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James
James In the kitchen, I find Klempner. The table cleared of pots and cutlery, he’s laid it out with newspaper, set with a variety of brushes, bottles of cleaning fluid and lubricant, old rags and a roll of kitchen paper. A desk lamp casts a bright white beam over his work area. The man himself is wearing spectacles frames fitted with what look like jewellers loupes. Peering through, he scrubs at some widget with a toothpick-sized wire brush. He pauses, sprays a little fluid from a bottle onto the brush then, holding brush and widget under the light, continues his work. I know what this means. A rifle leans against the table, three handguns of varying types lie in a neat row on the newspaper. A fourth is in pieces: the barrel, grip, springs, feeds and God-knows-what also laid in tidy ra
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