Chapter 68 – There’s not a Damn Thing You Can Do About it
Sunday afternoon June 15, 2008 – 2:15 PM
The expression on Tom Willis’s face was one of utter disbelief as he stared down at the photos of his wife with her arms wrapped around another man.
Willis had just dropped off his latest conquest after returning from a sex-filled weekend on Nantucket, but somehow the irony of the situation didn’t seem to dawn on him. As far as he was concerned, the only fact that truly mattered was that he now had physical evidence which proved beyond a reasonable doubt that his wife had been out whoring around behind his back, and any unfaithfulness on his part was totally irrelevant to the current state of affairs.
The outrage that was roiling around inside of Willis’s head as he careened on down the highway could probably have been measured by his speedometer dial alone. But regardless of monitoring devices, there was no debating the fact that he was absolutely livid…and whenever he worked himself into one of these lathered frenzies, he would also turn into one hell of a reckless SOB. And as a direct result of his foolish imprudence, he heedlessly pushed his Infiniti G37 coupe to dizzying velocities of well over 120 miles per hours; speeding ticket be damned.
But despite his trembling hands, Willis was still able to skillfully slap on his Bluetooth headset and punch up Brent Blain’s phone number while at the same time his luxury automobile reached a rate of acceleration which seemed to be giving the sound barrier a run for its money.
“Hi Brent, it’s me, Tommy. I wanna know exactly what the fuck that bitch was up to…every fuckin’ detail,” demanded Willis. And after receiving a complete debriefing from Blain, he pounded his fist on the Infiniti’s leather-wrapped steering wheel and wailed out his own assessment of the matter, loud and clear; “That fuckin’ cunt.”
Meanwhile on the other end of the line, Blain could practically feel Willis’s indignation pulsating through his wireless speaker, like a cell phone on vibration mode, and, recognizing that the situation was dire, he tried like heck to pacify his client’s anger.
“Calm down Tommy…and don’t do anything rash. As a matter of fact, meet me at the 88 in an hour. We’ll have a few beers and talk this thing out, maybe come up with a game plan,” instructed Blain.
However, even after giving it the old college try for at least 30 minutes, Blain was no closer to assuaging Willis’s fury than he was when the conversation began. As a matter of fact, the scorned husband was still violently angry over an hour later when the two men met up at their local bar and grill.
“Can you believe this shit? She’s actually fuckin’ around on me,” grunted Willis while his voice crackled with an odd mixture of bewildered pain and irritable vengeance.
“Come on Tommy, I’m a private dick. I’ve seen it all. But I must say, it always hurts when someone finds out for sure,” admitted Blain in an almost priestly manner.
“So who is this guy? He looks vaguely familiar,” wondered an annoyed Willis as he analyzed the remainder of Blain’s photos with a great deal of interest and intensity.
“I don’t know, but like I said, I’ve got a contact at the RMV. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him just yet, but when I do, he’ll punch up this guy’s license plate number into their computer system…and then we’ll have him by the balls,” explained Blain in a confident tone.
“Good…good…I want you to find out everything you can about this prick. No one fucks over Tom Willis and gets away with it,” crowed a seething Willis; and although Blain wasn’t exactly sure what to make of the deranged look on his drinking buddy’s face, he rightfully assumed that it wasn’t a good sign.
“Tommy what are thinking, man? Let me in on the plan. Come on dude, work with me,” urged Blain, but at the moment Willis was in no mood to be forthright.
“Never mind what I’m thinking. I’m paying you a shitload of money, so just do your fuckin’ job,” rebuked an agitated Willis, and his response had Blain feeling edgier than he already was.
“No problem Tommy. You name it, and I’ll get it done,” dutifully replied Blain in a veiled attempt at placating his hotheaded friend.
“I wanna know everything about this guy…where he works…where he hangs out…what time he leaves in the morning…what time he comes home at night. I wanna know who his friends are. I wanna know about his family. I wanna know if he’s fuckin’ anyone else. I want to know it all…is that understood?” commanded Willis. But apparently it wasn’t understood because Blain shot him a skeptical stare in return as he semi-sarcastically asked “For Christ’s sake Tommy…is there anything else you wanna know…like what he has for breakfast maybe?”
“I told you, I wanna know everything…if he takes a fuckin’ shit, I wanna know about it,” bellowed Willis in a tone that screamed bloody murder.
“OK, OK, Tommy, relax, I get the picture. Tailing a guy like this shit-wad is a piece of cake for me. I’m the best in the business,” nervously boasted Blain, and his uneasy bluster seemed to mollify Willis’s ire…at least temporarily.
“Alright then, I’m glad we got that settled,” whispered Willis, and suddenly he appeared to come across as somewhat composed, even though deep down inside he was still beside himself over his wife’s egregious indiscretions.
“You’re not thinking about taking matters into your own hands are you?” cautiously wondered Blain, and just like that, Willis’s hairpin anger-trigger kicked in again as he pressed his buddy for some answers.
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I? She’s my wife…if I don’t take care of the situation, then who the fuck will?” argued Willis as he banged his fist on the table for emphasis.
“Tommy, like I told you a million times already, I got plenty of contacts. One phone call and the bastard will be in the hospital for a month, spitting out his teeth like they were gum drops,” offered Blain.
“Naw, it’s not gonna go down like that. I wanna be there to stare into that motherfucker’s eyes when he gets what he deserves,” explained Willis as a distant look took over his glassy retinas.
Blain didn’t particularly care for the direction that the conversation appeared to be headed in, and all of a sudden he seemed a bit apprehensive regarding his drinking partner’s intentions, and so he asked him straight out; “so what the hell are you gonna do to this guy?”
“I don’t know exactly,” replied Willis, and then with a quivering lip he added, “But I do know one thing for sure…one way or another…I want this asshole…dead.”
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 81
