by Rachel Ford
Boyle signaled to the five men around him, and they moved on the other detective. They didn’t look to be in a conciliatory mood, either. There was murder in their eyes.
At the bar, meanwhile, Donnelly was taking his pictures, filling the dimly lit room with flashes of light.
Alfred was on his feet before he fully knew what he was doing, whipping his badge out. He didn’t have a plan, exactly. He hadn’t thought this through at all. He was operating on instinct, fueled by a burning need to see justice done. And, perhaps, a little hero worship.
“Alfred Favero,” he shouted, “IRS.”
The six detectives stopped of one volition, turning to stare at the taxman.
For a moment, he felt his mouth go dry. In the back of his mind, the thought registered that this was probably the stupidest decision he’d ever made. But, made it he had, and he was committed now. So, finding his voice again, he said, “I’m taking charge of this prisoner.”
Boyle snorted. “IRS? This is an NYPD investigation. This is our jurisdiction.”
“The Internal Revenue Service is investigating Mister Lorina for federal crimes,” Alfred snapped. “That makes it our jurisdiction.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are pal, but you got your wires crossed,” the detective tried again. “This perp is ours, and we’re taking him.” Just for good measure, he took a step forward and planted his feet in a wide stance. “Ya follow?”
Alfred stepped forward too, until he was standing nose to nose with the other man. He was a little taller than the detective, and about half as wide. He didn’t pay that much mind. “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time, bucko. This is a federal case. And feds have jurisdiction. Capisce?”
Boyle positively growled, but Alfred held his ground. Finally, the other man blinked. “Goddamned wop, who the hell do you think you are? I’ve been working this case for months.”
Alfred breezed past him, not wanting to drag this out any longer than necessary. So far, things were going his way. But if Boyle – or any of these other jokers – decided to settle things with fists, he felt his luck would change, and quickly. “Ray Lorina, you’re under arrest,” he said, feeling a pang of guilt as he did so. Still, the charade was the only way he was going to get them both out of here alive. “Come with me.”
“Under arrest for what? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Alfred tried to remember what the detectives had said, stammering out, “Money laundering. And murder. And…jaywalking.”
Lorina blinked. “What?”
The taxman, though, seized him by the shoulder, spinning him around. “Come with me. Don’t make me take you out in cuffs in front of the cameras.” He really hoped this would compel a little cooperation from the detective, not least of all since he didn’t actually have cuffs.
It seemed to do the trick because, protesting that he was innocent all the way, Ray Lorina allowed himself to be led outside. A camera flash went off as they walked, and someone called, “Goddamn, you take another picture, they’re going to be printing your obituary.”
“Quit bumping your gums, Joey. You know the boss wants to see this.”
Alfred heard a heated rejoinder, and, a moment later, glass shattering. He pushed Lorina toward the door with an added haste to his step. A full blown fight was raging behind them by time they stepped outside, into the frigid February night.
“This way,” the taxman said, pulling the detective toward the alley.
Lorina followed, but came to a dead halt as soon as he saw where he was led. “What the hell is this? You’re not really a cop, are you?”
“No,” Alfred admitted, fishing in his jacket pocket for the generator.
The detective’s eyes flashed, and he reached for his gun. “You’re working for Sal.”
“Please don’t do that,” the taxman squealed. “I’m not, I swear.”
Lorina moved quickly, drawing his gun with a speed that rather horrified the taxman. Pressing his eyes closed, certain he was about to die, Alfred pushed the button.
He heard a shot ring out. He felt the familiar sensation of disembodying travel. Then it vanished, and he found, with a measure of surprise, he was still alive.
He was not alone, though. The detective – gun still in hand – had come with him. The other man seemed stunned. “What in God’s name did you do?”
“Please don’t freak out,” Alfred said. “And, by freak out, I mean, murder me.”
“Who the hell are you? Where did you take me? And how?”
The taxman licked his lips nervously. He was rapidly beginning to see the problems with his bold rescue operation. One after another popped into his mind, now that it was too late to reconsider. “Please don’t shoot me,” he said again. “But I got you out of there.”
Alfred found himself staring into the barrel of a handgun. “What the hell just happened? Who are you?”
“My…my name is Alfred,” he stammered, lifting his hands in the air. “And we…we travelled through time, to get away from those cops. They were going to frame you.”
“Travelled…through time?”
“I know it sounds insane. I swear, it’s the truth.” Alfred glanced between the gun and the man holding it. “Please…could you maybe put the gun down? I’d really like to not…you know…die.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You’re telling me you’re some kind of gumshoe that hops through time or something?” Ray asked, his tones incredulous.
“Uh, kind of. I’m a tax law investigator.”
“Tax law?” This didn’t do much to ease the other man’s confusion. “What does tax law got to do with me?”
“Nothing. Not directly.” Alfred shook his head. “Look, it’s complicated. I’ll explain everything, but please put the gun down.”
“Oh.” The detective glanced between the pistol he held and the taxman, then lowered the weapon. “Sorry. But, let’s see your heater too.”
“What?”
“Your gun.”
“I don’t have one.”
Ray frowned at him. “You were gonna draw on me, outside Sal’s.”
“No. Jesus, no,” Alfred protested, holding up the spacetime field generator. “I was getting this, to bring us home. To my home, I mean. I don’t have a gun.”
“So you weren’t going to shoot me?”
“Shoot you? Why would I shoot you?”
Ray ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Just…none of this makes sense.”
“I know it’s a lot to take in. But, please…the gun.”
“Right.” The other man nodded, holstering his pistol. “Okay, taxman: start over. Tell me how you got mixed up in all of this. And…” He shook his head, glancing at the rooms around him. “And explain this time travel bit.”
“I have a device that allows me to move through space and time. What you would call time travel.”
“Like the Time Machine?”
Alfred had to consider the question for half a moment. It was a sci-fi book, he knew; one of the ones Nance raved about, as being a classic. “Right,” he said. “Something like that.”
Ray passed a hand through his hair again and whistled. “Wow. So how far in the future are we, exactly?”
“About eighty years, give or take.”
“Eighty years? Then…am I even alive anymore, in your time?”
Alfred shifted in place. “Well, uh, no. But…I’m sorry, but you died a long time ago.”
“I did?”
He nodded. “Listen, this is going to be…hard to hear. But those cops tonight? In the real timeline – before I intervened, I mean – they arrested you. You went to prison on trumped up charges of working for the mob. And…and you died. In prison.”
“Jesus,” the other man said, his face turning very pale. “How long was I in for?”
“Not long. Someone…someone shivved you.”
“In the can?”
“In the chest.” Then, Alfred took his meaning. “Oh, yes, when you were in prison.”
<
br /> Ray took a seat now, staring at the taxman. “This is…crazy talk. Time travel? And…” He shook his head. “Me going to prison? The City knows me. They know I don’t work for Tomassi, or any of those guys.”
Again, all the arguments against transporting someone through time with no warning – the arguments that might have stopped a wiser man – swarmed his mind. “I know it’s…difficult. But you saw us travel.”
The detective nodded slowly. “I did.”
It was then that Alfred’s phone rang, and it was so loud in the stillness that he yelped. “Sugar cookies.”
Ray was on his feet in a second, reaching for his gun. “What is that?”
“It’s just my phone,” he answered hastily. “I need to answer it. But…there’s no need for that.”
The detective relaxed his grip on the gun, slipping it back into the holster for the second time that morning, and Alfred breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, he got the phone. It was Nance, and she was initiating a video chat. Sugar cookies. Pivoting so that Ray was out of the frame, he affected his most casual tone and answered, “Nance.”
“Hey Alfred. I-” She cut off suddenly. “Is that…a fedora?”
The taxman glanced upward, his eyes reaching the brim of his hat. “Fudge muffins,” he said aloud, snatching it off his head.
Nancy laughed. “Alfred, what’s going on?”
“I…uh…” His mind raced. “I was…planning my Halloween costume.”
Her eyes widened. “You were?”
“Yeah. You said you wanted to do a couple’s costume.”
“I did.” She smiled. “Wow. Wow, that’s awesome Alfred. I know that’s not really your thing.”
He shrugged, feeling every bit a louse for lying to Nance like this. “I thought it’d be fun. Figured I’d surprise you.”
“It will be, babe. And, of course, I see you’re going with a familiar theme.” She grinned, adding, “But I’m sorry I ruined your surprise.”
“Oh, no worries. But, hey, what’s up?”
“We’re on break. And I just wanted to check and make sure you ate your breakfast.”
He frowned at her. “Of course I ate my breakfast.” Overate, considering all the Fat Sal’s pizza he’d scarfed down. She didn’t need to know that, though.
“Good. And have you been drinking water?”
Here, he paused. He’d forgotten that. “Not yet…”
She laughed. “Make sure you do. Hydration is important.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay.”
“How’s filming?”
“It’s great. I mean, we’ve shot the same scene fifty times, but there’s always some new angle, or-” She cut off suddenly, surprise registering on her features. “Oh. I didn’t realize you had someone over.”
Alfred glanced up at this, realizing with mortification that Ray had rounded the phone and was standing square in the center of the frame. He’d doffed his hat, but his eyes were fixed on the screen with a mix of awe and alarm. “Oh…uh…this is Ray…” Panic swelled in his mind even as he said it. He should have chosen another name. Nance had seen pictures of Ray Lorina, and though they’d been grainy black-and-white stills, he didn’t want to make any associations for her. “Raymond.”
She nodded. “Hey, Raymond.”
“He’s…uh, helping me with my costume.”
Nancy blinked. “He is?”
“Yeah. He’s…a master costumer.”
“Oh. Wow.” She seemed surprised, but no more so than Ray, who was staring at the taxman with a slack jaw. “You…you really are going all out on this costume, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Alfred laughed nervously, shifting so that the detective was out of the frame. “Anything for you, babe. But, hey, we’re in the middle of stuff now. Can we talk later?”
“Of course. Sorry to interrupt.”
“No worries. Love you, darling.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
“Bye.” Alfred terminated the call and stood rooted to the spot, shaking with nerves. “Sugar cookies. At least, I don’t think she recognized you.”
“What manner of device is that?” the detective wondered.
“A phone.” This was going to be more difficult than he originally thought, he realized. There were decades, approaching a century’s worth, of technological advancements Lorina would have to be brought up to speed on.
“That’s no phone that I’ve ever seen. That was like…the movies.”
“It isn’t like phones of your era,” he conceded. “But our phones can do more than transmit voices. They can share images. Still images, like photographs, and videos.”
Ray took a seat again, the news seeming to stun in equal measure to the revelation that he’d been sold out and murdered. He stared with glassy eyes at the taxman.
Alfred wondered momentarily about his priorities, but then pushed the thought aside and pulled up a chair beside him. “I know this must be overwhelming. But the reason I brought you here was so that we could change things. In the original timeline – before I interfered – you died in prison. Now that I’ve brought you to my era…” He paused for a moment, collecting and sorting his memories. As before, he had two distinct sets of them: the originals, from the first timeline, and replacements, stemming from his intervention. “They said the mob whisked you away, protecting you from facing the music. Dorothy believed the Tomassis killed you.”
“Dori?” Ray looked up now, a kind of clarity spreading across his features. “Oh God. I just disappeared out of her life, then? Who knows what she thought? My poor Dori.”
“She always maintained you were innocent,” Alfred said, hoping that, at least, would lessen the sting.
The detective ran a hand through his hair. “Oh Dori.” Now, he looked up at the taxman. “Is she…dead too?”
“Yes. But she lived a long life.”
He nodded at that. “Good. Good. And…was it a happy life? Did she get married and have the family she always wanted?”
Here, Alfred fidgeted. “Well…um…the thing is, Ray, she…didn’t.”
“What?”
“She never got married. Or had kids.”
“Because I disappeared?” The detective shook his head, as if he was fighting the news. “No. You’ve got to take me back. Don’t you see? She must have believed I’d be back someday, Alfred. You’ve got to take me back to my own time. Even if I die again, at least she’ll know what happened. I can’t – I can’t let her live her life like that, not knowing, waiting for something that will never happen.”
“Ray…she didn’t get married in either timeline. Even when she knew you were dead. She…she never married, when she lost you.”
“Oh God.” He buried his head in his hands. “What have I done?”
The taxman cleared his throat. “I’ve got a plan. A plan to fix this.”
Chapter Fifteen
It had taken a few minutes, but Alfred was able to get through the other man’s despair and bring him around. “What’s your idea, taxman? We’ve got to fix this.”
“It’s simple. In your day, the mob was too powerful to take on. Boyle and all those cops? They were probably on the take. Hummus, they even had an IRS agent on their payroll. So of course they got you before you got them.
“But nowadays, it’s different. Most of the old crime families are gone, and the ones that remain don’t have the power they used to.”
Here, at least, Ray perked up. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
“God, it seemed like it was a fight we’d never win. Every time you cut off one head, two more would spring up to take its place. Like a hydra.” He shook his head. “You’re saying, we do win?”
“Yeah. You do. It costs a lot of lives, and takes a lot of courageous people willing to risk everything. But organized crime is beaten back, off the streets, into the shadows again.”
Ray whistled. “Hell. Sounds like I died right before we found heaven on
Earth.”
“Not quite,” Alfred cautioned. “There’s still a world war about to happen, and…well, quite a few other wars on the way after that one. And decades of racial prejudice and social unrest and wealth inequality and class exploitation…” He shook his head. “Which is neither here nor there. Point is, trust me, there were still plenty of problems to solve outside the mob.”
“A world war?” Ray wondered. “That damned Hitler, I suppose?”
“That’d be the one.”
“I knew it.” Now, he glanced up at the taxman. “We do win, right? We beat that son-of-a-bitch?”
Alfred scoffed. “Of course.”
“Good. And Mussolini?”
“Yup.”
“Good.”
“Definitely. But, uh, about the case?”
“Right. The case. You were saying the mob had infiltrated the department.”
“Right. My thinking is, we prove your innocence now – get the evidence that exonerates you in this era, where we can find it without worrying about dirty cops.”
“And chopper squads,” Ray put in.
“I have no idea what that is,” Alfred admitted, “but it doesn’t sound good.”
“A group of guys, come to…” The detective mimed a man with a machine gun, even providing rat-tat-tat sounds. “Chop you down.”
“Oh.” He shivered. There was something simultaneously charming and blood curdling about early twentieth century slang. At the moment, he was feeling the effects of the latter more than the former. “Well, uh, fortunately, we don’t have those either nowadays.”
Ray nodded. “Exactly.”
“So we get the evidence without alerting any dirty cops, or machine gun squads.”
The detective nodded again. “Okay. I like it so far. Then what?”
“Well…to be honest, I haven’t fully thought that part out. I was hoping you’d be able to help.”
“Me? I don’t know anything about time travel.”
“No, but for this to work, we have to take the evidence back to your time. We have to prove, in your day, that you were innocent.”
Ray pondered this for a moment, then nodded again. “Alright. So, say we figure that out…you have a way to get me back home, right?”
