by Rachel Ford
It was a warmish, syrupy coffee-flavored mess. But it was sweet and had caffeine. So, cringing with every sip, he determined to drink it.
“Alright,” he said, returning to the dining room with the cups in hand. “Coffee is…”
He trailed off, staring at the detective. Lorina sat in the same seat where he’d left him, but he was hunched over a stack of papers, his head resting in one of his hands. Gone was the confident bloodhound, and in his place was a weary shell of a man. Sugar cookies. He really does need that coffee.
But, some sense told him this was more than lack of sleep. “Ray?”
The other man glanced up now, saying, “Ninety-two. She was ninety-two, Alfred. She lived all those years, never knowing…”
The taxman saw, now, the papers that Ray was studying: the Dorothy Edwards file. He set the coffee mug in front of Ray and pulled up a chair. “It’ll be different, once we figure out how to take these guys down. You’ll go back. You can marry her and have your family.”
This, somehow, seemed to be the wrong thing to say, because the detective’s brow creased until he looked dangerously close to tears.
Alfred Favero didn’t know what to do with that. There was, certainly, room for personal growth on that front, he knew. But the fact was, such demonstrative expressions of emotion rather unsettled the taxman.
His go-to move with Nancy was to hold her. For everyone else, he’d awkwardly excuse himself, fleeing the scene as quickly as possible. For obvious reasons, neither of those solutions would work here. So he resorted to his in-a-pinch backup plan: platitudes.
“It’ll all work out.”
“I should have married her already,” Ray said.
“What?”
“Dori. I…I kept putting it off, because of the case. Because of the Tomassis. I didn’t want to put a target on her back. Hell, it’d be bad enough for her, marrying an Italian. But with the kind of enemies I made?” He shook his head. “I thought I was keeping her safe.”
“But…things will be different. When you go back.”
“I thought I was protecting her. But all I did was break her heart.”
“Ray, this life, the one you’re looking at? When you go home, it will never happen. Dori will be fine. All of this will be different.”
He studied the photo in front of him for a moment longer, then nodded. “You’re right, taxman. It will be different.”
“Exactly. We’ll take down the bad guys.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean, I’m done running scared. I love that girl. And, dammit, I’m going to make sure she knows it. No more waiting for tomorrows that may never come.”
Afternoon became evening. Alfred fell asleep in his chair in the living room again. The last he saw of Lorina, he was still pouring over the case files, filling a notepad with illegible scribblings. Still, the glyphs must have meant something to the detective, because, now and then, he’d refer to them and cross check them against something he was reading.
In his mind, this whole private eye business had promised to be a lot more exciting than it turned out to be. It seemed more frowning at endless piles of paper than actual detecting.
So, a little disappointed, the taxman slipped into a dreamless sleep from which he didn’t rouse until the next morning.
He hadn’t meant to sleep at all, much less to while the entire night away slumbering. By now, Lorina was snoring at the dining room table, hunched over a stack of files. Pulling himself out of the seat, creaking and groaning with discomfort, Alfred yawned. He was stiff and sore, and could only imagine how much worse Ray would feel when he woke. He’d been a poor host, he realized.
He wasn’t sure what had roused him, but the sun was shining brightly. Might as well get going. He decided he’d get some breakfast and coffee going – the kind of swill Ray liked.
Then, he froze. He heard the sound of a car, in his driveway. A moment later, a bright yellow cab rolled past the window, back toward the street.
Sugar cookies. Someone was here. “Hey,” he said, shaking Ray’s shoulder. The detective started, reaching for his gun with one hand and Alfred’s arm with the other.
He paused as he saw who it was, though. “Taxman?”
Allowing himself to breathe again, Alfred said, “There’s someone here.”
“Trouble?”
“I have no idea. Probably not. I mean, no one could possibly know you’re here. Still, you mind staying out of sight?”
A rattle at the door put Alfred’s heart in his mouth. He knew the mob was defunct, or as good as these days. Right? Still, someone was out there, trying to get in, not twenty-four hours after he’d rescued Ray Lorina.
“You want me to check it out?” the detective asked, patting the gun at his side.
“No. Stay out of sight.”
Nodding, the other man slipped into a side hall. “Holler if you need backup.”
Alfred scampered toward the door, ready to confront whoever it was toying with the handle. He made it about half way through the kitchen when the door opened. He yelped, as much in surprise as consternation. “Nance? What are you doing back? You’re not due until tonight. And why take a cab?”
He had a thousand questions, but she brushed past him, straight for the dining room. Throwing a glance around the room, and obviously not finding what she was looking for, she rounded on him. “Where is he?”
“What?”
“You heard me, Alfred Favero. Where the hell is Ray Lorina?”
Alfred felt his jaw slacken. “Ray…Lorina?” Sugar cookies. How had she figured it out?
“Yes. Your ‘master costumer.’”
He laughed nervously. “Oh, uh, Raymond, you mean? I…I guess I can see the similarities between him and Lorina. But of course they’re not the same person. Nance, I would have had to use the generator.”
“Like we promised we’d never do.”
“Exactly.”
She glared at him. “I can’t believe it took me that long to figure out. And you’re really going to stand there and lie to my face, Alfred?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. He didn’t want to lie to her. On the other hand, he didn’t want to level with her either. It seemed, in some mad way, saying nothing at all was the only avenue open to him.
“Where is he?” Now, she glanced at the table, at the set of coffee mugs and the host of files. “I know he was here. I-” She cut off, her expression morphing from anger to horror. “Oh my God. Is that…Fluff?”
Alfred didn’t see the feline anywhere, so he followed her gaze. She’d grabbed one of the images on the table, repeating, “Oh my God. Alfred…you took my cat to a mafia stronghold?”
The taxman felt the blood drain from his face. He had no idea how she knew that, but he was certainly not going to cop to that one. “What?” he laughed, doing his best impression of incredulity. “What are you talking about, Nance?”
She was not fooled. Her eyes flashing, she thrust the photograph toward him. And, to his own horror, he saw exactly what she described: the photo Joe Donnelly grabbed of Fat Sal, choking. The photo of Fluff on his desktop, rubbing up against the gangster he was killing.
Fudge muffins. He forced a laugh again. “Nance, what are you talking about? That’s just a stray. The world is full of orange cats.”
“It’s a black and white photo, Alfred. How’d you know that cat was orange?”
He licked his lips nervously. He was digging his hole a little deeper every time he opened his mouth. “Well, uh, it just looks orange.”
“And this?” She reached back to the table, producing another sheet. “This ‘mysterious accomplice’ who happens to look just like you?”
It was another of Donnelly’s photos, and in his mind he cursed the man. It was him, alright, in her fedora and his mismatched ensemble, leading Ray to the door. “Well shit.”
“Where is he? Where’s Lorina?” she repeated, her voice level and chillingly cool. “Did you send him back already? Or is he still here?”<
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“I’m here,” a voice sounded from the entryway.
Alfred spun around at the same time Nancy gasped. Sure enough, Ray Lorina was standing there, hands in his pockets, looking a little sheepish. The taxman scowled at him. Dratted Judas Iscariot.
Throwing a glance back at Nance, he saw that she was gaping. “You…you did it. Alfred, you…” She turned to him now. “You lied to me.”
He’d been planning his defense ever since the traitor stepped into view. He had a rapid fire list of reasons and excuses as to why he should have used the device, and how no harm had been done. This, though, rather deflated him. “I…um…well…”
“I was so worried about you, Alfred. You were acting so weird. And then… when I put it together…” She shook her head. “How long? How long has this been going on? How long have you been using the device?”
“I haven’t, Nance,” he protested. “Just this once. Twice, technically. But just for this case.”
She shook her head. “And how can I believe that? All you’ve done these last days is lie to me.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry, Nance. But it really is true. I went back Friday night, just to watch. And that stupid cat stowed away.” He spread his hands in frustration. “And he ended up killing Fat Sal. Which wasn’t a bad thing, exactly. But then I had to get him back. And I went back again.”
She shook her head. “Why? You hadn’t messed up the timestream enough? You wanted to risk more repercussions?”
“No. No, nothing like that. I was just going to watch. That’s it.”
“Then what in the hell is Ray Lorina doing in our living room, Alfred?”
Chapter Seventeen
The taxman stumbled through his thought process, such as it was. When he got to the pivotal moment, all he could do was answer honestly. “I just…when I saw those goons show up…I couldn’t leave him there, Nance. I couldn’t leave him there to die.”
She sank into a seat, sighing. “Oh Alfred.” Her anger seemed to have faded, but he wasn’t sure he liked what had taken its place any better: disappointment. “This is why we agreed not to use the device. This is why Angie gave it to us in the first place: to stop herself from messing up the timeline, trying to undo mistakes from the past.” Angie Garretty was the CEO of Futureprise Corporation, and she’d been the one to leave the device with him and Nancy.
“I know, babe,” Alfred said miserably. “I just…it wasn’t right, what happened.”
Nance rested her head in her hands, and the taxman stared glumly at the table. It was now that Ray Lorina spoke. “Miss Nancy?”
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, Walto
n 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.
