Blondie sat alone with himself in a nondescript Chevy parked a couple of houses from where Thaddeus's apartment building was, observing things through his side-view mirror. His pistol was tucked in his waistband and his hand wouldn't stop touching it while he sat there burning one cigarette after another. Its cold touch seemed somewhat comforting to him. That and the thought of whom he was going to use it upon hopefully before the day was over.
He knew the bastard was indoors—he had seen the woman arrive and the fact that she didn't leave meant that he was in there. Blondie had been contemplating for the past half hour whether he should march in there and surprise him. Yeah, he reckoned the bastard wouldn't be expecting him to appear before his doorstep so suddenly. Blondie had taken quite a joy smashing his living room furniture last night. He'd imagined he'd knocked the bastard down somehow and tied him to a chair and made him watch as he went about breaking every bit of furniture he could, and when he was done, using the baseball bat he'd held on the son-of-a-bitch's knees. That certainly would have taken the cake. Watch the black punk yell and squeal for mercy as he broke every bit of bone in him.
He sucked on his forth cigarette and flicked it out the window. Less than a minute later he was itching for another only to discover too late his pack was empty. He muttered a groan of disappointment as he squeezed the cigarette pack and his eyes then happened to glance at his side mirror and he sat up immediately when he noticed Thaddeus's Coup DeVille easing out his driveway. Blondie pulled his gun out of his waistband and lowered himself in his seat, still keeping his eyes on the side mirror to see in which direction the bastard was turning to. Thaddeus turned his car to the left and drove towards him. Blondie's head was two inches from his car door's window frame and he was cradling his gun in both hands when he heard the unmistakable sound of Thaddeus's ride passing him. He counted to ten before inching his head up. Thaddeus's drove past an intersection before taking a right turn away from his view. Blondie sat there drumming his thumbs on his steering wheel, wondering if he should give chase or not. He didn't want the bastard to see him coming; he was apt to do that if he went after him.
He took his hands off his steering wheel. Best thing to do is wait for whenever he returns home. In the meantime, he needed some cigarettes.
***
Sunday was Roger Norris's day of rest, and always he sought to enjoy it as much as he would. He worked as a commodities manager for a clearing house firm, a job that took him away from the office much days of the week. The reason being that he wanted to be as far away from Sylvia and their quiet home in Glendale Heights as much as he could. Except on weekends, most especially Sunday; Saturday he played golf with some of his work buddies down at the Glendale Club. Lots of gin and whiskey, and plenty of time to talk about their other favourite subjects—young, randy women and of getting away with them for the weekend. Once there'd been a time when he and Sylvia spent such days in bed talking about their sexual fantasies. Ever since she started chasing black cocks, the days had gotten less till presently they never indulged in it anymore.
It was early evening. He was ensconced in his study room watching a porn movie and jerking his cock in rhythm to what was taking place in the picture when he heard a sound coming from downstairs. He reached for the remote and paused the interracial sex tape he was watching and pulled up his shorts and straightened his t-shirt and then hurried out of his study as if the room had suddenly caught fire. He could hear footsteps from downstairs.
"Who's there?" he stopped at the stair rail looking down.
Sylvia's head came into view and she waved at him. "Hiya, honey," she said to him. "Hope you don't mind, I brought a friend along who'd like to talk to you."
"The hell are you talking about?" Roger grumbled, even though he was already trooping down the stairs to see what mystery stranger she'd brought to the house this time. The fuck was the bitch up to this time? Always she was dreaming of new ways to torture him, coming home with one or two sex partners and never allowing him the chance to watch. She loved tormenting his this way, complaining about being nervous when he had to be there to watch what they did to her. She much preferred telling him afterwards, and that he didn't like. It was the reason why he spent much of his days avoiding the sight of her. To think that once they'd both being happy with the lifestyle. Now all that had changed, and for what?
He came down the flight of stairs, fuming that he'd been interrupted with what he'd been watching upstairs as now his cock was back to its deflated self. Usually it took him a lot of work to be erect again. He was forty-five years old, no longer the sturdy fellow he once was when he wedded Sylvia. She was standing by the living room entrance with a serene look on her face, almost as if she knew he would be mad at her for returning home so quickly. He was about yelling at her when he noticed they weren't alone. A tall black man stood in the living room. Clean-shaved head, looking smart and debonair in a jacket and coat, holding a hat in his hand. He looked handsome and very different from the young black men he'd seen Sylvia with. This one didn't seem to have a street-smart mentality about him, though there was something dangerous about him. Roger couldn't put his finger to it, but he sensed it. Something about the man's aura made him sort of ... larger.
"Good evening, Mr. Norris," Thaddeus smiled as he came forward and shook hands with him. "My name's Thaddeus Black. I'm a private investigator your wife here hired to search for your missing daughter."
Roger shook his hand and turned to his wife, momentarily lost for words.
"Sylvia, what do you—"
"He's here to get Kayla back for us, Roger. Maybe you don't care about Kayla anymore, but I do. He's got something he wants to show to you, so please be a dear and help him out." she steered her husband to a couch and Thad sat across from him. She said she would be back with drinks and left them together. Thad waited till Sylvia had left the room totally before turning to her husband.
"Roger—I hope you don't mind my calling you that—there's something I need to explain to you first, and I hope you're not going to flip out on me once I do. First thing I want you to know is I am a genuine investigator, and your wife really did hire me less than an hour ago to get your daughter back safe and sound, and that's what I'm here for. But in order for me to do that, I'm going to need your cooperation on this."
Whatever bit of puzzlement that had mapped Roger's face when he shook hands with Thaddeus went out the window after he'd made his introduction as to why he was here. Finally, he thought to himself, a black man stopping by to talk about Kayla. "Whatever you need, sir. I'll do what I can to help."
Thad produced the purple velvet cloth from his coat pocket and gave it to him. "I found this inside a safe box under your daughter's bed, in the apartment room she stays close to the U. Would you mind clueing me in as to what was inside it?"
"Sure, a diamond collar," said Roger, feeling the pouch cloth in his hand. "I gave it to Kayla when I brought Elsa home with me."
At that moment, Sylvia walked in to join them carrying a tray filled with wine glasses. "I hope you don't mind a little gin and tonic, Thad," she gave him a glass after dropping the tray on the centre table. "This happens to be Roger's favourite, isn't it, darling?" she gave Roger a second glass. He muttered thanks then took a sip. She went and sat across from them, crossed one leg over the other. Both men couldn't help cutting eyes at her figure, admiring what they saw, the way her jeans hugged her ample thigh. Sylvia took a sip of her wine before noticing their staring eyes. As if embarrassed by her presence, they turned to face each other.
"The collar was a gift," Roger mentioned. "From my friend, Oliver."
"Oliver?" Sylvia exclaimed, sitting forward. "You never told me it was from Oliver Gladstone?"