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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  I make it to Miami in record time and park my car next to a tall metal lighting fixture. It throws sharp-edged pools of light on the patches of broken tar and gravel that are all that remain of Lopez Lane’s parking lot. The bowling alley was a dump when I went there as a kid forty years ago and the neighborhood has continued to deteriorate. A ten-foot metal fence protects the parking lot from the vandals and thieves who drove the adjacent businesses away. Two scratched and faded red bowling pins twice the size of a grown man tower over the entrance.

  Walking into the bowling alley is like descending into a Las Vegas version of hell. The crash of heavy balls hitting solid floors and the crack of high-velocity plastic colliding with wooden pins creates an unrelenting racket, broken occasionally by the cheers of men’s voices. Covering the floor is a jarring interweave of purple, red, and black triangles interspersed with yellow images of bowling balls and pins. Small groups of men gather at orange and red plastic tables with molded seats, at the front of which rests a computer monitor. No one seems to be eyeing the large overhead screens that post team scores.

  It’s not hard to find my father. He’s with the group of older men sporting wrist, knee and elbow braces. Tootsie, not to be outdone, wears a wide black belt that supports his back.

  I’m so torn between anger at my father and desperation for his reassurance that I break into a trot when I spot him. My throat tightens and my jaw aches, forcing me to swallow a few times to control the sobs that threaten to swell up from my chest.

  “Dad.” My voice breaks with the word.

  Three heads turn in my direction and a deeply-tanned, silver-haired man in a coral shirt frowns. It’s the man I met at Wolfie’s, Winchell Levin. He taps my father on the shoulder.

  Tootsie turns around with a smile that fades when he sees me. He puts the paper cup he’s holding on the plastic table and strides to where I’m standing.

  “What’s wrong?” He tries to put his arm across my shoulders but I step away.

  “Someone broke into my house.”

  “My God. Are you all right? ”

  “I’m fine.”

  A cheer goes up from my father’s teammates and he glances at the overhead screen.

  Then, turning back to me, he says, “You look awful.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  He shrugs. “What did they get?”

  “That’s what’s so weird. They didn’t take anything.”

  “Did you catch them in the act?”

  “I was home a half hour before I noticed anyone had been there.” I tell him about the mess in my dining room and bedroom.

  “I’m so sorry, Doll. It’s odd they didn’t take anything.”

  I cross my arms and hug myself. “I think they wanted to scare me and get a message to you.” I look him in the eye. “And I think you know who broke in.”

  My father looks at me a second too long. He opens his mouth to speak but a voice breaks in.

  “Plotnik, get over here.” It’s a man with a black wrist brace. “You’re holding up the game.”

  My father raises a finger, motioning his friend to wait. “This is my last frame. Give me a minute. Then we’ll talk.”

  I drop onto a bench a few feet from the alley and watch my father approach the ball return and pick up the black speckled ball he kept in the front hall closet at our home in Coral Gables. Before we were old enough to bowl, he would bring Esther and me to Lopez Lanes to watch him practice. I loved the way he’d send pins ricocheting off the walls with his powerful swing. Esther was his favorite, which is doubly sad now that they’re not talking, and it was a special treat to be included when he took her on their regular Saturday afternoon outing to the alley. Esther told me he was the best bowler in Miami and I believed her. She worshipped our father.

  He’s got the same great form tonight but, when he releases the ball, it veers to the left and clips three pins. He raises both palms in a gesture of resignation as he approaches the ball return. Then he takes a few seconds to study the pins, cocking his head right then left before letting the ball fly. For a few seconds, he’s the old Tootsie, raising a fist in the air as the ball edges to the right and sends the remaining pins clattering to the ground. And I’m a little girl again, proud of my dad and confident he’ll make everything right.

  But the feeling doesn’t last. And that upsets me. After what happened tonight, I don’t know who he is or if I can trust him. It’s frightening how the most important men in my life have let me down. First Daniel. Then Tootsie. I thought they had my best interests at heart. But I have to face the fact that they’re not the people I thought they were. Those men were fantasies I created out of my own need for strength and constancy. My world is shifting and I don’t know if I’ll ever regain my ability to trust. But old ways of thinking are hard to change. I want to believe Tootsie’s the powerful father who’ll protect me from the monster in the closet. Maybe that’s why I keep returning to him after all I’ve learned.

  After shaking hands with his teammates, my father packs his ball into its case and returns to where I’m sitting. He nods toward a heavy oak door behind me. A brass sign mounted on the wall above it reads “Gutter Lounge.”

  “We can talk in there.”

  The thunder and cheers of the alley fade as the large door shuts behind us. I follow my father to a cracked leather booth that forms a semicircle around a thick wooden table embedded with navigational maps. The small room is surprisingly cozy, with two walls of booths and a handful of tables. It’s deserted except for a young woman who looks up and smiles at us, then returns to polishing the bottles of colorful liquors that line the glass shelves of the mirrored bar. The room smells vaguely of mold and ammonia, but the heavily varnished table looks freshly polished. As my father slides into the booth, he asks the bartender to bring two beers.

  While we’re waiting, I pull the envelope from my purse and slip out the yellowed clippings and morgue photo. I place them on the table, facedown. Tootsie eyes the clippings, but continues to chat about his game, recalling the old days when he never scored under two fifty.

  After the bartender delivers the beer, I take my hand off the clippings.

  “The guy who broke into my house today left these.” I push the articles and morgue photo before him. “He took a tube of my lipstick and scrawled ‘ask your father’ across the mirror.”

  Tootsie looks shocked but says nothing as he peruses the article about the Kefauver commission and tosses it aside. It takes him less than a minute to read the business announcement about his and Uncle Moe’s restaurant contracts. When he sees the morgue photo, he brings a hand to his mouth. Panic flashes across his face so rapidly I’m not sure I’ve seen it. Then he flips the photo over and reads the caption.

  When he’s through, he slaps the table with an open palm. “Son of a bitch.” His pupils are tiny and black and his jaw muscles are taut.

  “Do these articles mean anything to you?” he says, tapping the pile of clippings.

  “I’m the one who should be asking that question.”

  He scowls and nods. “You’re right.” He takes a sip of beer and positions the mug dead center on its coaster. “These clippings were probably stolen from me, but I don’t know anything about the photo.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Years ago, someone mailed me every article that mentioned my business. At first, I thought it was a friend. That was until whoever sent them started adding nasty notes. I should’ve thrown them out long ago.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Who knows? I stuffed them away so many years ago that I forgot about them when I sold the business. As far as I know, they’re still in the warehouse.”

  Before retiring, my father owned a building that housed his showroom, office, and a ten-thousand-square-foot warehouse. The warehouse was a dusty, foul-smelling storeroom with a leaking
ceiling and dozens of floor-to-ceiling metal shelves where he kept the pots, pans, ovens, and refrigeration he exported to hotels and restaurants in the Caribbean. When he sold his business, he also sold the warehouse and inventory.

  It’s a good thing my father got paid up front because the new owner bought his business with drug money. After he was busted, the showroom and warehouse—which were in a rapidly deteriorating neighborhood in downtown Miami—remained deserted.

  “So you want to tell me what these articles are all about?” I say.

  My father shrugs. “Why not? You heard of S and G?”

  “That’s the group Uncle Moe testified about?” I don’t remind him he was cagey when I asked about it earlier.

  “You got it. A bookie operation out of South Florida. It was run by Meyer Lansky, his brother, Jake, and some other tough guys. Back then, everyone and their uncle had a piece of Miami. It was what they called a free city—no single gang owned it. Each group had its own operation and its own set of hotels and restaurants.”

  “What’s this got to do with you?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. Except that if you wanted to do business in Miami, you did it with gangsters. They had the money and owned the hotels and restaurants. What were Moe and I supposed to do when they came in asking us to outfit their restaurants and bars? Say no thanks, we just deal with legit operations? We weren’t crazy. The cops knew which gangsters owned which restaurants and never bothered to shut them down. Who were we to judge?”

  “So why did whoever left me the articles make such a big deal of your doing business with them?”

  “I have no idea. If King Kong had walked into my store looking for a refrigerator, I’d have sold it to him. That’s called doing business. I wasn’t running a charity. Maybe it’s an old competitor. Someone still jealous we did so good in the old days. Who the hell knows?”

  I look at him. We both know it can’t be that.

  The oak door swings open and his friends, who’ve changed out of their bowling shoes and peeled off their elbow and knee braces, enter. One of the men—he can’t be much older than I am—nods at my father and points to a large table at the far end of the bar.

  Tootsie waves. “I’ll be with you in a couple.”

  I slide the morgue shot toward my dad’s beer glass. A corner of the photo curls from the damp. “And this?”

  He flips the photo over. “What about it?”

  “This have anything to do with you?”

  He grabs my elbow. “Don’t talk crazy. Yeah, it’s Louie. I already told you. Landauer ordered the hit.” He lets go of my arm, then takes a swig of beer and slams his glass down. Foam sloshes onto the table.

  My father has all the answers, but they mean nothing. I have no idea why an intruder broke into my house and left the clippings. I tell my father as much.

  “I’m calling the police. There’s no way I’m going to feel safe until I find out what this is all about.”

  “Don’t.” The word comes out in a rapid eruption. He looks around. “Did you change your locks?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me time. I got a few enemies. Who in the business world doesn’t? And some of those characters you met at Schatzi’s funeral? They were upset when I left the game. Including your friend Abe. But I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt you or me. Maybe one of the old guys is senile, thinks he’s back in the forties and wants to piss me off.” He rests his chin on the intersection of his twined fingers. “You want me to stay with you, keep an eye on things? I will.”

  I reassure him that won’t be necessary.

  “Then go home. It had to be Abe. The bastard had his fun. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re safe eight stories up at the Schmuel Bernstein. I’m the one who’s going to be sweating each time I walk into my house.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “To Abe?”

  “Abe and whoever else is involved. I’ll find out what they’re after and take care of everything.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet. Pay him off. Whatever it takes. You need to be careful in the meantime.”

  I’m not convinced. But I rise and stuff the envelope back in my purse. I glance at him a moment and contemplate telling him to be careful. But he knows better than I do what we’re up against.

  “Don’t stay out too late,” I say before I lean over to give him a kiss.

  “Not to worry.”

  As I open the door that leads to the bowling alley, I turn to wave. My father remains where I left him, staring at the table. His hand trembles as he brings the glass to his lips.

  When I get home, I’m nervous about entering but force myself to go inside. I’m too keyed up to sleep. I hate to call so late, but I need to talk to someone—to Esther. She knows our dad and might have some ideas. She mentioned earlier in the week that Monday was a teachers’ workday and she’d be going in late. I hope she’s not sleeping.

  “You’re up late,” she says after her husband, Bruce, hands her the phone. He’s used to my late night calls and asks how I’m doing before passing the receiver on. Bruce is an attorney and very logical so he’s a great help when it comes to talking things out. I’m not ready, yet, to talk to him about a formal separation from Daniel. That would mean acknowledging, at least to myself, that I’m ready to end my marriage.

  “Dad really did it this time,” I say when Esther comes on the line. Then I fill her in on the break-in and Tootsie’s reaction.

  “My God. Did you call the police?”

  “Not yet. Dad said he’s pretty sure he knows who did it and will confront them. He might have to pay someone off.”

  “Did he say who? Or why?”

  Esther and I talk at least once a week but I’ve held off on telling her about Mrs. Karpowsky’s accusation or my meeting with Abe. I didn’t want to stoke her anger against our father. I’m beyond worrying about that now. I fill her in and tell her that Tootsie suspects Abe’s behind the break-in.

  “The old man’s a real piece of work,” she says. “Stay away from him.”

  “I can’t do that. Not after we got back together.”

  “But look at what’s happening to you.”

  “I’m the one who’s digging up the past.”

  We don’t speak for a moment.

  Esther’s rebuffed me on several occasions when I’ve asked why she’s not talking to Tootsie. I try again.

  “I am sorry, Becks, but it’s like the message that intruder left. You need to ask Dad. If you push hard enough, he’ll explain. But I don’t feel right telling you myself. You have a good relationship with him and I’d hate to be the one to ruin it.”

  There’s no need to mention my relationship with Tootsie is already less than ideal. I’m so angry I’m tempted to cut him off again. But I can’t do it. He’s as vulnerable now as I am and I’d feel terrible if anything happened to him. But it’s time to stop pussyfooting around. Esther and that damn intruder have it right. I’ve got to find some way to force my father to tell me what this is all about before one of us gets hurt.

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  18

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  Tootsie

  After Becks leaves, I remain in the booth and stare at my beer coaster. A buxom blonde in an Oktoberfest costume smiles back, offering up a ceramic stein and an invitation into her uncomplicated Teutonic world.

  If only life were so simple.

  I set my glass down and drop my face in my palms. My hands tremble so badly I have to steady them with the weight of my cheeks. The break-in at Becks’ shook me. My knees feel weak and my breath comes in short, shallow gasps. I glance toward the corner of the restaurant where my friends joke and laugh. I hope no one noticed Becks’ anger or my despair.

  For a brief moment, I wonder if the intruder was
Winchell. But no. he turned me down when I suggested it. Said it was a sick idea. So the intruder had to be Abe. That son of a bitch. What kind of psycho goes out and scares an innocent woman? It’s hard to believe Abe would pull off a break-in. But how well do I know the guy? We were friends two, maybe three years before everything went down the toilet. I assumed Abe mailed the clippings years ago, though I never figured out why. But how did he get his hands on Louie’s morgue photo? My mouth feels dry and my palms grow damp as one possibility occurs to me. The same way he covered up Moe’s murder.

  “Tootsie.” It’s Winchell, standing at the edge of my table. I didn’t hear him approach. “You coming? We saved a seat.”

  I glance toward the others. No one looks my way. “Not yet.”

  “Something wrong with Becks?”

  I hesitate. Winchell knows Becks is poking into my past, but doesn’t know why. “It’ll be okay. I’ll join you and the boys in a minute.”

  Winchell shrugs and rejoins the bowlers.

  I consider the clippings. Abe had a lot of nerve bringing them to Becks’ house. As if he never broke the law. And what kind of bullshit is that—ask your father? Now I have to tell Becks something. If I tell her the truth, I’ll be cut off from her and the boys. I can’t handle that. After what happened today, Becks will be even less forgiving than her hard-nosed sister.

  I’m so fed up with this damned secrecy. It’d be a relief to tell Becks about my past, to get it out in the open before someone else blows it—like that bastard, Abe. But I can’t risk it. Becks is all I have now. I’ve got to convince Abe to get off her back.

  I get up from the table and join my friends. Five minutes later, we head back to the Schmuel Bernstein. No one notices my anxiety as I say good night and head upstairs. The minute I hit my apartment I dial Abe.

  “What the hell were you thinking, breaking into Becks’ house and leaving those clippings?” I say the instant he picks up.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t hand me that bullshit. She came to see me tonight. Told me everything. So what are you after?”