by Rachel Ford
“Oh.” He glanced down, surveying his attire sheepishly. “I might have fallen asleep at the table.”
“Might have, huh?” she smiled. “Let me guess: working on your case.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh babe.” She shook her head. “Make sure you get plenty of sleep.”
“I will.”
“Good. Because you know how grumpy you get when you’re tired.”
He frowned at her. “I’m never grumpy.”
“Of course not,” she answered, eyes twinkling. “And eat a good breakfast. Hangry Alfred isn’t good news for anyone.”
“I’m never hangry.”
“Mhmm. And –”
“More instructions?”
“Just one: I want you to drink more than just coffee.”
“Nance,” he sighed. “I’m not an infant. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Chapter Twelve
As it happened, Alfred Favero might have benefited from a babysitter that morning. Because, no sooner than had he got off the call with Nancy, did he return his thoughts to the Lorina case.
And, running on a bit of sleep – and a steaming mug of coffee – he had a far more optimistic view of the previous night’s happenings than he’d gone to sleep with.
He and Fluff had saved lives, and, what’s more, he’d confirmed what he already suspected: Sal had sprung a trap on Lorina.
He’d learned more than that, though. Salvatore Tomassi knew when Detective Lorina left the precinct headquarters. He’d told Gi about it. That meant the Tomassis more than likely had an inside man on the police force.
Sal had also called the reporter, Joe Donnelly, a patsy. That, Alfred suspected, meant the reporter was clean. He might still have been a pawn in Salvatore’s schemes, but an unwitting one.
Which, of course, made Joe a potential ally. If I was going to get involved, that is. Which, of course, I’m not. No, Alfred wasn’t going to get involved. He was just going to observe, like he’d decided from the first.
Still, he felt he had to go back now. He was putting the puzzle together, and it was thrilling to watch it take shape. But there were still too many missing pieces. There was still the question of Kennedy, and what role he played in all of this.
Plus, Alfred had a burning desire to actually witness what happened that night. He’d been there, sure, but he’d been stuck behind cover while everything went down. He hadn’t seen anything beside Sal choking to death – and that, he’d only witnessed in glimpses, since he hadn’t realized what was going on.
No, he had to go back. It would just be one more trip. And this time, he’d transport himself to an alley outside the pizzeria, and come in the front door. He’d walk in like a patron, grab a seat, and just watch everything unfold. There’d be no Fluff in tow, no hiding out; he’d just quietly observe.
There’d be no harm in that.
No, he told himself, no harm at all.
So, cramming down a breakfast of one syrup-saturated frozen waffle, he sorted through his closet. He would need something that would help him blend. He didn’t want to draw any eyes to himself, so showing up in anything less than the styles of the day would be a mistake.
Alfred’s taste tended to run conservative, but he didn’t have anything quite that old-fashioned. Still, trousers and a good jacket were timeless. It wouldn’t be peak forties, but, paired with his best leather shoes, it’d do.
The only thing he lacked to complete the ensemble was a hat. And he was pretty sure he’d seen a few fedoras in Nancy’s cosplay trove.
He felt a bit of a rat, rifling through her costumes for this particular reason. Still, it would be over soon enough, and she’d be none the wiser. Not that it made what he was doing better. But at least, he consoled himself, he wouldn’t have to pay the piper. He’d get his answers, slip her hat back in place, and never mention it.
He was always amazed, if not precisely impressed, by the sheer scope of Nance’s collection. She was a fan of all things geeky, and had collected and created everything from video game to comic book getup, novel to television show costumes.
He found what he was looking for, compliments of one of her favorite video games. And, throwing a final glance in the mirror, Alfred nodded. It didn’t quite match the rest of his outfit, but it was close enough. It’ll do.
Then, he took a moment to verify that Fluff was nowhere around. As well as things had worked out yesterday, all things considered, he really didn’t want to risk a repeat of the stowaway, time traveling kitten incident.
Confirming that he was indeed alone, Alfred adjusted his fedora and engaged the device.
He arrived in the alley he’d chosen, that freezing February evening in 1940, at quarter to seven. A chilled blast of wind hit him, and cut straight down to his bones, or so it felt anyway. Snowflakes danced through the air, thrashed this way and that with every new breeze.
Sugar cookies. He hadn’t thought this through as well as he might have done. It was winter, after all: a heavy coat would have gone a long way.
Still, it was too late for that now. The taxman gritted his teeth and dove headlong into the driving gusts.
He was shaking by time he rounded the corner of the building and pushed his way into the pizzeria, and he was beyond grateful to leave the snow and ice behind. Another day, and he might have stopped to admire the vehicles and streets all around him, seeming to step right out of a black and white film – except in vibrant color and full sound. Now, though, he scurried inside as quickly as he could.
As he crossed the threshold, he stepped smack dab into the same wall of odors that he remembered from the night before. His memory had certainly not exaggerated the tobacco use, either. If anything, the smoke was thicker here.
But, at the same time, the tantalizing combination of oregano and Parmesan cheese, of tomato and fresh baked crust, called to every iota of Italian DNA in Alfred’s person. Like Pavlov’s dog, he heard his stomach growl, right on cue at those smells.
It didn’t even matter that he’d only been awake for a few hours, or that he’d just eaten breakfast. What was a frozen waffle compared to real, Italian pizza? It was comic books to Shakespeare, preschool scribblings to the Mona Lisa, the movie adaptation to a book.
He hadn’t planned to eat, but that had been then. Now, he found he was of an altogether different mind. So, giving his order to the man behind the counter, and ignoring the curious looks his attire drew, he found a booth that provided him a good vantage of both the door and the back hall.
The taxman glanced around, taking in the establishment around him. It wasn’t the sort of joint he’d immediately peg as a mafia front. Then again, Alfred’s knowledge of the mafia was limited to the grainy photos his research had turned up, and probably too many old television shows and movies.
Still, Fat Sal’s patrons seemed mostly on the up and up. There were a handful of obvious grifters and a few toughs occupying space here and there, but otherwise the diners looked alright. The taxman wondered at that. Didn’t they know this was mob territory?
Or was the mafia’s hold on the city so ironclad that nobody cared?
That was a glum thought, and Alfred tried to push it aside. He was aided in this endeavor by the arrival of his pizza, and for a few minutes he lost himself to the sheer sensory pleasure of cheese and dough and seasoning. This was pizza the way it was meant to be eaten, and he savored every bite.
Indeed, he was so lost to savoring it that he almost missed the call of, “Hey! I need help. Sal’s choking.”
Chapter Thirteen
He glanced up at that. He recognized the speaker, and he recognized the words. It was Gi, a few minutes before Fat Sal kicked off. It meant he – yesterday’s Alfred Favero – was already here, hiding in that back office while Fluff bumped off the pizzeria’s owner.
It also meant Ray Lorina was a few seconds away from arriving.
Alfred set his pizza down and fixed his eyes on the entry. He was vaguely aware of the reporter, Joe Do
nnelly, leaving the bar with his camera in tow. But his attention didn’t waver.
A moment later, the door opened, and in stepped the man he’d seen in so many black and white images. Except, now, he was no still, frozen in time, but a live, flesh and blood human being.
There was a confidence and purpose in his step that was visible at a glance. He had almost a kind of swagger, just understated enough that it didn’t come across as too much.
The taxman thrilled a little at the sight. He had, he realized, spent so many weeks reading about Ray Lorina – idolizing him, in a way – that he’d built up an image in his mind. He knew the established wisdom about never meeting your heroes. But this detective, strolling into a mafia stronghold as cool as a cucumber, contravened it.
He almost wished Nancy could be here now – except for the fact that she would have been mortified to learn what he was up to – to see this. This was a real superhero: none of the capes, or spandex, or childish powers of those movies she loved. Just pure human gumption, all guts and glory.
For a moment, Lorina locked eyes with him. Then, he nodded, and moved his attention on to the rest of the room.
Alfred couldn’t believe it. Ray Lorina had nodded. At him. Ray Lorina – the bane of the mafia, the thorn in the Tomassi crime family’s collective side – had noticed another man of the law, and signaled a greeting.
He wished again Nancy was here, instead of wasting her time on a movie set. She could have met Detective Ray Lorina too.
Not that they’d met, exactly. But, still, he’d nodded at the tax man, which was the same thing as a greeting; and that was a kind of meeting, wasn’t it?
He was drawn from the rabbit hole of his thoughts by sudden movement. A pair of men in dark suits rose from a far booth, closing in on Lorina’s position from the rear. At the same time, another set descended from the sides, and a third closed in from the front.
The detective drew up now, glancing between them with a coolness that Alfred almost believed would carry him through.
But the taxman knew how this story ended.
“Do I know you gentlemen?”
One of the suits flashed a badge. He was a big man, built like a bull, with a wide face and quick eyes. “Detective Isaac Boyle, NYPD. Ray Lorina, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to defraud and accessory to the murders of Joey Contrino and Alfonzo Russo.”
Alfred felt his heart sink, but not quite so low as when he saw the surprise register in Lorina’s features. “What?”
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.”
