The Time Travelling Taxman Series Box Set

by Rachel Ford

  The two men nodded in unison, and the taxman said, “Beam me up, Scotty.”

  Nance threw him a glance that was at once surprised and pleased.

  “Scotty?” Ray asked, confused.

  “It’s from a TV show,” Alfred explained.

  “Well,” Nance put in, “not from the show.”

  “What?” he blinked.

  “It was a popular misquote, but it wasn’t until the Kelvin timeline…” she trailed off at his blank stare. “Never mind. It was still one of the sexiest things you’ve ever said.”

  Alfred was only a little less confused than Lorina, but the appreciative look in her eyes told him that he’d hit his mark anyway, whatever nerdy technicality he’d overlooked. “Engaging transporters now,” she answered.

  A wash of light signaled that they were on their way. A few seconds later, and they were standing in a dark apartment, furnished in early twentieth century movables. Ray slipped his gun out of his holster, tapping a finger to his lips to indicate that they should remain quiet. Then, slowly, carefully, he crept forward.

  They were standing in a kind of entryway. A light shone out of a distant room, casting spindly fingers of illumination and shadow into the rest of the interior. The detective was moving for the light, and Alfred and Nancy followed.

  A smallish home office came into view, and he saw a figure hunched over a table, head resting in a hand. A half empty glass of whiskey sat beside a pile of papers, and a cigarette smoldered in an ash tray. A holstered revolver lay a few inches away. He couldn’t make out the face, but he could see the man’s back, and he seemed to be built like a bull. This, he assumed, was Boyle again.

  Ray stepped into the lit room, and Alfred followed. His palms slicked, and his heart raced. Sugar cookies. One wrong move and it’s curtains for the three of us.

  Nance was a step or two behind him, and he was a stride behind the detective. Ray, in turn, was half a dozen steps away from Isaac Boyle. Just a few more steps, he thought. That’s all.

  He felt his mind relaxing, his breathing coming easier. It was, naturally, at that moment that he lowered his foot onto a squeaky board. A loud groan sounded throughout the entire room.

  Boyle moved with an inhuman speed, reaching for his revolver. But, so did Ray. Just as the one detective’s fingers found purchase on the revolver’s grip, the other detective’s pistol found a spot to rest between Boyle’s shoulders.

  The big man froze in place, and Ray warned, “Don’t move.”

  “Lorina?” Boyle hissed. “You goddamned ginzo. You come to murder me, then?”

  “Stop flapping your gums, Mick, and listen to me. You’re being played by Tomassi. Tomassi and that rat bastard Kennedy.”

  Alfred cringed at the insults flying back and forth. They were better than bullets, of course, but, still, they seemed more than a little counterproductive.

  “Let me guess: you’re innocent,” the Irishman taunted.

  “You’re damned right I am,” the Italian shot back. “And you’re not too thick to see it. You know me. We’ve been on the force together for years.”

  “Which makes what you’ve done even more disgusting.”

  “Listen to me, you imbecile. I’m being set up. Kennedy is on Tomassi’s payroll. Those documents he’s got on me? They’re forged.”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word on this, goombah?”

  “No. I’ve got a list of dates here for you, and figures. Deposits, made to Kennedy’s account.” Ray tossed the paper onto Isaac’s desk.

  “That doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But you’ll be able to confirm what I’m saying when you pull the records.”

  “And how’d you get your greasy paws on them?”

  “Doing my job.”

  “Even if what you say is true, that doesn’t tell me where the money’s coming from.” There was defiance in Boyle’s tone, but doubt too.

  “No. But you can see that for yourself. Tonight, in about thirty minutes.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. At Tiny’s Pub.”

  “Tiny’s?” The name seemed to register with the detective.

  “That’s right. Ringing any bells.”

  “Maybe. But…if you’re telling the truth…what the hell are you doing on the lam? Why not turn yourself in, and trust in justice? If Kennedy’s dirty, if he’s framing you, we’ll get him. If you’re innocent, why run?”

  Ray scoffed. “You’re smarter than that, Boyle. You know half this town is owned by the mob, and the other half’s too dumb to see what’s going on. As it is, I’m taking a chance talking to you, that you’re not on the take.”

  “You got a lot of nerve, coming to my house and putting an iron in my back, saying that to me.”

  “We’ll see, Boyle.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ray took Detective Boyle’s gun, and, with directions to count to fifty before he moved a muscle, they disappeared down the hall. Nancy had already put in the coordinates for their next stop, and they were gone before Boyle left his seat.

  Alfred sucked in a great breath of freezing, February night air; and immediately repented it. The combination of cold and pollution filled his lungs, and he wheezed out a long series of coughs.

  “You alright, taxman?”

  “Yes,” he gasped.

  “Then can you keep it down? I don’t want anyone to hear us.”

  Alfred glared at the other man. Nance was more sympathetic, wrapping an arm around him. “What happened, babe?”

  “Just…got a lungful…of bad air,” he explained.

  “Oh.” She seemed confused. “Okay. You sure you’re alright?”

  He gritted his teeth, sucking in a few more raspy breaths. “Yup.”

  She nodded, rubbing a hand up and down his back. In the lamplight, he could see her brow creased in concern.

  They were standing in an alley near Tiny’s, kitty-cornered across the apartment building they’d used during their first stakeout, and the pub. From this vantage, they could see both. “Look,” Lorina said, tapping Alfred’s elbow to get his attention. “It’s you.”

  Sure enough, the taxman peered up into the window of room two hundred and ten, to see his own face squinting out at the street below.

  It was a little eerie, he had to admit, to live through the same moments from another angle. It was strange to see himself as a spectator might, to view his own actions as he might another person’s. It had been bad enough the night of Sal’s death, when he’d heard the goings-on in the back office, and knew that another version of himself was hiding behind the chairs while he ate pizza a few rooms over.

  It was even more bizarre to see that early version of Alfred Favero peering out the window, unaware that he was being watched by a future version of himself. He shivered. He wasn’t one to indulge in illegal narcotics, but he imagined that no chemically-induced trip could be more surreal, more mind-blowing, than that feeling.

  “You need gloves?” Nance asked.

  “What?” He glanced up to see that she was proffering a pair of thick gloves.

  “You cold?”

  “Oh, no.” Then, he considered. Their position afforded them a great view, but it was outside, on a rather brisk February night. And even under a heavy woolen coat, the wind seemed to find every possible path to his skin. “Actually, yes. Thanks.” He slipped his hands into the gloves.

  “Of course.”

  “Head’s up,” Ray whispered. “Mario’s here.”

  They took a step back, ducking into shadow as the mobster stepped out of his vehicle. Alfred watched Mario run his snake eyes up and down the street, just the way he remembered. He watched Joe Corelli maintain a careful distance, just as he had the first time.

  Then, the two men walked into Tiny’s, and the door swung shut after them. Alfred released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. The first bit of the plan worked. What’s more, Boyle hadn’t given Mario the word to cancel this drop. />
  That meant their gamble had paid off. They’d bet on an honest detective. The taxman hoped he was a smart one, too. He didn’t see anyone out here, except the occasional appearance of their group in the apartment window. For this to work, though, they needed more than their past selves here. He hoped the shadows and alleys around them hid Boyle and his men. He hoped they hid Joe Donnelly. He hoped they held someone who would help this madcap plan come to fruition.

  “Kennedy,” Ray hissed. “Twelve o’clock.”

  Alfred’s eyes flew to the street. Sure enough, Walton Kennedy was headed for the pub. He walked with an easy step, and the sight rather rankled the IRS man. Crooked cops, in his mind, were bad enough. They were a disgrace to their badge, a stain on the reputation of law enforcement and a slap to the face of society. But a dirty IRS agent?

  Well, he took that personally. They were agents, like himself, who had sworn to protect the glue that bound society together, that underlying principle of civilization, that collective responsibility protected individual wellbeing. It wasn’t for the faint of heart, their line of service. It wasn’t for the glory hounds and show-offs. They didn’t make movies about taxmen. There were no IRS agent procedurals flooding primetime. Society didn’t romanticize and idolize the men and women who wore that badge.

  They worked in obscurity, unseen and even reviled by the average citizen. But, Alfred believed in his core, they were the thin blue line between order and chaos, between society and anarchy, between civilization and barbarism. They were – and he didn’t think it boastful to say – like the superheroes of Nancy’s comics, working in shadow or behind a mask: ignored, misunderstood and even rejected by the society in whose service they labored, day in and day out.

  It was a heavy cross to bear, but someone had to do it. Someone had to don the cape. Someone had to put on the badge.

  So it rankled Alfred in a very visceral way to see a man like Walton Kennedy, who had donned and then betrayed that badge, walk with an easy step. By rights, he should have been crushed under the weight of his crimes.

  Instead, he adjusted his hat with a cool indifference, and strode into Tiny’s Pub. Alfred scowled at the door, at the afterimage of the betrayer seared into his consciousness.

  So lost in these thoughts was the taxman that he yelped out loud at the sound of a whistle, high and sharp in the stillness of the night. Seeming to pour out of the brickwork all around the pub, uniformed bodies swarmed toward the building.

  “Hot dog,” Ray exclaimed. “That crazy Irishman actually listened.”

  Alfred yelped again as a flash of light illuminated the darkened street. “Joe Donnelly,” Nancy realized. “It’s a camera flash.”

  “Dori did it, then,” the detective said, his voice brimming with pride. “She got him to come to the meet.”

  Commentary was put on hold as the scene unfolded before them. A swarm of officers burst into the pub’s front door, and a few more rounded on the side doors. Angry shouts filled the night, and then – Alfred flinched – gun shots rang out.

  Ray moved for the building, but Nancy caught his arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Those are my men. I have to help them.”

  “You’re still a fugitive, Ray,” she reminded him. “You go storming in there with your gun out, they’re as likely to take you for one of Mario’s boys as anything else.”

  “Dammit,” he scowled. “You’re right.”

  All at once, Alfred heard the sounds of glass shattering. He threw a glance in the direction it seemed to come from, and gaped. A bespectacled man, briefcase in hand, was pushing himself out of a broken, first floor window. “It’s Kennedy.”

  Another searing burst of light cut through the darkness, and the taxman blinked away the circles and bursts that danced in his vision. When he could see again, Kennedy had already extracted himself from the window, and was picking himself up off the ground.

  There were no police officers outside. Other than themselves and the photographer – who, Alfred noted, was still concealed in shadow, somewhere – no one else seemed to be around. “We can’t let him get away,” he said.

  “No,” Ray agreed. “Not after everything he’s done.”

  “What about getting caught?”

  “Nance,” Alfred said, “we can’t let him escape. Not after all he did. Not after all he was willing to do. He would have stolen Ray and Dori’s entire lives. Plus, he betrayed the agency.”

  “He turned his back on the badge,” Lorina put in.

  “He betrayed everything we stand for.”

  Nancy sighed. “I just…hope no one shoots us.”

  “Alea iacta est,” Ray said, his tone sober, his eyes flinty.

  The taxman glanced up. “‘The die is cast,’” he nodded appreciatively. “If this is going to be our Rubicon, then so be it.”

  The detective nodded resolutely. “Well said, taxman.”

  She rolled her eyes. “God, are all Italians this melodramatic? Or is it just you two?”

  Alfred frowned at her. “Wow, that sounds like stereotyping to me, Nance.” Then, he added with a grin, “But, yeah, it’s pretty much all of us.”

  She grinned too. “Great.”

  “It’s one of the perks of dating an Italian.”

  “Bugs, you mean.”

  “Hey now.”

  Ray cleared his throat, reminding them, “He’s on the move, guys.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Walton Kennedy had a good head start on them, but Ray Lorina was no slouch. He closed the distance quickly, and was within a few strides before the rogue agent even realized he was being pursued. Nancy managed to keep up with the detective, and Alfred managed to keep them in sight, at least.

  So he saw as Walton rounded on the detective, a glint of steel catching the light of the streetlamps. Fudge muffins. A gun.

  He saw Lorina come to a dead halt, and Nancy almost careen into him as she stopped too. “It’s over, Kennedy,” the detective urged. “Drop the gun. There’s no walking away from tonight.”

  The bespectacled agent seemed to hesitate. “There is if I kill you.”

  “You’ll have to kill me too,” Nancy put in.

  He blinked at that. “I will, then.”

  “You’ll kill a dame?” Ray wondered, incredulously. “You’re a bigger rat than I had you figured for, then.”

  Alfred, now, wheezed onto the scene. “There’s…cops…everywhere.”

  “You won’t get out of here alive. And even if you do, they’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

  “Mario will turn evidence on you in a New York minute,” Nancy put in, “if he thinks it’ll buy some time. You know that.”

  “You’re disposable, Kennedy. You always were. Everyone is to dirtbags like that. So drop the bean shooter.”

  Alfred was still catching his breath. He’d drawn up beside Nancy, a few yards away from the armed man. Footsteps, meanwhile, rang out on the pavement behind them.

  Walton glanced up, and his eyes widened. “You’re right, Lorina. But you should have kept your nose out of it. Me? I’d rather go out in a flash of Chicago lightning.” He raised the gun until it was level with the detective’s head.

  “No,” Nancy called, darting forward.

  “Nance,” Alfred screamed, leaping toward her. He collided with her just as she was lifting off her heels, and the pair of them careened onto the pavement a few steps away. Meanwhile, it seemed hell itself had opened to swallow up the night. The sounds of gunfire rained down all around them.

  They landed hard and heavily on the concrete. “Ouch. Oh God,” Nancy moaned. “Alfred, what in the hell?”

  He, though, clung to her, covering her body with his. He had no idea what was going on, but he suspected he wasn’t going to live through the next few seconds. He wanted to make sure, at least, that she did. There were cops behind them. He’d inferred that from Walton’s suicidal commentary. Even if the other agent took down Lorina, it’d b
e a matter of moments before the cops took him down. All Alfred had to do, he decided, was keep Nance alive long enough for them to stop the shooter.

  “Damn it,” she said a moment later, “let me go.”

  The gunfire had stopped. He opened his eyes, one at a time. He hurt, but not, he suspected, like he’d hurt if bullets had torn into him. Lorina was standing over them. “You okay, Miss Nancy? Alfred?”

  “Other than being suffocated, yes,” Nance declared, pushing against him. “Dammit, Alfred, let go.”

  Now, the taxman did as he was bid. Ignoring the agony in his knees and elbows, he sat up. “What…happened?”

  Ray offered them both a hand. “Nancy’s diversion gave me time to draw,” he said, adding with a shrug, “And Ray Lorina doesn’t miss when he shoots.”

  Alfred glanced at the pavement where Walton Kennedy had stood. He wasn’t standing any more, and for half an instant the taxman thought the other man might be dead. He was lying in a slowly expanding pool of blood. But, then, Walton moved, groaning as he did so.

  Further explanation necessarily had to wait, though. The stampede of footfalls Alfred had heard in the distance descended, led by the bull himself, Detective Isaac Boyle.

  Ray raised his hands over his head in surrender as the officers reached them, but Boyle had no time for that. He walked over to the downed agent, glanced him over once, and returned to Lorina, clapping him on the back. “You crazy son-of-a-bitch. You weren’t lying.”

  “I wasn’t,” he confirmed.

  “Goddamn.” Boyle shook his head. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

  Ray shrugged. “You saved my ass, coming here tonight. Let’s call it even.”

  The bull considered, then nodded. “Alright.” Now, though, he scrutinized Lorina. “But what in God’s name did you do to yourself?”

  “Oh…that’s, err, a disguise.”

  “A disguise?” Boyle snorted. “You trying to be an Irishman or something?”

  “It’s an improvement,” another detective declared.

  “It is that. It is that. You don’t look half so ugly, Lorina.”