by Rachel Ford
She looked up. “Ray. I’m sorry. You must think I’m the biggest asshole in the world.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Actually, I understand why you’re worried.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe in your cause, or that I don’t want to help people,” she was continuing. “It’s just…we have no way to see what happens when we start messing with the timeline.”
“I know.”
“One mistake, and we could cause catastrophic changes in humanity’s progression. And we just have no way to know what the consequences will be, until they hit – and by then, it’s potentially too late.”
“I know,” he repeated.
This time, Nancy seemed to hear him. “You do?”
He nodded. “Alfred explained it.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She seemed nonplussed by that.
“I don’t blame you. And if you need to send me back, to make the timeline right…well, you’re only sending me to the fate I made for myself.”
“No,” she said. “No, of course I’m not going to send you back. You’re already here. The timeline’s already changed. Sending you back…well, that’d be the same thing as killing you.”
He considered this for a moment, then grinned. “Well, I won’t argue with you, for obvious reasons.”
Nance laughed too. “I’d be surprised if you did.”
“So we’ll help him?” Alfred ventured.
For the taxman, though, she had no smiles. Instead, she shot him a dirty look, and said, “Yes, we’ll help him. Liar.”
This portended an uneasy kind of truce. As long as they were working to help Ray, Nancy left the topic alone. However, the taxman felt there was a reckoning to come.
And the truth was, he had no good answer for her. As much as he stood by helping Detective Lorina, he’d still lied to her. He’d still snuck and done it behind her back, instead of being upfront about his intentions. And on that score, he had nothing to say in his own defense.
An uneasy tension settled on the trio as they worked. Ray had compiled a list of questions he needed to answer, and Nancy took it upon herself to acquaint the man of the past with the technologies of the present, starting with search engines.
The detective geeked out at this discovery almost as much as Nance at seeing his enthusiasm. “You must have no need for investigators now. You can find answers to everything, at the touch of a button.”
“Only the answers people put out there.” With a pointed scowl in the taxman’s direction, she added, “People nowadays are just as good at keeping secrets and lying as they’ve ever been.”
So the day progressed. Nance took calls twice, once from Josh and once from Maggie. He tried hard not to eavesdrop, but when she was off the line, couldn’t resist a, “What was that about?”
“Just making sure I got home, and everything was alright with you. Since I had to leave early, to come babysit you.”
He didn’t inquire about Maggie’s call. Instead, when lunch rolled around, he ordered takeout from Nance’s favorite Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t a bribe, exactly, but he hoped it might help. “I’m going to grab some food for us. Be back soon.”
“Thanks, taxman. I’m starved,” Ray said.
Nancy wasn’t hungry, though, when he returned. “I’ll eat something later.”
With her guidance, Ray was able to answer most of his questions. He pieced together a pretty solid biography of the primary Tomassi operatives, from the family to their known trigger men. His real focus, though, was Walton Kennedy.
Kennedy married, had four children, and lived in a modest home. If his family’s old photos were anything to go by – Nance had managed to scrape up a ton of them via social media oversharers – he’d always driven a nice car, and dressed smartly. There was nothing in any of that to raise eyebrows.
It was his gambling habits that drew the detective’s attention. And they were neatly detailed by his grandson and biographer, Stilton Kennedy. Stilton had written a fawning book about his grandfather, entitled, The Quiet Agent. For three dollars and ninety-nine cents, Nancy bought it. And Ray Lorina was introduced to a new wonder of the modern world: eBooks.
According to the grandson, Walton funded his expensive habit – losing tens of thousands in a single sitting, sometimes – with careful investments. “He was an enigma, but he knew his limits. He would play hard and party harder, but he always knew when to walk away. He never got so lost in the game that the game won.”
The entire book, it seemed, was full of such pearls. The section on Lorina was particularly galling. “There he was, a New York celebrity: good looks, boyish charm, and all the guile of the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
“And who was Walton Kennedy, the bookish, bespectacled taxman, to challenge this hero of the people? For obvious reasons, the story often elicits imagery of David and Goliath. But Walton’s son, Grant, remembers it differently.
“‘He was Daniel, walking into the lion’s den. These men, they worshipped Lorina. And he marched in, fearless, to confront the lions in their own den with his data. And the rest, as they say, is history.’”
“Not for long,” Alfred sniffed as the detective read aloud, incredulous at what he was reading.
There was one passage in particular that Nancy found that struck them all.
“By the standards of the day, Walton was something of a playboy. He liked the ladies a little too much, and the gaming tables a lot too much. But he always took care of his family.
“There was always money for whatever the missus needed. That was a point of pride to him. Walton’s son, Crandon, recalls, ‘Dad always said, he’d go to bed hungry before he let mum go without. That was his philosophy, and it was what he lived by. He taught us all that: you do right by your woman and your family. He worked long hours. Sometimes we wouldn’t see him except in passing for days at a time. But he always, always, took care of us.’
“Walton took care of his family better than they knew. The family always knew he had his stocks and bonds. They covered his gambling habit, and the thought was that there wasn’t much left over.
“But when Walton Kennedy passed away, he left his three sons and daughter millions of dollars in stocks and bonds – millions that they never knew he owned. Millions that his modest home and easy manners never would have hinted, not even to those who knew him best.”
“No IRS agent makes that much money,” Alfred declared emphatically.
“Not on the up-and-up,” Ray agreed.
“You think he’s the guy, then?” Nance wondered.
The detective nodded. “I’d bet my hat on it.”
Soon, Ray was scribbling away in his notebook again. Alfred watched him write with a measure of fascination and horror. The man might be a genius, but he’d read doctor’s notes that were easier to decipher.
It was shortly before five when Nance got up. “Well, I need to go get Maggie. Her plane will be in soon.”
“I’ll come with you,” Alfred decided. “You’re fine on your own, right, Ray?”
“No,” she said. Then, her tone taking on softer notes in response to the disappointment that flooded his features, she added, “Stay with Ray, in case he needs anything.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, I’ll see you later, then.”
“Not tonight. I’m going to get Maggie home, and then get some sleep.”
“Nance…” The taxman felt his heart sink.
“I’m jetlagged. That’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
He stood rooted in place as she left, and he was keenly aware of the fact that he was on the receiving end of lies, now. And it hurt.
“You okay?” Ray asked once the door closed, and Nancy’s car pulled out of the drive.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Hmm. You don’t look fine.”
Alfred frowned at the other man. “I am.”
The detective sighed, pushing back from the table. “Look, this isn’t my busi
ness, I know. But you screwed up.”
His frown morphed into a scowl. “Saving your neck. But thanks for the reminder.”
“Don’t blow your wig, Alfred. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it. I do. But it’s obvious you’re dizzy about the dame, yeah? So get her on the Ameche, and apologize.”
This was all Greek to him, except for the last part. “Apologize?”
“Yeah. Unless you want to find yourself streeted?”
“I have no idea what that means,” the taxman confessed.
“Dropped at the curb. Kicked out of her life.”
“You mean, dumped?”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“You think…she’d dump me? For using the generator?”
Ray shrugged. “Using the generator? No. But how many times did you lie to her? Look, I know I’m a chump in love. I can bump my gums all day long, but you know the girl, and I don’t.” He shook his head now. “But I do know people. And trust? Well, people tend to stop loving when they stop trusting.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alfred pondered Ray’s words for a while. He chewed over the hurt he’d seen in Nancy’s eyes when she accused him of lying to her. He still felt the cutting pain of her words, as keenly as when she’d said them. I’m jetlagged. That’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.
He had broken his word to her, violated her trust, and then lied to her on top of it all. He’d taken the easy way out. He’d been a coward.
He had let her walk out of the door without an apology too. And now it was too late. He’d see her again tomorrow, but that’d be at work. Would she talk to him? Would she go to lunch with him? Maybe. He could apologize then, in person.
But maybe she wouldn’t. And the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to let her stew on his shortcomings overnight.
So, excusing himself and disappearing into the back of the house, where he could converse in privacy, he took out his phone and put Nancy’s number in. He didn’t have anything planned, this time, except the truth. He’d put it all on the line, be completely honest, and hope she could forgive him.
But his call was almost immediately diverted to voicemail. Hummus. He stared at the phone for a long minute, entertaining a dim hope that maybe she’d return the call.
She didn’t. He pondered his next move. Did he call again? She’d probably just send him to voicemail. Did he just leave it be, and pray she’d be in a more conciliatory mood in the morning?
He shook his head. He was being a coward again. No, he had to do this. So, he thumbed out of the keypad interface, and brought up his messages from her. Then, he started typing.
“Nance, I’m sorry. I know I fudged up.” He frowned, and backspaced. Then, gritting his teeth, he typed out the word he really meant, ignoring the way he cringed to see it written out. “I know I fucked up. I don’t have a good excuse. I don’t have any excuse.
“I shouldn’t have lied to you. I shouldn’t have tampered with the timeline behind your back.
“I’m sorry, darling.
“I hope you can forgive me. I’m so sorry. I love you, Nance.”
For a long time, Alfred sat staring at his phone, waiting for a reply. Anything, even the most cursory acknowledgement, would have sufficed. Just so long as he knew she got it, and hadn’t completely given up on him.
But no response came. And, finally, the taxman quit the back office and returned, dejectedly, to the dining room.
Ray glanced up as he entered, and said only, “Oh.”
“She…didn’t answer,” Alfred offered. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he was sharing his misery, but in the moment he felt too low to keep it bottled up.
“Maybe…maybe she just needs time to blow off steam, get her head straight.”
He nodded, and tried to sound like he meant it as he answered, “Maybe.”
“Hey, it’ll all work out, taxman.”
Alfred cringed as his own platitude was turned back on him. He wondered if it sounded this hollow and useless when he said it. “Yeah.”
“And, if it doesn’t, you can always try again. In person, with flowers. Chicks dig flowers.”
“Hmm,” Alfred grunted. “So where are we? On the case, I mean?” He didn’t want to think of Nancy right now. He knew her well enough to know that a little cheap bribery wasn’t going to do the trick. It was something he loved about her, right up until moments like these, where a little flexibility on that score would have worked in his favor. Not that he really minded. It just meant that, if she forgave him, it would have to be on his own merits.
And the fact was, the longer he thought about it, the less optimistic he grew. So he didn’t want to think about it. There was nothing he could do at the moment, and wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to do anything good.
No, he’d turn his mind to the case. He’d help Ray.
At least, that was the intention. In reality, the detective spent as much time explaining what he was looking for and why as Alfred spent searching the files. And, sometimes, as Lorina talked, the taxman’s mind would wander back to Nancy, and how colossally he’d hosed his own life up; and then Ray would have to start over, because he’d lost track of what they were doing and why.
After a space, Lorina suggested, “Maybe you should get some shuteye.”
“Huh? Oh, no. I can’t sleep now. I’ve got to keep my mind on task.”
“Things always look clearer after a night of rest,” Ray persisted. “I can keep working on this.”
Alfred shook his head, though, too miserable to pick up on the almost pleading qualities in the other man’s voice. “No. I won’t be able to sleep. I ruined everything. The least I can do is help you.”
The detective grimaced but argued no further. Instead, they worked together at trying to find data on one of the Tomassi triggermen, Al Botticelli. It was mind numbing work, and not in the way Alfred hoped. There were no brilliant discoveries, no startling revelations, to take his thoughts off Nance.
It was just sifting through papers, sheet after sheet, line after line, until his eyes felt like they were bleeding and his brain had gone catatonic. He wondered how Lorina could do this. He wondered how anyone could. He wondered how they could stand it.
He wondered how they could concentrate. Because he couldn’t. The lines blurred and danced before him, and his thoughts always, inevitably, returned to her. She’d have dropped Maggie off, by now. She’d be home soon.
Not here, at his house – the house that, these last months, had been theirs. She’d be at her own place, away from him.
“Alfred?”
The taxman started. “Huh?”
“I said, you done with that file?”
“Oh.” He glanced down at the pages he’d been trying to read. “Um, yeah.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“You want to double check this one?” He held up a manila folder. “I didn’t see anything, but a second set of eyes never hurts.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Alfred took the files numbly, and stared at them just long enough for them to blur too. “Is there, maybe, some other angle I could look at?”
“What?”
He shrugged. “This one isn’t holding my attention.”
Ray pulled a face and crossed his arms. “I don’t think any of this is going to hold your attention. Your mind is otherwise occupied.”
“Of course it will,” Alfred said. “I just need something…more interesting than what’s-his-face.”
“Al Botticelli.”
“That’s right.”
The detective groaned. “Are you sure a good night’s sleep wouldn’t clear your thoughts?”
Alfred shook his head. “I’ve got to be in to work, tomorrow. I have to help you while I can.”
Ray’s expression seemed to call the use of the word ‘help’ into question, but he was too polite to give voice to the thought. “Alright. Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you pick a lead, and chase it?�
��
“Where are our leads?”
The detective tapped his notebook. “There’s a couple in there.”
He frowned at the cryptic handwriting, and for a little while, it did manage to hold his attention. It was like solving some kind of complex riddle, trying to make out obscure characters and link them back to real ones. Then, though, as he started to get the hang of it, and Ray’s scribbles began to take form as actual words, he found his interest waning again.
“So…any of these would work?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t have a preference?”
“Nope. I need answers to every question I have there.”
“I can just…pick one, then?”
“Yup.”
“Any one?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh.” He sighed. He didn’t like to be micromanaged, but in the moment, he felt a little too ambivalent to chart his own course. A guiding hand, he thought, would have been useful.
He was staring at the page, trying to force himself to pick a topic, when he heard the sound of a car in his drive, for the second time in a day. He frowned. Alfred Favero didn’t often get visitors, much less at a rate of two to a day. Granted, the first hadn’t been a visitor, but Nance.
Still, it was late, and he was expecting no one. If nothing else, though, it gave him an excuse to get out of his seat. “I’ll see who that is.”
Alfred headed to the front door, and opened it to the most beautiful sight in the world: Nancy Abbot, standing on his doorstep. His heart skipped a beat.
“Nance.”
“Alfred.” Her eyes, he saw now, were red from crying, and her tone was hesitant. “Can I…come in?”
He threw his arms around her. “Oh my God, yes, Nance.”
She wrapped him in a hug too, and laughed, something between a sob and a laugh.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. I…should have known this case was so important to you.”
“No, Nance. I’m the one who…fucked up.” He stepped back to look her in the eye. “It’s all on me, and I know that.”
“Babe, I just…I need to know I can trust you.” Her eyes were watering again, and they searched his face as she spoke.
