by Rachel Ford
“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 business, 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 y
our 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.
It felt like a knife between his ribs. “I know, baby. I know. I…I don’t know what to say, except I’m sorry. And, I won’t do it again.”
She stood at arm’s length for a long moment, holding him in her gaze. “Alfred, if you say that, I need you to mean it.”
“God, Nance: I do. No more lies, no more secrets.”
She nodded now. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeated. “You mean…you forgive me?”
She shook her head at herself. “Of course I forgive you. Even when I’m pissed as hell at you…I always forgive you. Because I love you, baby.”
He pulled her to him again, this time for a long kiss that left them both breathless. “Please don’t go, Nance,” he whispered when it ended. He didn’t want her to go home tonight. He didn’t want her to go home ever. Not to her home, anyway. He wanted her to stay with him, now and always.
“Alright,” she said. “I won’t.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ray was almost as relieved, the taxman thought, to see Nancy as he had been. “I’m glad you could come back, Miss Abbot. I don’t think either of us would have survived your absence much longer – your Alfred there, because he’s been pining like a lovesick fool, and me because…well, he’s been pining like a lovesick fool.”
The taxman frowned at that, and she laughed. “Well, uh, do you need anything, Ray?”
“Nope. I’ll hit the hay when I need to, but I’m going to keep working for a while.”
“In that case,” Alfred offered, as nonchalantly as possible, “I think we’ll turn in. Got to be in to the office early tomorrow, and all that.”
The detective rolled his eyes, shooing them away. “Go. I’ve got work to do.”
They did, and for awhile anyway, Alfred forgot all about the case.
The next morning, though, it was at the forefront of his mind as he and Nance made breakfast. Ray was asleep on the sofa. He’d turned down the offer to be put up in the spare bedroom. “I don’t want to be any trouble. Just need a spot to crash, catch a few z’s.”
They had no idea when Lorina had actually turned in, and they didn’t want to wake him. So they worked and conversed quietly. Nance was scrambling eggs, and he was dicing onions and peppers. “What if nothing pans out? I mean, Ray’s got a bunch of leads, but what if none of them turn anything up?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s got to be something. He’s tracking half the Tomassi gang, and, of course, Kennedy and those cops. There’s got to be something we can find.”
“Yeah, but it’s not enough to find it. It’s not even enough to prove it now. We have to find evidence from 1940, something Ray can use when he goes back.”
She considered this. “We’ll figure something out, babe. Lorina’s a damned good detective.” She smiled at him now. “And he’s got the smartest tax analyst around on the case. Walton Kennedy doesn’t stand a chance.”
Alfred preened at her words. “And my queen of the nerds is on it,” he reminded her, invoking one of his earliest nicknames for her. “My beautiful, brilliant queen of the nerds.”
She flushed a little, rolling her eyes. But any retort she had planned was postponed as Ray’s voice reached them. “Is that fresh java?”
Alfred grinned. “It is. But…not quite as strong as you like it.”
The detective joined them a moment later. “If it’s coffee, I’ll drink it.”
“You want breakfast?” Nancy asked.
He glanced at what they were preparing. “If it’s no trouble, yeah.”
“It’s not. We made extra. We weren’t sure when you’d be up, but we thought we’d put it in the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“So, did you have any breakthroughs last night?” Alfred wondered, handing the detective a mug of coffee.
Ray took it, and pulled up a seat at the kitchen table. “Not really. I have a good idea, now, of the gang. I’d stake anything that Kennedy’s our guy. But proving it…” He shook his head. “That’s going to be the real kick in the head.”
“Well, what do we need to do?” Nancy wondered. “I mean, we know – at least, we think we know – that he was on the mob’s payroll. So how can we prove that?”
“We can try to pull bank records,” Alfred suggested.
“You’d need a warrant,” Lorina pointed out. “How are you going to get that, now?”
“Not only that, even if his bank is still around, and even if they’ve digitized their records, they won’t tell us much. There were no electronic transfers back then.”
“No what?” Ray asked her. The concept took a few minutes to fully explain, and he whistled when he understood. “Wow. All your dough, accessible at the push of a button? Seems awfully risky.”
“At least it leaves a trail,” Nance said. “We can track IP’s and find fraudsters that way. But that’s not going to help us with Kennedy. Someone would have walked in with physical money and walked out. No records, no way to track where it came from.”
“Sugar cookies.”
“That’s true,” Ray said. “But, still, we can analyze the data for patterns. We can see if there’s any correlation between deposits or dates. I can cross reference them to known Tomassi criminal activity.”
Analyzing data for patterns was a language Alfred understood well, and he nodded. “That makes sense. I’ll see if I can find an
ything.”
“What about the warrant? No judge is going to give you one for a case that old.”
“I might not need it. I’ve already been pulling investigations on the Tomassi family. There’s troves of data I haven’t tapped yet. I’d bet some of what we’re looking for is in those archives.”
Ray grinned. “So…instead of an active investigation, look at the work other people have already done?”
“Exactly.”
“Smart. I like it.”
“Alright,” Nancy nodded. “I think we have our plan, then. Ray, what do you need from us?”
“Nothing. As long as there’s food in the icebox, and your search engine machine still works, I’m good to go.”
Alfred threw himself into his work with a newfound sense of purpose. He was deep in the archives, tagging files that looked like they might be of interest, when a knock sounded at his doorway.
Justin was there, leaning cross-legged against the entryway. “Freddie,” he said, and there was a hint of amusement in his tone. “That keyboard do something to piss you off?”
“What?”
“Well, I mean, you’re hammering away at it like you got a score to settle, is all.”
“You know, Justin, I really have a lot of work to do,” the taxman sighed.
But Lyon ignored the massive hint, and stayed rooted to the spot. “So, did Nance have a good time in Hollywood?”
“Yup.”
“Good. That’s great. I mean, not every day you get invited to a movie set by one of the stars, am I right?” Now, Justin glanced askew at him. “But, how about you? How was your weekend?”
“Great. Fantastic.” He hoped his sarcasm would bring finality to the topic.
It didn’t. “I guess you and little Satan must have got good and acquainted, eh?”
That one actually hit a little too close to home, and Alfred frowned. “What?”
Justin laughed. “Sorry, man. I’m just picturing you, staying home, taking care of litter boxes for Nance’s cat, while she hangs with movie stars. That’s rough.” He shook his head. “Life’s a bitch sometimes, right? Well, I better get back to my own stuff. Busy, busy these days. Catch you later, Freddo.”
