by Rachel Ford
“Vito Gallo, you son-of-a-bitch.”
He even recognized some of the women. “I’ll be. That’s Dona Esposito. You know, Anthony Tomassi’s moll.”
Alfred didn’t know, but he was getting a pretty good idea: Tiny’s Pub hosted its own who’s-who of villains.
Still, the minutes ticked by without any sign of Mario Tomassi or Walton Kennedy. The taxman started to pace. The room was cold, cold enough that he could see his breath in the air when he neared the windows. Apparently, unlet apartments didn’t get heat. Or electricity.
But it was more than the cold and dark. This was boring work. Sure, Ray was excited to see so many of his nemeses coming and going. But Alfred didn’t know these men from Adam, and after the first few, well, the novelty wore off. He’d seen enough mobsters so that they didn’t impress him anymore.
He was sighing to himself, wondering again how he possibly could have imagined a detective’s life exciting, when Ray’s voice called, “There he is.”
Of one volition, Alfred, Nancy and Dori swarmed to the window, each vying for a spot. “Who?”
“Where?”
“Mario. Right there.” Lorina pointed to a thin figure stepping out of a snazzy looking car. He was an old man, with pinched features and a measured step. He wore a dapper suit and hat, and carried a silver-handled cane.
For all that, and despite his age and apparent frailty, there was a dangerous air to the man. Alfred couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the slow, careful way he threw his gaze over the street. Like a snake, taking in its surroundings. Maybe it was the man’s eyes. Even from this distance, he could see an iciness in them that made the taxman’s blood run a little colder. “So that’s the infamous Mario Tomassi?”
The detective nodded. “Don of the biggest crime family in New York City, in the flesh.”
“Who is that with him?” Dori asked, pointing to the second form to emerge from the vehicle. This was a younger man, whose clothes were not so nice, and whose step was not so confident. He kept a respectful distance from Mario, trailing a few paces behind the older man.
“Joe Corelli. He’s one of the Tomassi bean counters. And you see the briefcase he’s carrying?” They nodded. “That’d be Kennedy’s payoff.”
“Shouldn’t we call Boyle?” Nancy wondered. “Now that we know they’re here?”
But Ray shook his head. “We need to make sure Kennedy actually shows up. We don’t want to blow our chance, if this meet is with someone else.”
So they waited. And waited.
Alfred found himself pacing again. “How do you survive this?” he wondered after a while.
“What?”
“The waiting. Just sitting there, hoping something happens. That’d drive me crazy.”
Lorina shrugged. “It’s part of the job.”
Alfred sighed. Give me a spreadsheet or a good audit any day of the week.
Finally, though, the long anticipated call of, “He’s here,” sounded.
The taxman was at the window again, as fast as his chilled legs could take him. Sure enough, the bespectacled IRS agent plodded down the street, adjusted his hat, and stepped into the establishment.
“Let’s go make the call,” Alfred suggested.
But, again, Ray shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s make sure he takes the payoff.”
“But…won’t it be too late then?”
“Not with that device of yours, Favero. There’s no such thing as too late with that.”
“Oh. I suppose not.”
“Exactly. We’ll make sure this is the moment we’re looking for, and then we’ll skip back a few hours, and pay our friend Isaac Boyle a visit.”
The minutes ticked by, but, at last, Walton Kennedy reappeared, the case in hand. Alfred whooped in delight. “We’ve got him.”
A minute later, Mario and Joe followed, returning to their car. Now, a triumphant smile spread across his features, Ray turned to the group. “We’ve got ‘em, alright, taxman. Both of ‘em.”
They were seated in Alfred’s living room, strategizing. It had taken a few minutes to get Dori to focus on the case, instead of marveling at the wonders around her. “My goodness, that’s a television now? It’s so big.”
Ray wasn’t much help, either. “And it’s in color, darling.”
“Color?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, I have to see it. May I?”
Alfred obliged, and Dori watched with wonder that bordered on horror, cringing with each sudden movement or loud noise, and gaping with delight at the clarity and quality.
Eventually, though, he was able to draw them back to the case. “We really should figure out our next move.”
“Of course. Of course, you’re right, taxman.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, he switched off the television and moved to their makeshift command center in the dining room. “Alright, so-”
But, again, he was waylaid by Detective Lorina. “This is the cat, darling,” he said, drawing Dori’s attention to Fluff. “The one who took out Fat Sal.”
“Ohh,” she cooed. “He’s so pretty. And fluffy.”
“A real American hero,” Ray added. “Taking out Sal? He did more good for this City than half the department will accomplish this year.”
Alfred frowned, feeling suddenly shortchanged in all of this. He’d taken nothing but lumps for crossing through time and interfering with the timeline. Yet Satan – who, his mind argued, actually killed a man – got nothing but credit. It was decidedly unfair.
Still, he kept this to himself. He felt he’d do himself no favors in Nancy’s eyes by drawing attention to his little jaunt through history. And he wasn’t about to vie for attention with a cat.
And, finally, they all took their seats. “Alright,” Lorina said, “so we know when Walton and Mario meet. We know where. We know – at least, we’re pretty sure – we can trust Boyle. So we’ve got to get Boyle to the meetup.”
“So we call in a tip?” Alfred asked. “Tell Boyle that Tomassi and Kennedy are going to be doing a deal that night?”
“Will that be enough?” Nancy wondered. “I mean, as far as Boyle knows, Kennedy’s one of the good guys.”
Ray considered this for a moment. “That’s a good point.”
“And what if we’re wrong about Boyle? What if he was building the case against Kennedy as an insurance policy, in case they meant to double cross him? What if he didn’t actually intend to turn him in?”
Lorina frowned. “Damn. You’d make a good gumshoe yourself, Miss Nancy.”
“Are there any other cops we could call?” Alfred suggested. “Anyone you know we can trust?”
“I hate to say this…but, no. I don’t know who Tomassi’s reached. And if we shoot blind on this, and reach out to the wrong person…word gets back to Mario, and this whole thing goes up in smoke.”
“What you need, then,” Dori suggested, “is proof that the drop happens. So even if Boyle is dirty, you can still prove it.”
Alfred sighed. “This would be so easy now. All we’d need is a cellphone, and…” He shrugged. “We could get video, pictures – whatever we needed.”
Nancy’s eyes, now, opened wide. “That’s it, Alfred.”
“It is? Babe, smartphones won’t be invented for decades. We’d contaminate the timeline.”
She shook her head. “We need pictures, but not with a smartphone. We need a photographer from the period. Who isn’t afraid of pissing the mob off.” Her eyes were sparkling. “We need…”
“Joe Donelly,” Ray finished with a grin. “That damned, determined reporter from The Globe.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You sure you got this, darling?” Ray asked. His arms were wrapped around Dori’s waist, and his brow was creased in a worried expression.
“Of course I’m sure, Ray. You’re not the only one who can take care of themselves, you know.”
He grinned, rubbing his jaw. “I know. I’m still sore.”
She laughed. “Well, th
at’s what you get for scaring the daylights out of me.”
“I did have it coming, I suppose,” he murmured, nuzzling his nose against hers. “Didn’t I?”
“You certainly did, Ray Lorina,” she returned.
Alfred sighed, throwing Nancy a doleful glance. He wasn’t unsympathetic to the plight of reunited lovers, of course. But, on the other hand, he didn’t really need to be a party to their reunion.
She just laughed at his discomfort, though, slipping her hand into his. “It’s alright, my robot,” she whispered. “These displays of human affection will be over soon enough.”
He frowned. “I’m not a robot, Nance. We’re just on a schedule.”
“Mhm,” she murmured teasingly. “That’s it. It’s definitely not that it’s overloading your emotion chip.”
Despite himself, he grinned. “You watch way too much science fiction, darling.”
“Especially for someone who lives with a robot.”
“Robot, eh?”
She answered the challenge in his tone with a nod, and he wrapped an arm around her and drew her close for a kiss. “I’ll show you ‘robot,’ Nancy Abbot.”
They were mid-kiss when Alfred heard a throat clearing. Ray was standing by, staring awkwardly at the far door. Dori seemed similarly enwrapped by the living room trim.
“Oh…uh, you ready?” the taxman wondered.
“Yup.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll continue this discussion later, Mister Favero,” Nancy murmured. Then, clearing her throat, she stepped out of his embrace. “Okay, you ready, Dori?”
“I am.”
“Great. Well, let’s go, then.”
The two women moved for the other room. They would be making this jump alone, to get Dori home. Alfred sighed, watching Nance go. He was surprised to hear a similar sound issue forth from the detective.
“Okay. Here goes, then.” With a glance in his direction, Nance smiled. “See you soon, babe.”
Then, they were gone.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” Ray said.
“Me either,” Alfred agreed.
Just as suddenly, though, Nancy reappeared in the space she’d been occupying a moment earlier with Dori. “Did you miss me?” she asked with a grin, heading back to the pair.
“You know I did,” Alfred answered.
“She back home?” the detective wondered.
“Safe and sound.”
Ray nodded. “Then I guess it’s our turn.”
“Let me put in the coordinates,” Nance said. For a moment, she worked at the dials. Then, she declared, “Alright. I’m ready.”
The two men nodded in unison, and the taxman said, “Beam me up, Scotty.”
Nance threw him a glance that was at once surprised and pleased.
“Scotty?” Ray asked, confused.
“It’s from a TV show,” Alfred explained.
“Well,” Nance put in, “not from the show.”
“What?” he blinked.
“It was a popular misquote, but it wasn’t until the Kelvin timeline…” she trailed off at his blank stare. “Never mind. It was still one of the sexiest things you’ve ever said.”
Alfred was only a little less confused than Lorina, but the appreciative look in her eyes told him that he’d hit his mark anyway, whatever nerdy technicality he’d overlooked. “Engaging transporters now,” she answered.
A wash of light signaled that they were on their way. A few seconds later, and they were standing in a dark apartment, furnished in early twentieth century movables. Ray slipped his gun out of his holster, tapping a finger to his lips to indicate that they should remain quiet. Then, slowly, carefully, he crept forward.
They were standing in a kind of entryway. A light shone out of a distant room, casting spindly fingers of illumination and shadow into the rest of the interior. The detective was moving for the light, and Alfred and Nancy followed.
A smallish home office came into view, and he saw a figure hunched over a table, head resting in a hand. A half empty glass of whiskey sat beside a pile of papers, and a cigarette smoldered in an ash tray. A holstered revolver lay a few inches away. He couldn’t make out the face, but he could see the man’s back, and he seemed to be built like a bull. This, he assumed, was Boyle again.
Ray stepped into the lit room, and Alfred followed. His palms slicked, and his heart raced. Sugar cookies. One wrong move and it’s curtains for the three of us.
Nance was a step or two behind him, and he was a stride behind the detective. Ray, in turn, was half a dozen steps away from Isaac Boyle. Just a few more steps, he thought. That’s all.
He felt his mind relaxing, his breathing coming easier. It was, naturally, at that moment that he lowered his foot onto a squeaky board. A loud groan sounded throughout the entire room.
Boyle moved with an inhuman speed, reaching for his revolver. But, so did Ray. Just as the one detective’s fingers found purchase on the revolver’s grip, the other detective’s pistol found a spot to rest between Boyle’s shoulders.
The big man froze in place, and Ray warned, “Don’t move.”
“Lorina?” Boyle hissed. “You goddamned ginzo. You come to murder me, then?”
“Stop flapping your gums, Mick, and listen to me. You’re being played by Tomassi. Tomassi and that rat bastard Kennedy.”
Alfred cringed at the insults flying back and forth. They were better than bullets, of course, but, still, they seemed more than a little counterproductive.
“Let me guess: you’re innocent,” the Irishman taunted.
“You’re damned right I am,” the Italian shot back. “And you’re not too thick to see it. You know me. We’ve been on the force together for years.”
“Which makes what you’ve done even more disgusting.”
“Listen to me, you imbecile. I’m being set up. Kennedy is on Tomassi’s payroll. Those documents he’s got on me? They’re forged.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word on this, goombah?”
“No. I’ve got a list of dates here for you, and figures. Deposits, made to Kennedy’s account.” Ray tossed the paper onto Isaac’s desk.
“That doesn’t prove a thing.”
“No, it doesn’t. But you’ll be able to confirm what I’m saying when you pull the records.”
“And how’d you get your greasy paws on them?”
“Doing my job.”
“Even if what you say is true, that doesn’t tell me where the money’s coming from.” There was defiance in Boyle’s tone, but doubt too.
“No. But you can see that for yourself. Tonight, in about thirty minutes.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. At Tiny’s Pub.”
“Tiny’s?” The name seemed to register with the detective.
“That’s right. Ringing any bells.”
“Maybe. But…if you’re telling the truth…what the hell are you doing on the lam? Why not turn yourself in, and trust in justice? If Kennedy’s dirty, if he’s framing you, we’ll get him. If you’re innocent, why run?”
Ray scoffed. “You’re smarter than that, Boyle. You know half this town is owned by the mob, and the other half’s too dumb to see what’s going on. As it is, I’m taking a chance talking to you, that you’re not on the take.”
“You got a lot of nerve, coming to my house and putting an iron in my back, saying that to me.”
“We’ll see, Boyle.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ray took Detective Boyle’s gun, and, with directions to count to fifty before he moved a muscle, they disappeared down the hall. Nancy had already put in the coordinates for their next stop, and they were gone before Boyle left his seat.
Alfred sucked in a great breath of freezing, February night air; and immediately repented it. The combination of cold and pollution filled his lungs, and he wheezed out a long series of coughs.
“You alright, taxman?”
“Yes,” he gasped.
“Then can you keep it down? I don’t want anyone to hear us.”
Alfred glared at the other man. Nance was more sympathetic, wrapping an arm around him. “What happened, babe?”
“Just…got a lungful…of bad air,” he explained.
“Oh.” She seemed confused. “Okay. You sure you’re alright?”
He gritted his teeth, sucking in a few more raspy breaths. “Yup.”
She nodded, rubbing a hand up and down his back. In the lamplight, he could see her brow creased in concern.
They were standing in an alley near Tiny’s, kitty-cornered across the apartment building they’d used during their first stakeout, and the pub. From this vantage, they could see both. “Look,” Lorina said, tapping Alfred’s elbow to get his attention. “It’s you.”
Sure enough, the taxman peered up into the window of room two hundred and ten, to see his own face squinting out at the street below.
It was a little eerie, he had to admit, to live through the same moments from another angle. It was strange to see himself as a spectator might, to view his own actions as he might another person’s. It had been bad enough the night of Sal’s death, when he’d heard the goings-on in the back office, and knew that another version of himself was hiding behind the chairs while he ate pizza a few rooms over.
It was even more bizarre to see that early version of Alfred Favero peering out the window, unaware that he was being watched by a future version of himself. He shivered. He wasn’t one to indulge in illegal narcotics, but he imagined that no chemically-induced trip could be more surreal, more mind-blowing, than that feeling.
“You need gloves?” Nance asked.
“What?” He glanced up to see that she was proffering a pair of thick gloves.
“You cold?”
“Oh, no.” Then, he considered. Their position afforded them a great view, but it was outside, on a rather brisk February night. And even under a heavy woolen coat, the wind seemed to find every possible path to his skin. “Actually, yes. Thanks.” He slipped his hands into the gloves.
“Of course.”
“Head’s up,” Ray whispered. “Mario’s here.”
They took a step back, ducking into shadow as the mobster stepped out of his vehicle. Alfred watched Mario run his snake eyes up and down the street, just the way he remembered. He watched Joe Corelli maintain a careful distance, just as he had the first time.