Mob Bosses & Tax Losses

by Rachel Ford

  Alfred scowled at the empty air. He wasn’t, by nature, a violent man, but there were times when Lyon stoked the most primitive impulses of his person. He spared a moment to indulge the pleasant fantasy that played in his mind, of trading in his mild-mannered, law-abiding ways for long enough to adopt the persona of a hardened pugilist. He imagined his knuckles giving Justin a long-overdue lesson in civility.

  Then, sighing, he turned back to his spreadsheets, caging the beast for another day.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was late morning before Alfred found his smoking gun. It was a set of notes and files composed by Detective Isaac Boyle, the arresting officer in the failed Tomassi sting. The first entry was dated six months after Ray’s disappearance, and focused on gang activity.

  There were one to two entries a week after that consistently, noting the comings and goings of various members of the Tomassi syndicate, until December 6th, 1941.

  The day before the Pearl Harbor bombing, the taxman realized with a chill. He’d traveled through time in a very literal sense, but seeing Boyle’s notes – and that conspicuous silence – struck him. He felt connected to that particular point in history in a visceral way, unlike anything he’d known before, as if the man’s silence spoke volumes.

  The file was quiet for a month after that. It picked up with a short note.

  January 12. Stakeout of suspected Tomassi front property, Tiny’s Pub. No suspicious activity. Will be back.

  There were a few more entries about Tiny’s Pub in the following days. Boyle had spotted a handful of roughs with known criminal ties, but nothing to directly link the place to the Tomassis. That, though, changed with an entry on the twenty-second of January.

  7:28. M. Tomassi arrives.

  7:42. W. K arrives.

  7:51. W. K. leaves, bag in hand.

  7:59. M. Tomassi leaves.

  Alfred’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of those initials. W. K. He knew instinctively who that was: Walton Kennedy, the dirty IRS agent.

  He skimmed through the rest of the notes. Boyle had recorded dozens of meetings between M. Tomassi – Mario Tomassi – and this mysterious W. K. He’d gotten his hands on Kennedy’s bank records, too. Like clockwork, large sums showed up in his bank the Thursday morning after each of those meetings.

  The file ended with an entry from September second of the same year.

  M. T. didn’t show. Neither did W. K. Either they’ve found a new rendezvous, or they know someone’s on to them.

  Alfred wondered, vaguely, what had happened. He couldn’t remember what came of Boyle. Ray had tracked down everything he could on all the principle players, but there were so many that they became something of a blur in the taxman’s mind.

  Still, it didn’t matter particularly. Boyle had figured out the rendezvous. He’d figured out when they were meeting. And though the dates he recorded happened after Ray vanished, he’d pulled years of bank records. They could extrapolate the more contemporary meetings from that data.

  Mission accomplished. Smiling to himself, the taxman headed to the breakroom for a refill of coffee. He’d probably hit his limit for the day, but, then again, his brain had been in overdrive all morning. It deserved a reward for a job well done.

  He’d just poured a cup and was savoring the aroma of fresh coffee when a voice accosted him. “Alfred?”

  He cringed. “Greg.”

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Listen, we’re talking about going out to lunch again. You want to come with?”

  Alfred fixed the other man with an icy glance. He knew well enough that Greg was asking out of some misguided sense of safety in numbers. He assumed that Justin’s behavior would improve with more witnesses.

  He was new, so the taxman could forgive his naiveté. But Alfred was not, and he knew there was only one way to handle a critter like Justin Lyon.

  So, measuredly, he set down his mug of coffee and crossed his arms. “No, Greg. I do not want to go out to lunch. I have too much work today. Thank you.”

  Unfolding his arms and retrieving his mug of coffee, he shrugged. “It’s that easy.”

  Greg blinked. “Uh…”

  He didn’t stay to explain his point. It was the guru’s job to dispense wisdom, and the pupil’s to absorb it, if they were worthy.

  Alfred had just settled back into his seat, sipping his coffee contentedly, when he heard a knock outside the door an office over. His ears perked up as Greg’s voice, low and timid, asked, “Justin?”

  “Greg,” the other man effused. “So, you make up your mind where we’re going? The sushi place with the cute little waitresses, or the Greek place with that hottie of a hostess?”

  “No, Justin,” came the engineer’s reply, his tone shaking but growing stronger with each word. “I do not want to go out to lunch.”

  “What?”

  “I have too much work today. Thank you.”

  Then, footsteps sounded, even as Justin called, “Wait, what? I thought you said you were free?” A moment later, Greg Baker passed by, a mask of relief across his features.

  Alfred flashed him a thumb’s up as he went, and the engineer smiled gratefully. The taxman returned to his work, mentally patting himself on the back for the second of two good deeds he’d done that day.

  His self-congratulations were a little premature, though. Not long after, Justin decided to prove the adage that no good deed goes unpunished by reappearing in his doorway. “Freddo.”

  Grimacing, he answered, “Justin.”

  “Hey, I was thinking of getting some Greek food. Greg was supposed to go with me, but he was too busy.” Now, the other analyst pulled a face. “But, not too busy to go with the other guys from networking.

  “Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to go?”

  “As much as I appreciate the afterthought,” Alfred replied, “I’ve got a lunch date with Nance.”

  “Oh.” Justin blinked, surprised, it seemed, to have been turned down. “Oh. Cool.” He turned away, muttering, “I guess I’m chopped liver today.”

  Alfred snorted at the preposterousness of such a notion. “Chopped liver’s got a purpose.”

  “What?”

  “Enjoy your lunch.”

  Alfred’s hunch was borne out by Ray Lorina’s excitement. “You got him, taxman. This is perfect. This is gold.”

  Nance beamed at him, and he flushed. There was something about seeing pride for him in her eyes that made Alfred feel ten feet tall and bulletproof.

  The detective continued, seeming not to notice the exchange of glances happening around him, “So that’s why Boyle bought it, eh?”

  “Wait, what?” Alfred asked. He’d only been half listening, lost in Nancy’s gaze as he was.

  “Boyle. A couple of hatchet men zotzed him that September.” He glanced between the printouts Alfred had brought home, and the notes he’d made the day before. “Two days after that last entry, actually. No one was ever arrested, there were no ties to organized crime. They figured he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So…if Boyle was investigating Kennedy, he must not have been dirty after all,” Nancy mused.

  The taxman considered this for a moment. “But he was going to arrest Ray.”

  “He must have thought I was the dirty cop,” Lorina decided. “But, I mean, these notes are clear: he hadn’t given up on bringing the Tomassis down. And he was building a helluva case against Kennedy.”

  “So Boyle thought you were dirty,” Nance surmised. “But when he figured out that Kennedy was actually the crook, they iced him?”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “No,” Lorina said, shaking his head. “No, this will never work. I can’t do it.”

  Alfred sighed and Nancy crossed her arms. “You said you needed a new look.”

  “A new look, sure. But I’ll scare Dori, if she sees me like this.”

  �
��Look, there aren’t many options. You’d stand out like a sore thumb as a blond. I’m not a plastic surgeon, so facial reconstruction is out. I’m not a wizard, so I can’t transform you into something else. The best I can do is lighten your hair.”

  Lorina frowned at her sarcasm. “But a ginger? Like I’m some kind of damned Irishman?”

  “No one will recognize you. Especially with the fake mustache.”

  He shivered. “God, no. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”

  “That is the point of a disguise…”

  “No one’s going to recognize any of us,” Alfred put in. That was true enough. She’d managed to throw together some very convincing and era appropriate disguises, drawing on her cosplay supplies and a quick run to the vintage shop downtown.

  Lorina scowled at his reflection, at the now-red hair and the thin mustache Nancy had pasted onto his face. “Well, I’m sure as hell no Clarke Gable. But we’re two shakes of a lamb’s tail away from solving this thing. So, let’s get it over with.”

  Nance and Alfred exchanged relieved glances, and, before the detective could change his mind again, she grabbed the spacetime field generator. “Alright. Here goes.”

  A flash of light and a moment later, they stood in a comfortable if modestly furnished room. A young woman sat on a loveseat a few steps away, and she leapt to her feet at their arrival, the knitting needles and yarn she’d been working with flying to the side. “Oh my God.”

  Ray closed the distance between them in a flash, wrapping the woman in his arms. “Dori, oh my Dori.”

  He was rewarded for his efforts with a firm back hand, as the young woman scrambled away. “Who do you think…” She froze, though, recognition replacing the horror. “Oh my God,” she repeated. “Ray?”

  “It’s me, Dori.”

  This time, she fell into his arms, sobs catching in her throat; and he wrapped her in a kiss so passionate he nearly swept her legs out from under her.

  Alfred glanced at his shoes, as if the carpet underfoot was the most fascinating thing in the world.

  He didn’t look up until he heard the woman – Dori – ask, “How did you get here? Oh, Ray: I thought they took you for a one-way ride.” She was still in the detective’s arms, her eyes glistening with tears of relief.

  “No, darling, I’m okay. These folks, they got me to safety.”

  Now, she glanced at him and Nancy. “But…how did you…do that? Appear here, like that? How’d you get past the detectives outside? They’ve been staking this place out for days, ever since you escaped.”

  “It’s complicated, love. First, let me introduce you to my friends. Then, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Introductions were made, and Dori Edwards welcomed Nancy and Alfred to her parent’s home. They were already asleep, she told them – which, as far as the taxman could tell, was a good thing. It was going to be awkward enough to explain to one member of the Edwards’ family how they’d materialized into her living room, never mind trying to make the entire family understand.

  Fortunately for him, this task fell to Ray Lorina. And though it took several tries and a few false starts, Dori did end up accepting that her sweetheart had been rescued by a time travelling gumshoe.

  Alfred strongly suspected that it was the choice of believing Ray’s story, or believing Ray mad, that pushed her toward belief.

  Still, believe it she did, and the conversation turned to the case. Dorothy Edwards cycled between rage and terror, railing against the corrupt agent one moment, and fearing for her Ray’s safety the next.

  “I still don’t understand how knowing that he’s on the take helps,” she declared, once they’d finished the explanations. “It doesn’t matter if we know, if they arrest you before we can prove it.”

  “Well, that’s part of why I’m wearing this ridiculous disguise.”

  Dori paused to scrutinize him now, and then she laughed, acknowledging, “I wasn’t going to say anything…but I do kind of hate it, Ray. Especially the mustache.”

  He grinned. “Really? I liked that part. I was thinking of trying a real one, when all’s said and done.” She shivered, which seemed to be the reaction he wanted, because he laughed too. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  Alfred cleared his throat tactfully. “Not to put too fine a point on it…but the clock is ticking.”

  “Right.” The pair flushed, and the detective picked up his line of reasoning. “The plan is, we’ll stake out Tiny’s. Make sure that’s the joint they’re using now. And once we get visual confirmation, we call in Boyle and his mugs to catch them in the act. They’ll get Kennedy with his payout, and Mario bribing a federal agent.” He shrugged. “Maybe we can send that bastard away for good this time. Finally.”

  She nodded. “But how do we get past the detectives outside? They’ve been watching this place ever since you disappeared, love.”

  Here, Nancy supplied the answer. “We’ll use the device. It can move us through space as well as time. It’ll basically transport us to wherever we want to be.”

  Dorothy blinked, more confused by the explanation than the question it was meant to answer.

  “Trust her,” Ray said. “It works.”

  “Alright,” the other woman nodded. “Well, let’s go then.”

  Here, he seemed perplexed. “Darling, I came to let you know I was fine. But it’s going to be dangerous. You can’t be involved.”

  Dorothy fixed him with a steely gaze. “Like hell I can’t, Ray Lorina. I thought I lost you once already. I thought they snatched you. I thought the only way I’d see you again is if they fished your dead body out of the bay one of these days.” She put her hands around his waist. “So if you think I’m letting you out of my sight after that, you don’t know me at all.”

  The detective’s eyes softened with affection. “I guess I should have known better than that.”

  “You’re damned right you should have.”

  He grinned at her cheeky language, then turned to Alfred and Nancy. “Hey, uh, would you give us a minute?”

  The taxman blinked. “Um…sure. But, where do you want us to go?” It wasn’t like there were a lot of options in a world he didn’t really know, with detectives waiting right outside the door.

  “Just wait in the other room. I need to talk to Dori.”

  “Sure. Okay.” They milled out, closing the door after them.

  “What was that all about?” Nancy wondered.

  “No idea,” Alfred acknowledged. “Maybe he just needs to make sure she’s really okay with, you know, time travel and all that.”

  “It is a lot to absorb. I think she thought we were all nuts for a few minutes there.”

  “Yeah. If it wasn’t for Ray telling her, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have believed it.”

  They waited in silence for a few moments. “Alfred?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What happens if this doesn’t work?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, babe. We’ll figure something out. We can always go back to our time, and keep working.”

  Nancy sighed. “Yeah. I just…I hope it works.”

  He wrapped an arm around her. “Me too, Nance. Me too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The mystery of Ray’s conversation with Dori was laid to rest a few minutes later. The pair emerged all smiles, with the detective referring to her as “the future Mrs. Lorina.”

  “Oh.” Alfred blinked. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, taxman.” He squeezed Dorothy’s hand. “I’m a helluva lucky guy.”

  Alfred managed to not roll his eyes at the lovesick simpers passing between them. He liked Ray, and though he knew Dori only a little, was inclined to like her too. But, the fact remained that they were on the run from both the police and the mob, hunted by criminal and cop alike. They had a steep hill to climb to prove the detective’s innocence, if it was even going to be possible. So if that was his definition of “lucky,” the taxma
n didn’t want to hear his version of bad news.

  Nance, meanwhile, offered her own congratulations, then entered the coordinates into the device. “Alright, so we’ll wind up in the apartments across from Tiny’s Pub. In Room Two-Ten. That should give us a clear vantage of the bar. Plus, according to Boyle’s records, the place hadn’t been let in over a year. So, it should be unoccupied.”

  Ray wrapped an arm around Dori. “Ready, babe?”

  She nodded, her face drawn. “Ready.”

  “Here goes, then,” Nance declared.

  A moment later, Alfred found himself blinking into a dim room. It was largely unfurnished, with a mattress lying against the wall and the odd end table and chair laying around the room. It was not enough to imagine someone had cleared out without their belongings, but it was too much to suppose it had been missed accidentally. What remained, he surmised, was what the last tenant had been too lazy to cart to the trash.

  The air was chilly here, and the only light that remained came in from the windows. Alfred pulled his coat tight around himself and shivered, as much at the ambience as the temperature.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Dori gasped, meanwhile. “That…that actually worked.”

  “You alright?” Ray wondered.

  “Yes. I think so. I can’t believe it actually worked though.”

  “There’s Tiny’s,” Nance declared. She’d moved to the window, and now pointed at an establishment across the road. It was a small, old-timey dive bar, and Alfred marveled at the sight of it. It was like something straight out of a black-and-white film. He half imagined it full of smoke and chintzy dames, with Humphrey Bogart brooding in a corner somewhere.

  But the grim parade of toughs coming in and out of the place soon drove away any such notions. On the contrary, Ray’s narration sent new shivers up the taxman’s spine.

  “That’s Trigger Finger Tomassi. He’s one of Mario’s nephews. Rumor has it, he bumped Patty MacNamara.”

  “Benito Moretti? So you’re back in town, eh? Well, well. We’re going to have to get reacquainted.”