, then takes the other along the counter, tapping Mickey on the shoulder as he sets it by him, jerking a thumb back my way.

I tip my bottle towards him and Mickey breaks into a monkey smile. Nodding to his audience, he rolls his shoulders and swaggers across. Yo! Mr K. He clinks his bottle to mine.

"Evening, Mickey. Could we dispense with the Mr K, please. I’m supposed to be called Waterman now, if you recall. Stick to ‘Larry’ if you can’t remember."

He grimaces. Sorry. Forgot. But it doesn’t stop him sucking at his beer.

I lean back against the bar. How are things?

I’m good. You?

I’m good too.

He nods with an air of sage wisdom, takes another gulp. His earlier oratory seems to have deserted him. Another swallow. Er... S’there something I can do for you, Mr K?

Hmmm...

Maybe this change of identity isn’t going to work out...

Perhaps I just dropped by to say hello to an old friend. A social call.

His eyes glaze. Um... right... He visibly lines up his words. Shifts from one foot to the other. Wondered if mebbe I’d done something to make you mad?

Who paid for that beer?

He brightens. Right... Knocks back the last of his drink. "Right..." His tone turns conversational. So... word is on the street you’ve been helping the cops with some stuff?

That’s right.

Oh... He pauses... Waits... I’m not about to fill the silence for him. So... This thing with the cops... Bit of a change of scene for you, I guess.

It’s not something I can talk about, Mickey.

Oh... Yeah... I suppose... He gazes mournfully at the empty bottle and I give the barkeep a nod. With a fresh beer in hand, Mickey’s smile fires up again. How you doin’ with your little girl? She giving you an’ Mrs K a few sleepless nights?

One or two, yes.

He’s on a run, a safe topic of conversation. You’re lucky. I’d love that m’self. Nice family. Nice lady. Nice baby... The tumble of words comes to an abrupt stop. Mickey’s eyes widen, his gaze slanting over my shoulder to some alarming sight behind me. Um...

I turn to follow the gaze and find myself nose-to-chest with an ill-fitting suit. Its occupant seems to be making some attempt to fit in with the crowd, holding a beer with a hand like a bunch of bruised bananas.

Banana-Hands   has a companion. This one fits his suit, which appears to have been made for him. He speaks politely enough. Lawrence Klempner?

I take a slug from my own drink. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Who’s asking?

"My employer, sir. He requests..." The stranger’s head tilts as he rests his hand over a bulge in his jacket pocket... ... that you call by his offices.

"Does he? Another swallow. And you are?"

I’m Decker, sir. And my apologies, but Mr Caproni insists.

"Caproni? Vince Caproni? You work for him?"

I do. His instructions are to ensure that you come with us. He locks eyes with me. Please, I don’t want this to be difficult.

Why would Caproni send men to fetch me in? We’re, if not friends, at least friendly acquaintances. If he wanted to see me, all he had to do was ask. And he surely knows that.

You know what this is about?

Decker pauses, the smoothest of hesitations. "I know that if I went shooting my mouth off, Mr Caproni would have my head... No offence intended, sir."

None taken. You’re just a man doing his job.

From behind me, the sound of shuffling. I talk back over my shoulder. Mickey, make yourself scarce. I’ll catch up with you later.

Banana-Hands  grunts. You comin’ quietly or what?

I cock up an eye. "I’m coming quietly. If you want to try for what, I’m game."

Decker nudges him. Cut it out, Al. Then with a courteous gesture toward the exit, Shall we, Mr Klempner?

Chapter Two

In the backseat of the car, Caproni’s men flank me. Even were I inclined to try, I couldn’t escape. As it is, I want to know what cause Vince Caproni has, or thinks he has, to come the hard man with me.

Traffic glares scarlet and amber, splashing weird reflections over wet asphalt. A patrol car flashes past, streaking the night blue. As the driver takes us past the main entrance of the Golden Fleece Casino, despite the poor weather, business looks good. Punters spill through the wide-open lobby doors, milling around. A man in dress-shirt and bow-tie leans against the wall, smoking. The tip brightens to an orange ember. Then after a couple of blows, he drops the butt to the ground, grinding it out under his shoe before vanishing inside.