The Time Travelling Taxman Series Box Set

by Rachel Ford

  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 see 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?”

  It was, indeed, Fluff, his golden eyes wide with fright.

  The taxman was only a little less frightened himself. He had never had an issue with the device before. In all the time he’d used it, it only transported things that were in some way attached to him – clothes he was wearing, a backpack slung over his back, and so on. He’d been near Fluff, but hadn’t been touching him when he pressed the button.

  Then, he frowned. The device transported people within the radius of operation. Maybe it moved more than people. Maybe it transported any organic being in the vicinity.

  “Sugar cookies,” he said again, fighting the panic that swelled in his chest. He rem
inded himself to breathe.

  This was an inauspicious start to his trip, sure. But it was just a minor setback. All he had to do was jump back to his own time with Fluff in tow, and try again – this time, far from the menacing feline.

  Okay, I can fix this. He stooped for the cat, but, to his mortification, Fluff bolted. “Satan,” he hissed. “Get back here.”

  The cat headed for the doorway. Fudge muffins. “Satan, get your fluffy buns back here. Now,” the taxman snarled. He was really starting to get annoyed – annoyed, and frightened again.

  The idea that he’d inadvertently taken Nance’s cat back in time scared the daylights out of him. This was supposed to be a covert op. She was never supposed to know about this little jaunt through time. How would he explain what happened, if the devious feline got away?

  And would she ever forgive him? It would be bad enough to lose the kitten at all, but by using the spacetime generator – the generator that they’d both specifically agreed they wouldn’t touch except in direst need?

  “For the love of God, get back here, Satan.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of how bad that sounded. He made a mental note to revisit the topic later, when he was in a better state to reevaluate his use of that nickname.

  In the meantime, he scrambled for the cat. Then, a voice sounded, horrifyingly near the office. “C’mon. Let’s wait it out in my office. It’s too warm out there.”

  “You sure he’ll be here?”

  “Sure as shit.”

  The voices were accompanied by the sounds of footfalls, muted against some kind of floor covering – but getting closer.

  Alfred gulped, his eyes flying around the office, looking for a spot to hide. The desk was out – if these men were indeed coming to this office, the desk would likely be their first stop.

  His gaze fell on the plant and chairs at the opposite end of the room, and, tripping over his own feet in his haste, the taxman dove behind them. He ignored the pain of his knee smashing into the pot, and hoped to high heaven no one else had heard his thumping into place.

  Thoughts of the cat were long gone, now. All he could think of was getting home, before someone filled him full of lead.

  “He’s supposed to be here already, isn’t he?”

  “Nah. His car left five minutes ago. It’s twenty minutes from the station, easy.”

  Alfred heard two distinct speakers, and two distinct sets of footfalls, enter the room. With trembling hands, he set the coordinates.

  One of the men sneezed now.

  “You okay, boss?” This was said by the coarser of the two voices, and Alfred glanced up for half a second to catch a glimpse of the speakers. A short, balding man stood with his back to him.

  But a big man with a barrel chest and handsome, though portly, features sat behind the desk, his fingers steepled in front of him and a smug grin stretched across his face.

  Alfred felt his heart skip a beat. He’d recognize that smirk anywhere. Fat Sal. He was bigger in person – not heavier, but taller and, if it was possible, more intimidating than in the photos. He spoke with a strong East Coast accent, the kind that seemed determined to rid the English language of r’s, and introduce h’s where they had no place being. On his lips, a car became a cah, warm became wahm, and so on.

  “Of course I’m okay, Gi. What do you think you are, my mother?”

  Alfred cringed at that rendition of the word. Muddah. It reminded him of those extended family reunions his mom used to drag him to as a kid, where he’d meet relatives he’d never seen before and who seemed to speak another language.

  He shook the thought aside, and readied to press the button. Then, he froze. Satan returned unbidden to his thoughts. Not the kitten, exactly, but the way he’d gotten here. Alfred had transported him simply by using the device in the general proximity.

  He considered the distance between himself and the mafia men, and a terrible thought occurred to him. What if using the device now brought Salvatore Tomassi and his henchman back with him?

  Alfred’s palms slicked at the very idea. Fudge muffins. The gangsters would have no idea what was happening if they suddenly found themselves whisked away from the pizzeria and deposited in someone’s home. But he suspected they were shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later types of guys. He was pretty sure he’d wind up in a pine box long before he had a chance to explain what happened.

  He was turning his predicament over in his mind when Sal sneezed again. This time, he drew in a heavy breath afterwards. “What in the hell?”

  “Boss?”

  “Don’t you feel that?”

  “What?”

  “Whatever’s in the air.” Sal was gesticulating emphatically. “You don’t feel that? My eyes are burning.”

  Gi, the balding man, shook his head. “I don’t feel anything, boss. You want me to get you some hooch to clear your head?”

  Salvatore brushed the idea aside. “Nah. I need to be sharp when that son-of-a-bitch copper gets here. Speaking of…you seen that patsy from The Globe yet?”

  “Donnelly? He’s at the bar.”

  “Good.” Sal nodded. “Good. Everything’s ready, then. This needs to be captured. For posterity.” He chuckled to himself, as if pleased with his own turn of phrase. Then he sneezed, more violently this time than before. His head snapped backward, and his entire chair rocked.

  “You sure you don’t need a drink, Sal?”

  “Dammit, Gi, I told you-” He broke off, sneezing again.

  Alfred shivered, hoping that, whatever this lowlife had, it wasn’t an airborne contagion. The last thing he wanted to do was carry decades-old germs home with him.

  Unlike the last time, though, the mafia prince didn’t recover himself in a moment. He remained hunched over, wheezing, for a good half a minute.

  “Jesus, boss, you’re scaring me,” Gi said.

  Then, before Sal had a chance to reply, a little blur of orange flashed in front of the mobsters. Alfred had to repress a yelp. He had to bite down on his tongue to keep from screaming, “Satan, no!”

  Because it was, indeed, Fluff. The kitten must have wandered back from wherever he’d been hiding, and decided to practice his signature move: jumping up onto a surface where he wasn’t supposed to be.

  Only this time, instead of irritating a humble enforcer of tax law, he’d chosen to cross paths with a bloodthirsty mobster. Oh God. He tried to imagine how he’d explain this to Nance, but the fact was, he was drawing blanks.

  Hey, darling. So you remember your kitten? Yeah, well, the mafia killed him. There was no way that that didn’t beg more questions than it answered.

  The taxman half made up his mind to rush out of hiding, grab Fluff, and pray he could run fast enough to press the button and escape the mob – when, all of a sudden, Salvatore Tomassi clutched at his throat.

  Alfred blinked. Gi asked, alarm in his tones, “Boss? You okay?”

  Fluff, meanwhile, meandered across the desktop, rubbing against the choking gangster as he passed.

  Sal was gasping for breath, his face turning red and purple. He pushed Fluff away with a rough shove of his hand. The kitten twitched its tail, remaining on the desk.

  Gi flailed in place for a minute. “Boss?” Then, he turned to the open doorway. Alfred got a good look at him now. He was a middle-aged man, with hard features and flinty eyes. In the moment, those dark eyes seemed lit with more fear than concern. “Hey! I need help. Sal’s choking.”

  As the balding man’s attention shifted, Fluff wandered back to the form crippled up over the desktop.

  Alfred gulped. The kitten, he thought, was suicidal. Sal was not a guy to cross in the best of times, but when he was wheezing away like a Typhoid Mary, polluting the air with his germs and disease?

  Again, he planned his intervention. He tried to count how many steps it would take to get from his hiding spot to the desk. And from there-

  His thoughts broke off suddenly as a popping sounded nearby, and a flash of light filled
the room. For half an instant, the taxman feared a gunshot. But it had been far too quiet for that.

  Gi, though, cursed, “Get the hell out of here, Donnelly, before I shove that camera down your throat.”

  It was now that a hullabaloo at the far end of the restaurant broke out. Heavy boots rang out on a wooden floor, and shouting voices filled the air.

  Hurried steps headed down the hall outside Sal’s office, and an agitated young man called, “He’s here. Lorina’s here.”

  Gi remained fixed in place, his eyes darting between the doorway and his still wheezing boss, until Sal waved him away, choking out, “Go.”

  That was all the urging the other man needed. He was gone a moment later.

  Alfred crouched in place listening for a long minute. He heard frenzied shouting and angry yelling aplenty, interspersed with the occasional breaking of bottles and exchanging of blows. Grunts and the soft noise of fists impacting with flesh, along with the grimmer sounds of bones snapping, sent a shiver up the taxman’s spine.

  He decided it was well past time to get home, and this was as good a chance as any. Sal was too busy wheezing away to present a real threat. So, he gritted his teeth and sprang out of his hiding spot.

  Salvatore didn’t even seem to see as he approached the desk. At this closer vantage, Alfred was struck by the curious shade of purple that the other man’s face had turned. He shivered anew, thinking of the contagions he was likely breathing in at that very moment. Whatever this man had, it was clearly an unpleasant and – frankly – disgusting illness.

  Fluff, meanwhile, was still rubbing up against the choking gangster. “Come on, you dumb cat,” the taxman hissed.

  No sooner than had he grabbed the squirming kitten did Sal lurch forward. Alfred yelped, ready to bolt.

  But the mafia man was not lunging at him. On the contrary, he didn’t even notice him. He didn’t notice anything at all.

  Salvatore Tomassi slipped out of his seat, and rolled onto his back, his eyes open wide and unseeing.