by Rachel Ford
He’d just pulled into the hotel parking lot when his phone dinged with a text message alert. It was from Nance. “Hey babe, so sorry I didn’t respond earlier. We’re not allowed to bring our phones back with us. They can’t risk leaks.
“Anyway, it’s been an incredible day. We’re heading out to dinner. Can’t wait to tell you about it – I’ll call you when we’re done.
“And I love the direction you chose with the presentation. Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart.”
This was followed by a row of kissing emojis. These, he had no trouble deciphering, and they put a smile on his face. Not as big, though, as the smile that the next line elicited.
“P.S. Make sure you record your speech. I can’t wait to see it.”
Alfred texted back, “Thanks, Nance. Love you.”
“Love you too, Alfred.”
Then, drawing in a deep breath, he got out of the car and marched into the hotel’s convention center.
He was greeted by some familiar faces, and ignored by unfamiliar ones. That was the beauty of a convention like this one. It was something people in his profession seemed to understand instinctively. Pleasantries were for friends. Mutual silence and incuriosity sufficed for strangers.
There were always outliers, of course – men like Justin, who flouted the established norms of professional respect. But, for the most part, Alfred was not troubled by errant introductions or unwelcome greetings. He made his way to the speaker’s table unharried, and took his assigned seat.
He’d already emailed his slideshow to the group’s chair and confirmed that the presentations were, in fact, going to be recorded, so now he had only to wait until it was his turn on the stage.
He did so with equanimity. He was no fan of public speaking, but he was among his own kind here. Plus, he was the third of four speakers, and he imagined he’d find more dynamism in a funeral parlor than what had been on display so far tonight.
Indeed, he had to struggle to get through the presentations without yawning. And, when it came to tax law, Alfred was not easily bored.
After such opening acts, he flattered himself, this was going to be a walk in the park.
And so it began, anyway. The opening slide, displaying the words Mob Bosses and Tax Losses in a crisp, sans-serif font elicited chuckles.
The next slide was a little riskier. He’d enlisted Nance to help find him the perfect gif, and she’d delivered: a scene from a forties film, of a stack of bank bonds collapsing on a pair of fleeing mobsters.
He wondered, at first, if he’d gone too far, when the slide was met with a few wide-eyed stares. But, then he delivered his line about the pitfalls of illegal windfalls, and he had them laughing in earnest.
The stories of the Gambinis thrilled, and the Quiet Boys chilled, his audience in turns. They seemed to be hanging on every word as he moved onto the Tomassi crime family.
First, he set the stage, describing the gang – led by the infamous, but elderly, Mario, and his hordes of sons and grandsons. Then he introduced Fat Sal, and his listeners shivered and shuddered as he ran through Salvatore Tomassi’s list of crimes.
“And now,” he said, switching slides, “we look at the other side: law enforcement.” He introduced Walton Kennedy to a host of knowing, appreciative nods. They didn’t know the man in question, but they knew how this story was going to play out – exactly as the previous two had done.
At least, that’s what they assumed. Alfred, of course, had something else entirely in mind. And, slowly but surely, the crowd began to realize that this wasn’t going the way they’d anticipated.
They realized it with frowns and sighs and harrumphs. When, at last, Alfred concluded, saying, “The Ray Lorina case illustrates a truth we would, perhaps, all like to forget: that no branch of law is immune from corruption, no ideal too pure to be perverted by avarice,” he was met with audible sighs of disgust.
If there had been any room for misinterpretation of this reception, the raucous Q-and-A session that followed laid it to rest.
“Look,” one man challenged, “not to put too fine a point on it, but it sounds to me like…well, a load of unsubstantiated guesswork.”
Alfred gaped, and barely had time to run through the list of his primary sources when another man seized the mic. “That’s all well and good, but none of those reports allege Walton had anything to do with the mob.”
“No, but – as I pointed out on slide thirty-two – he did maintain a lifestyle that seems untenable on an agent’s salary, in that day and –”
“Seems?” The man snorted. “I don’t mean to be blunt, Mister Favero, but this isn’t a tabloid. We are men of the law. We don’t deal with ‘seems.’ We deal with evidence.”
“Yes, and the evidence indicates –”
“That Ray Lorina is guilty,” someone else cut in.
“The fact is,” the man with the mic continued, “with what you’re saying about Walton, you’re tarnishing the name of a dead American patriot. Honestly, I’m surprised this was ever approved. After tonight, I’m going to be thinking long and hard about renewing my membership to this organization.”
“I was Galileo,” Alfred moaned to Nancy later that evening, “before the council in Rome. I was Bruno, burning at the stake.”
Nancy cringed at his metaphors. “It couldn’t have been that bad, babe,” she consoled.
“It was, Nance. It was worse.”
She cleared her throat but didn’t argue further. “It does sound awful. I’m sorry, Alfred. I feel terrible for encouraging you to do it, now.”
“It’s not your fault, Nance. I expected them to be more rational than that. But, I guess, it just goes to prove: we’re as susceptible to human weakness as anyone else.”
“Who is?”
“Taxmen.”
“Oh. Well, uh, yes, that’s definitely true.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Which is further evidence that Ray was innocent.”
She didn’t seem to follow his logic. “Umm, at any rate, you said the rest went well, though? They liked everything up until the Tomassi case?”
He nodded glumly. “Yeah. Not that it matters.”
“Of course it matters, Alfred. They were closed-minded about your theory, but your presentation was still great.”
He scoffed. “You didn’t even see it, Nance. How would you know?”
It was petty, and he regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth. “Because you told me about it,” she answered, and there was a hint of hurt in her voice. “And I believe you.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s just been a lousy day.”
“It’s alright, darling.” She sighed too. “Hey, how’s Fluff?”
“Eh, he’s fine.”
“You two getting along any better?”
“He didn’t knock my breakfast over this morning.”
She smiled. “See? Progress.”
He rolled his eyes, but did, he had to admit, feel a little better. “But what about you? You said you were having a great day?”
“Oh, yeah.” She hesitated. “But, it can wait.”
“No, Nance. Tell me about it. Just because my day’s been crappy doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your good news.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, darling.” The fact that she’d have to ask at all made him feel a proper heel.
“Well,” she said, grinning, “I have big news about the movie. But you have to promise not to freak out…”
“You know the odds of that are very low,” he teased.
Her grin broadened. “You know how I told you we were talking to Eugene Miller yesterday?”
“Yes.” It had been a source of some delight to both women.
“Well, today he asked us if we wanted to be in one of the shots.”
Alfred blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Just as extras,” she assured him. “You know, faces in the crowd. They’re filming a big fight scene, in the middle of a city,
and so there’s going to be tons of bystanders…and…” She shrugged, a smile reaching practically from ear to ear. “Maggie and I might be in. Provided our footage makes the cut.”
Alfred did freak out, just a little. “You’re kidding? Nance, you’re going to be in a movie?”
“Maybe,” she cautioned. “Like I say, no guarantees – and it’ll be for all of two seconds, even if we do make it…”
“Nancy.” Alfred barely heard these caveats. “Oh my God, you’re going to be in a movie. My Nancy, a movie star!”
She laughed. “Okay, that is definitely not what’s happening here, babe.”
For a few minutes, though, Alfred forgot all about his own miserable night. He was too excited about Nance being in a movie to think of anything else. He even forgot how much he hated superhero movies. Any director with the good sense to put Nancy onscreen couldn’t be a complete fool.
Then, though, an unwelcome sight intruded on their conversation: Josh Stevenson. He appeared in the background of her video feed.
“Hey, Nance, you still on the phone?”
She glanced up. “Oh, crap. I forgot about the time.” Over her shoulder, she called, “Be right there, Josh.”
“You have to go?” Alfred asked, his tone a touch petulant. He’d barely had a chance to talk to her, it seemed.
“Yeah. We’re going to a party.”
“Oh.”
Josh, meanwhile, had sidled into view, Maggie was there, too. “Hey taxman,” the marine greeted.
“Hey Alfred,” Maggie put in. “Today was your big talk, right?”
Nancy shot her cousin a warning glance, but not soon enough to stop the question. Instead, Maggie’s cheeks reddened, and Alfred, who had not missed the expression, frowned. “That’s right.”
“Oh. Uh, well, hope that went well.”
“Well enough,” he lied.
“I should get going, babe,” Nancy said. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning, before the shoot starts. Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Have a good one, Alfred,” Maggie called.
“Catch you later, taxman,” Josh said.
Nancy smiled. “Love you, babe.” Then, her video feed ended.
Chapter Nine
Alfred sighed, staring at the phone. “Well, Satan,” he said aloud. “Guess it’s just me and you now.”
The kitten wagged its tail.
“You miss her too, huh?” The taxman scratched behind the animal’s ears, and was surprised when it pressed its head into his hand. “You like that?”
For a few minutes, he pet Fluff, and was surprised anew when the animal started purring. Then, though, the novelty wore off. This fluffy orange creature, with its adorable face and mischievous ways that she loved so much, just reminded him of Nance.
And that, in turn, reminded him that Nance was in Hollywood, having the time of her life. With other people.
“Dammit, Satan,” he swore, and for the second time that day didn’t care about his language. “Why didn’t I go with her?”
The kitten watched him blankly, and he felt a bit guilty. “I’m not mad at you, little guy,” he sighed, running a hand over its back. And, despite the fact that it was back on the table, he wasn’t.
He was mad at himself. He’d put so much into that presentation – that stupid presentation – that no one had even liked anyway, that he’d barely considered this trip.
And now, Nance was away, and he was here, alone. He glanced at the papers still strewn across the table, his makeshift case file. Alone, staring into the face of my own failure.
He was struck that he’d let both Nance and Ray down – Nance, because this trip meant so much to her, and he hadn’t really seen it until now. And Ray because he’d failed, completely, to clear his name, even in such a small forum.
He sighed again. “Sugar cookies. Your daddy’s a great, big failure. You know that, Satan?”
The kitten just purred, rubbing against his fingers as he absently pet him.
“I wish there was some way…some way I could prove he didn’t do it.” He shook his head. That, of course, was impossible. He’d need evidence – solid, incontrovertible evidence – and he didn’t have a clue where to find it. Everything he had so far was circumstantial. And that, as he saw tonight, didn’t mean a thing.
He began rifling through the papers again, glancing over the sheets he’d already examined a thousand times. He grimaced at Fat Sal’s smug face, shivered at the boney visage of Mario Tomassi, and frowned at Ray’s devastated expressions.
Then, though, he paused. In the background of one of the trial photos, he saw a woman. Her pretty face was drawn, and her eyes puffy, as if she’d been crying.
The taxman recognized her. Her name was Dorothy Edwards, and she’d been Ray’s girl. He frowned, trying to recall what else he knew of her. He had a mini-dossier on her, compliments of the detectives who investigated Lorina. But he’d only skimmed it.
Now, Alfred sifted through the papers until he found it. The pictures caught his eye first.
She was a beautiful woman, with dark hair and bright eyes that shone through even the black and white photos. She wore her hair curled, in a classic early forties style, and dressed smartly in crisp skirts and nice blouses.
There were pictures of her with Ray, and Alfred studied them with a kind of sympathetic sadness. He recognized the look in her eyes. He recognized the look in Ray’s. It was love – not the fleeting, seasonal love of first crushes or summer romances. This was real love, the kind that never died.
Except, Ray Lorina had died. He frowned at that, sorting the papers until he found what he was looking for.
It was an obituary, for a Dorothy Edwards, aged ninety-two. “Never married. No children.”
Alfred felt his heart sink. He turned back to the photos of the two lovers, and one in particular drew his attention. They were standing together, arms around each other. It seemed to be a casual photo. He was dressed in slacks and wore a light jacket, and she was wearing a long-ish skirt and sweater. Ray’s eyes were on her’s, and a sweet smile turned up the corners of her mouth.
The taxman felt a little sick. It wasn’t just Ray who got shivved. It was you, too, Dorothy. The Tomassi’s had taken Lorina out directly. But they’d stolen her life too, as surely as they did his.
Dorothy had never stopped believing in Ray’s innocence. Every statement she’d given, in all the subsequent decades, attested to that. And she’d never stopped loving him, either.
Alfred got out of his seat, and paced the dining room floor. It was too late to undo what had been done. But it’s not too late to clear his name, he decided. It’s not too late to prove Dorothy’s faith in him was justified after all.
“Alright, Satan,” Alfred said. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was talking to the cat. Maybe because it was sitting there on the dining room table, watching his every move with far more interest than probably justified. Maybe because saying it out loud, somehow; made his plan seem a little less crazy. “All I’ve got to do is see what happened that night.” He nodded. “February 3rd, 1940: that’s when it all goes down. I just need to watch what happens. That’s it.”
He nodded briskly. There’d be no harm in that. He wouldn’t be modifying the timeline. He wouldn’t be interfering in any way. He’d just be observing.
It wasn’t quite in keeping with the terms they’d agreed to when they took the spacetime manipulator. They were supposed to keep it safe, and stop interested parties from getting their hands on it. Above all, they were supposed to guard the secret of time travel so no one could ever disrupt the timeline.
But they’d had to use it now and then. And no harm came of that. No, it would be fine. He wouldn’t be tampering with anything. He’d jump a handful of decades, see the truth for himself, and be back before anyone was any the wiser.
Especially Nance. Not that he wanted to keep secrets from her, of course. But she wouldn’t understand. She’d see only the risks. She wouldn’t s
ee why he needed to do this.
No, he’d figure out what went down that fateful night, and then, in his own time, work on how to prove it. But at least this way, he’d know what really happened. He’d know what he was trying to prove.
“Alright Satan,” he said again. “Here goes nothing.”
He’d punched the coordinates into the device’s display. That had taken a little bit of time to figure out. There was a dial that seemed to correlate to position in the multiverse. This, he steered clear of, sticking instead to the spatial coordinates and time selection areas.
With a little help from the web, he’d found the precise coordinates of Fat Sal’s Pizzeria, and adjusted by enough to put him in one of the back rooms. It wouldn’t do to materialize in front of a restaurant full of people. He just hoped the office he’d chosen would be empty.
Then, he chose the date and hour. And, with a final, nervous glance at Fluff, he gulped in a breath of air and pressed the button.
Chapter Ten
Alfred blinked into a dimly lit office space. A few scrappy paintings hung on the dark, wood paneled walls, and a worn rug lay underfoot.
A heavy desk occupied the far end of the room, looming large in the smallish space. The chair behind it was, mercifully, empty. For a moment, he considered the layout. He’d seen it before, in the case photos, but he couldn’t remember exactly how it factored in. He recognized it, but it was somehow…different.
He couldn’t immediately place it, though, and he moved on. The far end of the office housed a low set of chairs and a large potted plant. A few half full bookcases lined the wall.
The sounds of raucous shouting wafted in with the smells of heavy smoke and good food. It was a curious combination, that simultaneously made his mouth water while inducing a gag reaction.
But he heard nothing nearby – no voices, no footfalls: nothing.
The taxman was just breathing a sigh of relief when a familiar, but wholly unexpected, cry sounded beside him.
Meow.
Alfred yelped, glancing down at the startled kitten at his feet. “Sugar cookies. How did you get here, Satan?”
