The Time Travelling Taxman Series Box Set

by Rachel Ford

  Alfred blinked, staring at the downed man. Fat Sal was dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alfred stood, rooted to the spot for several seconds. Not even the commotion in the pizzeria drew him from his stupor. Fat Sal’s not supposed to die. How the hummus did he die?

  It was only Satan’s squirming, and the heavy application of the kitten’s back claws to his hands, that drew the taxman from his stupor. “Ouch. Stop that, you little son-of-a-biscuit.”

  Satan did not stop, though. Indeed, the longer he was held, the more vociferously he protested, writhing this way and that and yowling piteously.

  That decided Alfred. Whatever had just happened, it was time to cut his losses. He could always come back and straighten this mess out.

  Alfred offered a silent prayer that the spacetime generator only worked with living bodies. He had no idea how he’d explain the presence of a dead mobster in his living room – either to the police or, more worryingly in the moment, to Nance. With trembling hands, he pressed the button to send them home.

  His ears hummed and his eyes flooded with light. A kind of calm washed over him, driving the adrenaline back.

  Then, a sharp, pricking sensation drew him from this serenity. He felt two points of pain and a trickle of blood running down his hand. Instinctively, he released the menacing feline.

  “Ow. You bit me, Satan,” he gaped.

  This was very true. The cat had left two puncture wounds in his hand, and now, entirely unrepentant, scampered away. Alfred scowled, but remembered that there were more pressing issues at hand.

  Like seeing if he’d brought a dead man back with him.

  A quick survey of the dining room and adjacent living room turned up no corpses. Just to be safe, though, Alfred sprinted through his house, checking each room as he went. Then, satisfied that they weren’t hiding Fat Sal, he checked the yard too.

  Finally, he breathed easy. If the mobster had made the trip across time, he’d wound up somewhere else. If he’d left his office, well, at least now he was someone else’s problem, and not the taxman’s.

  He collapsed into a seat, shaking. Sugar cookies. That had certainly not gone according to plan, but Alfred had no idea why or how.

  Fat Sal was never supposed to die. Fat Sal lived a long, wicked life, and retired happy and free to Miami.

  He knew that.

  And yet, he’d seen the mobster on his back, staring with dead eyes at the ceiling overhead.

  What the hummus? he wondered, rubbing his temples – with, he saw a still-bleeding hand. What changed? I didn’t do anything. No one saw me, except Sal – and that was seconds before he died. So how could the timeline have changed?

  His mind was a whirl of thoughts and confused memories. He distinctly recalled reading about Sal’s retirement to Florida. He knew it, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  And yet, at the same time, he remembered reading something else. Something about…an anaphylactic reaction.

  His head hurt, and he groaned aloud. It felt like a migraine was setting in. Not just any migraine, though, but the mother of all migraines, pounding his poor brain into jelly with every attempt to use it.

  His memories seemed to be competing in his mind. He had two distinct recollections, identical in every particular – except one. In the first, Alfred learned that Fat Sal lived for years after the raid. And in the other, Salvatore Tomassi died the night Ray Lorina was taken into custody. It didn’t make sense. They couldn’t both be true.

  And yet, he knew they were, as true as he drew breath.

  The taxman rose now, heading for his case file. If his memories couldn’t be relied on, the files, at least, could. The case file would tell him what actually happened. Then…well, then he’d figure out what was going on with his head.

  He rifled through his stack of papers until he found the section on Fat Sal. And as he read from the autopsy, his jaw dropped.

  “Deceased Salvatore Tomassi died of anaphylaxis at approximately seven-thirty on the evening of February 3rd, 1940. Presumably brought on by an encounter with a cat. Witnesses recall seeing a small orange or yellow cat in the deceased’s office, immediately prior to fatal episode. The cat could not be located afterwards.

  “Conclusion: deceased suffered from an undiagnosed but deadly cat allergy. Presence of stray feline triggered fatal reaction.”

  Alfred read and re-read the report, feeling almost nauseous with shock. “Satan…killed Fat Sal,” he concluded at last. He wasn’t sure if he was horrified, or proud of the little monster. “Satan…took down the Salvatore Tomassi.”

  He’d fallen asleep at the table some hours later. He understood, now, the competing and seemingly contradictory memories. They were both real, and both accurate. His recollection of Sal’s retirement was what happened before he interfered with the timeline. The other memory, where Sal died, stemmed from his interference.

  On the one hand, he was relieved. He wasn’t going crazy. He wasn’t imagining things.

  On the other, he had messed up the timeline, however inadvertently. Nance was going to be furious. He’d done exactly what they swore they’d never do.

  Still, after awhile of feeling guilty, rationalization began to kick in. As far as Alfred could tell, nothing else had changed. Sure, he’d trifled with the timestream. But the principle players all ended up where they’d started – except Salvatore, whose career of murders was cut short. The rest of his family continued to ply their bloody trade. Lorina was arrested that night, just as before.

  He and Satan curtailed the career of a brutal and prolific killer, but otherwise left the timeline unsullied. And the more he thought about that, the better it sounded. “We make a pretty good team, actually, Satan,” he decided.

  He frowned, hearing the words out loud and cringing. “I really need to stop calling you that, don’t I?”

  Not long after, still obsessing over the files, he’d fallen asleep. He woke early in the morning with a start. His phone was ringing beside his head, and it sounded terribly loud. “Hummus,” he gasped.

  Then, glancing at the name that popped up on his screen, he tried to brush the sleepiness away. “Nance?”

  “Hey babe,” she greeted as her image appeared. Then, “Oh, did I wake you? It’s only, what? Five there? Crap.”

  “It’s fine,” he assured her. Nancy Abbot was something of a night owl, and she’d woken him more than once in the wee hours of the morning. Five, comparatively speaking, was child’s play. “What’s up?”

  “Just saying good morning.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. She’d promised to call before their day started, hadn’t she? “How was your party?”

  She laughed. “Well? Interesting, I guess. There were a lot of people I recognized. You know, from the MDC movies. And they were nice. But I felt a little bit…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Out of place.”

  “It sounds awful,” he nodded sagely.

  “It wasn’t. It was fun. Maggie had a hoot. She danced with Dave Yankovic. Which, by the way…” She was grinning. “I have not stopped hearing about since.”

  Alfred rolled his eyes. “If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, Nancy…well, it’s working.”

  She laughed. “And what about you?” She surveyed him for a moment with a piercing gaze. “Tell me you went to bed last night, Alfred.”

  “Of course I slept,” he prevaricated.

  “You’re wearing the same outfit you had on when we talked last…”

  “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 Donnelly, 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?”