Chapter 7 - Patterson

Sammy did not remember passing through the sales floor and only had a dim recollection of hailing a cab. His first coherent thought came when he awoke from a deep sleep upon his bed still clad in the clothes he wore in his meeting with Connolly. Christ, he thought, what time is it. Looking over at the red numeral digital clock on his nightstand he saw that it was nine in the morning. 9 am. Dammit, that was the time of his meeting with Connolly which lasted until nearly three in the afternoon. Shit, assuming he got home around 4 p.m., which he wasn’t sure of at all, he probably slept close to seventeen hours.

He got out of bed still groggy from a combination of stress, jet lag and oversleep. He stripped off his clothes as he walked around his apartment leaving little piles of garments in the bedroom and hallway. He noticed that his suit was unusually wrinkled and made a mental note to bring it in to be dry cleaned. He put on a full pot of coffee and decided that he would go to the corner video store for a little while so that he would have movies to watch to pass the time until tomorrow.

He stepped into the shower and turned the water on. He set both taps equally so that the initial burst of water would be cold but not freezing. This, he always felt, was a better tonic than coffee to disperse the mental cobwebs that covered his brain. And, invariably, as it did today, the water shocked him out of his groggy mood. Once sufficiently awakened, he increased the hot water to a comfortable level and began to lather up. Soaping his body was a cleansing experience in more ways than one. While making his body presentable he also used the opportunity of his showering solace to think. Today, he thought about the orders the Chief had given him. He simply did not believe he could accomplish it. The target was totally out of the realm of reason and the probability odds were certainly not in his favor. The President. He shuddered at the thought of it. Chesterton, DePasquale and Eastman were hard enough and they did not have the security detail afforded to Jenkins. Even if he could do it he would not get out of there alive. He had no idea what to do and he had no one to whom he could turn. All of his close friends, as well as his parents thought he worked part time for a sales company at night and was a government researcher by day, making decent money, but nothing great. Little did they know that he was paid very well for each of his assignments and could boast (if there was anyone he could even talk to) that he was able to retire right now and not work another day in his life. In fact, this job alone would pay him $5,000,000 if accomplished successfully. That was the key. Accomplished Successfully. If the job’s not done, no payment is made. Of course, if the job was not done, he’d probably be dead. He felt as though he was nothing more than a cheap Mafia thug. Except hit men in the Mafia just followed orders and did not care whom the target was. Why couldn’t he? Why did he have to have a conscience all of a sudden.

He stopped thinking and let the water course all over his body. Turning the shower massage on, he turned his back to the nozzle in the hopes that the pulsating streams of water would ease the tension in his neck and back. He didn’t think it would. Nevertheless, he stayed under the spray for fifteen minutes, decreasing the cold water and letting the now very hot water ease his tension. He stayed that way until the water started to cool off of its own volition.

Stepping out of the shower he grabbed the towel, which hung from a cheap plastic hook attached to the back of his bathroom door, and began to towel his now pinkish skin off. Still slightly wet he padded down the hallway to his bedroom, leaving little wet footprints to mark his trail, and went to the bureau to get out his clothes. After putting on his Jockey underwear, he walked back through the hallway into the kitchen and poured himself some coffee from the full pot he made. While drinking his coffee and reading one of his Newsweeks, he realized that he had no food in the apartment. Shit, he thought, he’d have to stop and get some food when he went for videos. He nevertheless went to the refrigerator, this time to see if it needed cleaning. Opening the door he was surprised not only to find it cleaned, but stocked with milk, bread, eggs, cream cheese, butter, american cheese and peanut butter and jelly. He didn’t remember asking Mrs. Gettinger, his landlady, to get his groceries for him. Usually he’d give her a few days’ notice that he was coming home on a particular day and she would stop off and get the food he wanted. “Strange,” he thought aloud. “I don’t remember calling her. Well, I must have. That’s the only way it could have got there. I guess the last couple of days have been hairy and I must have forgotten. I gotta remember to keep my head on straight.”

Deciding to throw caution to the forewinds he prepared himself a four egg cheese omelet with toast and cream cheese. The eggs went down deliciously with the tall glass of milk he poured for himself. Still feeling unusually hungry he prepared himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The peanut butter was the crunchy kind that he preferred. He poured himself another glass of milk to drink with the pb&j as, in his opinion (but he believed it to be scientific fact), milk was the only solvent known to man that would dissolve peanut butter from the roof of his mouth.

After eating, he poured his third cup of coffee and looked at the clock on the wall above the sink. Ten-thirty, it read. He figured that he get dressed in a little while and go out about eleven o’clock to get some videos when the store opened. He figured he’d be able to rent about five movies to get him through the day and evening. He was thinking about what to rent when the phone rang. That’s odd, he thought. No one knows I’m here. Maybe its Mrs. Gettinger calling to see if the groceries were okay.

He picked up the receiver of the cordless phone he possessed, a luxury that even his parents could not afford. “Hello,” he said.

“Sammy Johnston, please,” the male voice on the other end of the line replied.

“Speaking.”

“Good Morning, Samuel.” Only one person called him Samuel and got away with it.

“Mr. Patterson.”

“Yessir. Can’t fool you. You’re the best. I know. I picked you. I only picked the best.” The voice was pure New York. Rapid fire delivery, with the full blown New York accent that one automatically assumes is appended to each person from the New York Metro area. James Lee Patterson was no exception to the rule. A third generation New York City policeman, he took an opportunity to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation shortly after World War II ended. This was the time of Hoover and the Bureau, he envisioned, would offer him further advancement than his patriarchal hometown police force. He worked closely with the agent in charge of the office and participated in many sensational arrests. To his credit, he was seen as a man whose dogged persistence got the job done. Unlike many of the others in the Bureau that did not have his “cop’s nose” as he liked to call it, if he felt that someone was guilty of a crime and he knew it, yet didn’t have the evidence to arrest, he’d find it, whether real or manufactured, and make it stick. This ability, which was shunned by most of his colleagues, brought him to the attention of J. Edgar himself, who felt that this was a person he wanted in the top hierarchy of his Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Patterson quickly found himself put in charge of the Omaha, Nebraska field office, then the Dallas Texas field office and then back to the New York office, only this time as Special-Agent-in-charge. After ten years as S-A-C, he was summoned to Washington, D.C. where Hoover personally offered him the Deputy Director position. Not being married ( and never having done so) made the decision very easy to make. He immediately accepted the position and moved to Washington, where he served as the Deputy Director for two years. When the then head of the CIA, Nelson Broils, died of a heart attack while engaging in connubial joy with his secretary on his desk. Hoover, wanting to have his own man running the sister agency so he could, in fact, run both, recommended to President Eisenhower that Patterson be named to the post. Eisenhower readily agreed (leaving some to wonder whether or not Hoover had anything on the President in his secret files) and Patterson was reluctantly but readily confirmed by the Senate.

Much to the chagrin of Hoover, however, Patterson became his own boss shortly after taking charge of the Central Intelligence Agency, rebuffing any attempts by the head of the FBI in meddling in his agency’s affairs. In addition, while many knew, or suspected, of Hoover’s secret files, no one knew of Patterson’s. And Patterson, while emulating his mentor in the gathering of compromising information that could prove useful later on, took it a step further and raised it to an art form. However, unlike Hoover, Patterson never made any veiled threats about using the information nor did he ever actually use the information. He gathered it in case he needed to use it but had never done so. In fact, he developed the moniker “Gentleman Jim” because while most people knew of his ability to gather information, all knew that he wouldn’t use it unless pressed. No one had dared to press him and, therefore, he strove to be as courteous to as many people as possible, even those who dared criticized him. When the CIA was subject to minor Congressional hearings in the late sixties and Patterson himself got into a heated debate with the Senator questioning him, he was later quoted as saying “Well, he has his job to do and I mine. As long as we shake hands at the end of the day, that’s all that matters to me.” But no one ever doubted that Patterson was ruthless enough to go all the way to do some act so outrageous that everyone would stand up and take notice. I was this background that Sammy was dealing with.

Confused, Sammy asked, “Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Certainly, Samuel.”

“Weren’t you supposed to call me tomorrow?” This question was met with a loud bray of laughter.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Samuel?” More laughter.

“Why are you calling me today instead of tomorrow?”

When the laughter subsided, Patterson replied, deadly serious, “Because, Samuel, today is tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about, Sir?” Why the hell, Sammy thought, does this asshole always have to talk in riddles?

“Did you think you could stay in your apartment for forty-eight hours straight? We didn’t think so. In fact, we think that you were going to leave your apartment and take in some of this lovely weather we’re having, weren’t you?”

Sammy didn’t reply. “Weren’t you,” Patterson shouted, startling Sammy.

“As a matter of fact, I was going to go down to the corner, rent some videos and be back within thirty minutes.”

“So you can’t be trusted, can you?” Patterson’s voice was lyrical and sarcastic.

“Yessir, as a matter of fact I ca be trusted. I just thought it would be good therapy to get my mind off the next assignment by getting some diverting entertainment. In fact, the Chief recommended it.”

“You thought so, did you? Well, let me tell you. When we, when I, give an order I expect it to be obeyed without question to the letter. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yessir.” Timidly.

“That’s better, Samuel. Don’t disappoint me again, like your old chief, Richardson, did. Splendid man. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

Well, that answers that question, Sammy thought ruefully.

“Samuel, now I’m surprised at you,” Patterson said sardonically.

“Sir, I don’t follow.”

“‘Today is Tomorrow.’ Don’t you know what that means?”

“Yes sir, that you’ve moved the schedule up a day.”

“No. Think again,” was the reply.

Sammy froze. Today is tomorrow. He walked with the cordless phone into the bedroom and looked at his watch which had not only a date function but told the day of the week as well. Shit. He didn’t sleep for fourteen hours. He slept for close to forty-one hours. “Today is tomorrow” he said numbly into the phone.

“There you go, Samuel. Bet you had to look at that Rolex we bought you before you were sure. See, we can’t take chances. We didn’t want anyone to know you were in town.”

Sammy knew then that he had been drugged. “The coffee in Connolly’s office.”

“You got it, Samuel. I knew you were good.”

“Why? And what about the groceries my landlady left? Did you leave them? Why?”

“Because we know you better than you think. We knew you’d disobey orders and we wanted to prevent an infraction, no matter how minor. The assignment you will be going on is so sensitive that the rules must be followed. Usually, the punishment is more sever, but we do like you Sammy. You are an extraordinary asset and I’m not going to let one infraction ruin your career.” Patterson paused for effect. “Of course, you’re not going to let this happen again.”

“No sir.”

“As far as your groceries are concerned, consider it with our compliments for jobs well done.”

“Thank you sir. I’d been trying to catch up on my sleep anyway.” He had to move the receiver away from his ear because of the now near hysterical laughter from the other end.

“That’s the spirit, Samuel. Now that we’re friends again I want to see you at precisely noon at the base of the Washington monument.” He hung up.

“Thank you and fuck you Gentleman Jim,” Sammy replied to the closed line.



Several miles away, in Patterson’s office, the lab technician reported Sammy’s last comment. Patterson just smiled, thanking himself for giving Sammy that Rolex.