Patterson told his boy to forget about the tights, even Errol Flynn wore them, and that he’d try to make it back for the show. But Patterson had been sucked into attending an ethics hearing and then had to check with the secretary of state’s office on the final vote canvass. And although the press had already named him the winner, it sure felt good knowing he had the official results in hand.
As he came back to Phenix City, he parked in that familiar narrow alley across from the Elite Café. Using his cane, he slowly made his way to the post office to check his box, feeling every damn step the six bullets that remained in his leg from a machine gunner in that no-man’s-land outside St. Etienne. And he thought back on that time during the First World War, learning to walk again and living in that hospital in Atlanta in a narrow bed and having little else to do but watch a pear tree bear fruit outside his window for two seasons.
It was hot and dark at the top of the staircase of the Coulter Building when he pushed open the frosted-glass door of the office of Patterson & Patterson, a partnership with his oldest boy, John.
He set down his keys and grabbed some thank-you letters that his personal secretary, Lucille, had left with him. He flicked on the old banker’s light on his desk, staying there for God knows how long signing his name and then rummaging through the bills that had left him eleven thousand in debt since entering the race.