Just a Matter of Time

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Patterson looked up from a list of stock quotations lying on his desk as Bailey came in.

“What is it now, Joe?” he asked impatiently. “Not another one?”

“That’s it, Mr. Patterson... another one.” Bailey’s fat face lit up with a leering grin and he closed a heavy eyelid. “You won’t want to miss this one, Mr. Patterson,” and pursing his thick lips, he released a soft whistle.

Patterson leaned back in his padded leather chair. He was a tall, athletically built man in his early thirties and very aware of his good looks. His numerous girlfriends had told him that he reminded them of David Niven, the movie star when Niven had been young, and Patterson was inclined to agree, but he had resisted the urge to grow a pencil lined moustache now that the modern trend was all hair.

“What’s the wink for, Joe?” he demanded, his voice hostile.

“Wink, sir? No wink... I’ve got something in my eye.” Bailey stiffened at the snap in Patterson’s voice, remembering that although Patterson was all charm when dealing with the bank’s clients, he could be a sonofabitch with the staff. “Miss Sheila Oldhill waiting, sir.”

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