The Patsy Returns

J. Thomas Ford

Description

Seventy-two year old Lee Harvey Oswald comes to Manhattan for an interview with Timothy Martin, the owner of a literary magazine and a well known JFK assassination researcher. Oswald is there to clear his name and tell his story to the world.

Sujets

• Historical
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456607685
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Patsy Returns
J. Thomas Ford
 
 
 


Copyright 2012 J. Thomas Ford,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0768-5
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 
 
1
I was staring at the clock when the call came into my office. I know, because I was anticipating an upcoming luncheon date with a young lady I had been trying to hook up with for a week or two.
“Is this Timothy Martin?” he asked. I could tell by the static in the line that this call was coming in from overseas. Oh no, I thought to myself, I’m going to miss my date. A moment later, he told me he was calling from Zurich. I knew it, but it was obvious that this was an American from somewhere down south, Texas or, perhaps Louisiana? For a moment, we engaged in small talk, getting to know one another. I told him that I was about to go to lunch and he said he could call me back, but then he mentioned Dealy Plaza, JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald. I quickly forgot about my lunch date and the two of us were propelled into an hour long conversation that generated chills running up and down my spine. When I asked him for his name, he ignored me and simply said...”I was in Dallas that day.” and then he stopped, almost like he was afraid to say anymore.
A moment later, he added.
“In fact, I was working in the Book Depository.” Now it was my turn to be silent. I took a deep breath, and asked the only question that was on my mind.
“Did you know Lee Harvey Oswald?”
Silence.
I had hit a nerve.
After a moment, he said, “Yes, I knew him.”
At that moment, I swear my heart skipped a beat.
And then he told me his name, and I dropped the phone and told him that was not possible. But, we kept talking anyway. In fact, we talked non-stop for more than an hour and, at the end of that time, I knew he had been there on 22 November 1963. He knew too many of the relevant details. He had to have been there to be talking like this, and he seemed to have answers to every question that had been bugging me for the past three decades, every since I had been studying that tragedy.
 
My name is Timothy Martin. I am a writer, editor, and owner of a small literary magazine located in the Theatre district in the heart of midtown Manhattan. For the past thirty years, I have been trying to figure out what happened that day in Dallas, Texas. Like most professional researcher’s I had no confidence in the government version. Something didn’t add up. They were hiding something from us, something big, something that pointed the finger back in their direction. They were guilty of something, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was
exactly. After all this time, all I knew for sure is that the President was not shot by Oswald with a Manlicher Carcano rifle with a faulty sight, and he was not shot from the back.
“When can we meet and talk some more?” he asked.
“When can you get here?” I wanted to know.
“Can you come to Paris?”
“How about here, in America?” I wanted to know. “I don’t know, that might not be possible,” he said, as if he was afraid to travel to America.
“I’ll pay all your expenses, including your air flight.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, implying that he had plenty of money.
“I’d like to interview you.” I said to him.
“Will you publish that interview?”
“I will if you want me to.”
“Then, I will make the trip.”
“Good.”
“I’ll call back tomorrow and confirm the dates.”
“If I’m not here when you call, tell the girl who answers the phone what flight you are coming in on and I will be there to pick you up.”
I hung up the phone and immediately called the woman I was supposed to be meeting for lunch and she told me to go to hell and hung up on me, but at that point, I couldn’t have cared less. All I could think of was my upcoming interview with the man from Zurich.
 

 
Born to be a JFK researcher, I came into this world on the twenty-second of November in nineteen sixty-six, just three years after the President was shot down. My parent’s said that I would listen to them talking about the assassination almost as if I was curious about the details before I could walk or talk.
At the tender age of six, I was already an obnoxious little ‘know-it-all’ and by the time I was ten I was well on my way toward becoming a serious researcher. By the time I had turned fifteen, I already knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out what really happened that day in Dealy Plaza.
To say that I loved John Fitzgerald Kennedy was not enough for me. I was fixated, obsessed, determined to uncover some of the truth of what happened that day and I didn’t care if it took my entire life to do it.
At some point, I began to feel that Jack Kennedy himself was calling out to me, but that wasn’t something I could admit to anyone for fear that they might have me committed to Norristown State or someplace just like it.
After I read every book I could get my hands on and graduated from a top High School in Long Island, I attended Columbia University on a full scholarship and graduated with a Master’s Degree in English Literature, then I received my PHD from New York University and wrote my thesis on JFK and his tragic demise. It was published by the University and sold enough copies to pay for the printing of the actual books.
Although I was disappointed, my parent’s told me to keep my chin up, that something good was eventually going to come of my efforts. And they were right, because I went to a party in Manhattan and was introduced to Jason Sheets, a well known editor and owner of a literary magazine who had actually read my book and said he wanted to hire me as soon as he got to the last page. I think he may have been pulling my leg, but still it made me feel good. I think he may have been mesmerized by the beauty of my date, who was wearing a low cut blouse showing enough of her belly button that had every man at the party staring, including me. Jason wanted to know if he could take me to lunch, and discuss job possibilities with me. I could tell by the way my date squeezed my hand that I was about to get very lucky, in more ways than one.
 

 
After three years of doing whatever Jason asked me to do around the magazine, which included building shelves and getting my hands dirty on a daily basis, he took me to lunch and made me an offer that I could not refuse.
“Timothy, I want you to run the magazine for me while I take off on a trip around the world.” I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I just listened to him go on and on, as if he knew that I wasn’t going to say no to his offer. I mean, how could I turn down a dream come true?
“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, Timothy,” he told me as we made our way back to the office, my belly full and my brain going a mile a minute.
“Well, what do you think? Will you do it?” he asked, patting me on the back at we walked down the streets of Manhattan.
You’re the only one I trust to do it right,” he added, before I could reply. I nodded.
“Of course, I’ll do it, Jason.”
“Great! I knew you would, Timothy. I’ll draw up a contract for you to sign.”
“When are you leaving?” I asked, thinking that I would have a month or so to pick his brain.
“Next week.”
“You’re kidding, right! Tell me you’re pulling my leg, Jason!” He laughed and told me not to worry and assured me that I would be fine.
“ I have all the confidence in the world in you, my son. You were born to do this.”
“Thank you, Jason,” I said, my stomach beginning to churn.
“Don’t thank me, thank your parents and that young man you see in the mirror every morning,” he said, trying to cheer me up. Although I couldn’t have been happier, I was just a little nervous about the responsibility I had just inherited.
Three months into his cruise, Jason came down with a severe case of pneumonia, and died in a hospital bed halfway around the world. I was mortified and thought that might be the end of the magazine, not to mention my job. But, I was wrong. I didn’t have enough faith in the man.
A week after the funeral, I got a phone call from his personal lawyer in lower Manhattan, down by the Battery.
“You have to come down here, Timothy. I have some papers for you to sign.”
Oh, oh, here we go, I thought. An hour later, I arrived at his office and was shown into a private suite with red leather chairs and original art work from a well known New York artist. The lawyer’s name was Bernard Lewis. He had white hair and was Jason’s oldest friend. Once a week, for forty years, they had played Pinochle.
“I’ve called you down here to read you what Jason wrote before he left on his cruise. I must have had a confused look on my face.
“It’s about you, Timothy.”
“Me?”
“Yes, he really liked you, you know. He thought of you like the son he never had. And that brings me to the point. He told me, in no uncertain words, that if anything happened to him he wanted me to make sure the magazine continued on. He would prefer that you stayed and ran it in his memory.”
He waited a moment while I took this in and then he really took me by surprise.
Plus, there is this.”
He handed me a thick package and told me to open it up. I did as I was told as he tried to explain, but it was hard for him. There were tears in the old man’s eyes, but he did his best.
“He doesn’t just want you to run the magazine, Timothy. He’s giving it to you.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Giving it to me?”
“That’s right. In addition to the deed to the building there’s a key to the strong box at the bank next door. Inside that box you will find much of Jason’s worldly possessions, a considerable amount of cash, government bonds that he has been