The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1)

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  I was stunned by the rage on Schatzi’s face as he attacked the bodyguards, splitting the lip of one with his right fist, then using his left to send the other plummeting down the stairs. When he reached the fat man, Schatzi went berserk, slamming his fist into the man’s nose and sending blood splattering over both of their shirts. Then he landed his fist in the man’s gut, sending him sprawling to the ground before kicking him in the ribs. When I heard the crack of bone breaking and the man’s screams, I ran to stop Schatzi. Moe was behind me as I tore him off the blood-soaked man.

  Seconds later, the grunts and curses that had pierced the night stopped. The only people left in front of the auditorium were me, Schatzi, Moe and a few disheveled men in brown shirts who looked too broken to do any damage. The scream of a siren grew louder as I raced behind Moe and Schatzi down the cold deserted street.

  I rise from my couch and walk to the sliding glass doors. It’s almost dark. The purple-edged storm clouds that hover over Miami remind me of the cold, dank winters I hated in New York. I turned eighty-six today and I feel old. For fifty years, I played it straight. So did most of the guys I knew then. But Landauer’s back and that doesn’t bode well. Schatzi’s funeral and Landauer’s appearance are frightening reminders of my own mortality. I need to prepare myself and my girls for the worst. I pick up the phone and dial Becks. She answers on the third ring.

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  16

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  Monday morning, I wake up in a miserable mood. Tootsie called last night and wouldn’t hang up until I agreed to handle arrangements for his funeral. Everything’s got to be just so. He’s selected the caterer (me) and location (my house) for his shiva reception and insists on mailing me the list of people to invite. Schatzi Lipchitz’s death, no doubt, brought on all this planning. But it’s hard enough to deal with end of my marriage. I don’t need to think about losing my father.

  “I’m not asking that much,” he says. “Someone’s got to do it. Your sister won’t talk to me and the grandchildren don’t know from funerals. What am I supposed to do? Leave instructions with your ferschtunkena cat?”

  “How about Daniel?” I offer, joking.

  “What about him?”

  “You think he’s such a great guy. Ask him to do it.”

  He’s silent a moment. “Maybe I will.”

  I grit my teeth. I don’t know if he’s kidding. He and Daniel are close. In fact, Daniel felt I was being too hard on my father when I refused to talk to him after my mother died. Back then, when Daniel brought the boys to see their grandfather. Tootsie’d ask him to talk to me about repairing our rift. Daniel tried—unsuccessfully. Now the tables are turned. Two weeks ago, Daniel asked Tootsie to have a word with me. I told my father I could handle my own marriage.

  After I agree to my father’s instructions, we chat about Schatzi’s funeral. My father won’t explain why we had to leave so suddenly. He still insists he was tired and needed a bathroom.

  Then he gets down to what he’s really calling about.

  “I forgot to tell you. I need a ride to the lawyer tomorrow. I’m changing my will.”

  This comes as no surprise. Tootsie changes his will every three months depending on who’s ticked him off or pleased him. On our last visit to Solly Horowitz, Tootsie put my son Joshua back in his will after he broke up with the non-Jewish girl he’d been dating.

  “What are you changing this time?” I ask.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I am driving you down there. Don’t I have a right to know?”

  “No, Miss Smarty-Pants. It’s none of your business.”

  I beg to differ. But I’m a good daughter and agree to pick him up at ten for his ten thirty appointment. Naturally, he hangs up without a goodbye.

  When I was a child and accompanied my father to his attorney’s office, we’d meet Solly’s father in the first-floor luncheonette of the downtown Miami skyscraper where he worked. It wasn’t much, just a few metal tables and a counter that seated four. My father never spelled it out, but I assume he was uncomfortable in the lawyer’s lavish office. The plush navy carpeting and gold-trimmed, Napoleonic desk may have intimidated him or, more likely, reminded him how much he was spending on legal advice. The men got their business done over a cup of coffee and a pastrami sandwich. I’d sit at the counter with an iced tea.

  Solly takes a less formal approach with my dad. Always impeccable in his Brooks Brothers suits, he trots out to the waiting area and welcomes Tootsie with a hug. Then he introduces him to the receptionist as his late father’s friend. After instructing her to bring coffee and Danish, we return to the same office his father used. A sleek, beveled-glass desk with polished steel legs has replaced his father’s antique gilded desk. Teak bookcases full of heavy legal texts line three walls of the large office. The most impressive part of the office, though, is the wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that frames a panoramic view of the royal palms that line Biscayne Boulevard.

  It’s obvious why my father insists on these visits, which could be handled by phone. When he retired, Tootsie surrendered his status as a successful businessman. That couldn’t have been easy for a man with my father’s ego. When he visits Solly, the two of them rehash events from when Tootsie still owned the business. His visits with Solly bring him back, for a brief period, from the invisible world of the aged.

  When Solly invites us back this morning, Tootsie gives me a dismissive nod, which I ignore. I follow the men down the hall and join my father in one of two green paisley wingback chairs that flank the lawyer’s desk. Once the ceremonial cheese Danish is consumed and small talk exhausted, Solly settles back in his chair.

  “So, Mr. Plotnik, you want to change your will?” His glance in my direction is an unspoken “again.”

  Tootsie flattens his palms on the desk and leans in toward Solly as though offering a valuable stock tip. “I’ve been doing some thinking. About the past. I’ve been a lucky guy. A successful business. A wonderful wife and children. It’s time to give something back.”

  “That’s very commendable,” Solly says.

  “Yeah, well.” Tootsie shrugs. “I’ve thought it out and decided to leave twenty-five thousand to the Karpowsky Center. That’s the part of the Schmuel Bernstein that works with Alzheimer’s patients.”

  Alzheimer’s patients? I think. Tootsie never gave a damn about Alzheimer’s patients.

  “Any special reason?” Solly asks. Then he frowns. “You haven’t been diagnosed with —”

  “Don’t talk crazy. I’m sharp as a tack. It just seems like a worthwhile cause.” He looks at me and then Solly, his face darkening. “Is there something wrong with giving them dough?”

  “Not at all. It’s a wonderful organization.” The lawyer raises his hand in assurance, then scribbles on a yellow pad. “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ll make the changes and mail it to you. Stop by when you’re ready to sign.” He rises and we follow him back to the waiting area.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Plotnik.” he says, shaking my father’s hand. Then to me, “Take good care of your father. You’re lucky you still have this character around.”

  I smile and drape my arm across Tootsie’s shoulders. “Don’t I know it.”

  The elevator’s crowded so I wait until we return to the car, pull out of the parking garage, and stop at a light to pop the obvious question.

  “So what’s the deal with the Karpowsky Wing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since when do you care about Alzheimer’s disease?”

  “I’ve always cared about Alzheimer’s.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. A lot of old guys at the Schmuel Bernstein have it.”

  “Anyone you know?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “So what’s with the donation? And why
now?”

  The light changes and I take a left. Tootsie doesn’t speak for a block or two.

  Then, defensively, “Everybody’s got to go some time. Why not spend my hard-earned money where it’ll do some good. There’s plenty to go around. You girls don’t need it all.”

  It’s not the first time he’s accused us of hovering like hungry vultures over his so-called fortune. I refuse to take the bait.

  “It’s so sudden. You ran into Mrs. Karpowsky two months ago, and now you’re making a donation to her family foundation. This wouldn’t have anything to do with Fat Louie, would it?”

  My father glares. “Such as?”

  “Such as trying to make amends to his widow?”

  “Could be. Or not. Either way, it’s none of your business.” He stares ahead, jaw clenched.

  I drop him off at the Schmuel Bernstein and return home. I’d love to know what this is about.

  I swear as I pull around the semicircular paved driveway in front of my house. The lawn man’s late again and the grass is up to my ankles. When Daniel was home I wouldn’t have minded. It was his job to complain to the yard service or do the mowing himself. I slam the car door and stomp up the stairs to the front porch. The Mercedes’ air conditioner barely wheezes out cool air and I’m anxious to escape the heat. Tootsie’s refusal to explain his largesse to the Karpowsky Center irks me and I haven’t eaten in hours. I want to go inside and make lunch.

  I put my key to the doorknob but, before I can insert it, the door swings open. I hesitate, more perturbed than worried. I’ve been careful about locking doors, especially since Daniel left. Then I remember. I left the house through the garage that morning but must have forgotten to pull the front door fully closed when I got the newspaper earlier in the day. Still, I’m a bit uneasy. I live in a safe neighborhood, but who knows? Plenty of strangers drive down my street on their way to cleaning and lawn maintenance jobs.

  I go into the kitchen and wolf down a tuna on rye. When I finish, I head to the dining room, which I turned into an office after Daniel left. The sandwich has carbed me into a state of relaxed bliss and I’m ready to get to work. But as I turn the corner from the hall into the dining room, I slam to a halt. A chill edges up my spine. Someone’s pulled the drawers of my file cabinet off their treads and dumped the contents! Paper is strewn across every surface—the floor, the dining room table, my grandmother’s walnut buffet.

  I stand frozen a full minute, holding my breath and taking in the scene. Then the adrenalin kicks in and my shock turns to anger. Who would do a thing like this? My first thought is Daniel? Was he looking for something he could use against me in a divorce? But that’s unlikely. He knows where I file my papers. And a man who calls daily, pleading with his wife to take him back, doesn’t break into his estranged wife’s house. Then again, I never thought he’d cheat on me.

  But the alternative is worse. Robbers looking for jewelry or drugs? I’m so furious that I race around the room, grabbing papers off the chairs and table, not even considering that I should call the police.

  I’m on my knees scooping up old correspondence and muttering to myself when it hits me. Whoever did this could be in the house! I freeze and listen but all I hear is the thumping of my heart. I try to convince myself they’re gone. They’d have heard me enter the house and escaped out the back door.

  Even so, I have to force myself upstairs, taking one dreaded step at a time and straining to hear intruders. My chest hurts and my breathing is uneven as I imagine Josh or Gabriel finding my body crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. I brace myself against the wall to remain steady as I ascend the steps, then tiptoe past the boys’ rooms. They’re untouched, which is a relief. But a few steps on, at the entrance to my bedroom, my heart sinks. It’s a nightmare. The contents of my bureau have been dumped on the ground and my clothes are strewn across the bed, carpet, and chairs. The sight of my bras and underwear on the rug leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable.

  I run into the closet, where my dresses and nightgowns are heaped on the floor. My jewelry box is splayed open across a black beaded evening gown, and bracelets and necklaces form a tangle of silver and gold on the fabric. But the good pieces, including my mother’s diamond necklace and opal ring, are still inside the box. Nothing is missing. Why would anyone break in and leave behind valuable jewelry?

  When I return to my bedroom, a splotch of red catches my eye. I gasp. The intruder has scrawled ASK YOUR FATHER in red lipstick on the mirror above my bureau. The writing is thick and deliberate as though written with controlled rage. A tube of my lipstick, the end smashed, lies on the bureau. Beneath the words, affixed to the mirror with duct tape, is a brown envelope. I race around my bed, panting, to tear the package down.

  Inside are two yellowed newspaper articles held together with a rusted paperclip. A photograph falls out when I release the clip. As violated as this break-in makes me feel, the lipsticked scrawl and clippings are even more alarming. This isn’t a random burglary. The intruder who tore my home apart and left the envelope is someone who knows me. And my father. They’re sending us a message. Goose bumps rise along my arms. This has got to be related to my father’s story about Fat Louie and the Jewish syndicate. But who knows I’m looking into it? My father. And Abe.

  My mind races through my options—should I call my dad, contact Daniel? How about the police? I grab the phone next to my bed and dial 911 but replace the receiver. My father must have done something horrible to provoke such a violent invasion. What’ll happen to Tootsie if the police get involved? Could he land in jail? My breathing returns to normal as my fear subsides. No one’s in the house. I’m safe. I need to talk to my father before I call the police. And I need to find out what the clippings are about.

  Pushing aside a tangle of bathing suits and the cat, who’s followed me upstairs and settled among the mess, I sit on my bed and read. The first clipping is similar to the article I found at the historical museum about Uncle Moe’s testimony before the Kefauver Commission. No surprises there. The second is a two-paragraph item, dated 1949, reporting that my father and uncle’s business was awarded a lucrative contract to supply restaurant equipment to several Miami-area hotels. Scrawled in pencil at the top of the clipping is the notation “S&G?” The handwriting is identical to the scrawl on my mirror.

  The photograph unsettles me. It’s an old police shot, taken in what looks like a morgue. A man’s bloated body, pallid in the harsh tones of the black-and-white photograph, lies on a metal table. The face, or what was once the face, is a pulpy mass of lips, nose, and mouth that have been partially chewed away by . . . I don’t want to think about it. I turn the photo over and find a caption. It’s dated May 17, 1948, and reports that a gangster known as Louis Giovanni washed ashore on Miami Beach the day before. According to the clipping, the body was wrapped in linen as though prepared for a traditional Jewish burial. Miami Beach police, the article says, have no leads.

  I become nauseated, then dizzy, and lean my forehead against the bedpost to stop the room from spinning. My house has been ripped apart by someone who wants to frighten, maybe hurt, me. My father has altered his will to support the wife of a dead gangster’s charity. And a stranger has left me newspaper clippings—and a grisly photo—that date back fifty years.

  If I had any doubts before, I’m sure now that the break-in has something to do with my dad’s past. I recall his reaction to the arrival of the officers at Schatzi’s funeral. The old man is hiding something. But what could be so awful he won’t tell me? I sit on my bed, torn.

  Only one person can tell me what this is about. But I’m afraid he’ll hand me more lies. I haven’t called the police because I want to protect my father. If I tell him that, could he be selfish enough to lie to me? I can’t rule it out so make a deal with myself. If I sense he’s making up more stories, I’ll go to the police. It’s the only way I’ll feel safe again.

  I call the
locksmith and wait while he changes my locks.

  Then I dial my father.

  It’s time we had a talk.

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  17

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  My father didn’t say anything about going out tonight and I’m surprised by what sounds like a rumble of thunder and loud cheers in the background when he answers his cell.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do with your life than pester your old man?” he says when the noise dies down. “This is a lousy time to talk.”

  “Where are you?” I have no patience for his games.

  “Where do you think? I bowl Monday nights.”

  “I forgot.”

  “You would. What’s so important you have to interrupt my game?”

  “I can’t discuss it over the phone.”

  “Hold on a sec.” I hear the low grumble of men’s voices before he comes back on the line. “I’m going to be here a few hours. If it’s so important, come here.”

  “To the alley?”

  “That’s where I bowl.”

  I debate a moment. I’m tense and angry. And frightened of leaving the house, then returning alone later. The intruders could come back. My stomach clenches at the prospect. But I’m not going to be able to sleep until I talk to my father. Might as well drive back to Miami and confront him. If anything seems out of order when I return, I’ll call the police before entering.

  “Do you still bowl at Lopez Lanes?”

  “Where else?”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”