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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  Esther seems to read my mind. “You know he still loves you.”

  I give a quick nod.

  She reaches across the console and puts a hand on my arm. “I can’t believe the Daniel I know, the guy I just saw, cheated on you. I still love him, but hate him for what he did to you. We talked a little before you came in. He regrets his affair and hates himself for hurting you.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a mirror and lipstick. Since we’re heading home and won’t be running into anyone, I realize she’s putting on makeup as a delaying tactic. She gives a little pout to smooth her lipstick, then turns back to me. “And thirty years is a long time.”

  She sounds like my father. I didn’t have an answer for him. And I don’t have one for her.

  I pull into my driveway but we both remain seated. I’m worried sick about my sister’s cancer. But I must admit there is a certain irony to Esther’s illness. As awful as death and sickness are, they bring families together. When my mother was dying, Daniel kept Esther and me sane. He spoke with her doctors almost every day during the last few weeks of her life, and helped us make the agonizing decision to let her go. Although my mother and Tootsie were divorced at the time, I resented him for being in Las Vegas with his bowling buddies when she died. Esther’s husband was in the middle of a trial. Only Daniel stood by.

  Now that Esther may be gravely ill, may even be dying, I’m turning to Daniel again. I wish I could talk to my father about Esther’s illness. I don’t know how much help he’d be but at least he could share the emotional burden. But I have to honor my sister’s request. That leaves Daniel once more. At the end of the day, Esther’s illness is forcing me to reevaluate my feelings toward Daniel.

  At his office today, it struck me; I’m still in love with him. Our marriage may be worth saving. But first, I have to convince myself he can be trusted, that he’s the old Daniel in whom I could confide, who’d be there for me no matter what. And I need to forgive him, to step away from the hurt and resentment I’ve been harboring and open myself to the generous and loving man I married. I hope I can do that.

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  23

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  The next Friday, Esther’s flight to Greensboro is running late so I park in the garage and keep her company at a coffee shop in Fort Lauderdale International Airport. Her biopsy revealed she has invasive ductal carcinoma and she’s returning to Greensboro to tell the girls, who are coming home from college for the weekend. She’s returning to Florida for the lumpectomy so Daniel can oversee her care.

  When she called to tell the girls about her diagnosis, Ariel and Heather took the news better than expected. Both wanted to fly to Boca Raton to be with her immediately, which she refused. Bruce is handling things well, calling Esther every night. When she returns to Florida on Monday, she’ll have the surgery then decide whether to go with chemo and radiation therapy. She spent hours talking to Daniel and me and searching the internet and seems comfortable with her decision.

  I’m a little calmer about her prognosis knowing that Daniel’s set up a thorough plan of action. He seems optimistic she’ll come out of this fine and I trust his judgment. The second time I went with Esther to Daniel’s office, it was easier to be around him. But I still refuse to join her in the examining room. I prefer the three of us meet more formally in Daniel’s office.

  I’d risen too early to shower that morning so, when I get home, I do so. While washing my hair, I consider the article I’m working on for the mid-December food section. I’d like to find a tropical spin on Hanukkah recipes and thought I’d take a look at early issues of Miami newspapers in the Miami Library’s archives. By the time Esther boarded her plane, though, it was too late for the long drive. I’m disappointed because I’d hoped to see Gabriel while I was down there. We haven’t spoken in a few weeks and I’m eager to make up after my refusal to let Daniel move back home. I talk to Josh almost every Sunday, but I miss Gabriel and feel left out of his life. He’s close geographically, yet emotionally so distant. I decide to spend the rest of the day searching the internet for historical information about the holiday and its culinary traditions. I’ll call Gabriel tonight.

  It’s been almost a month since my house was ransacked and I’m no closer to knowing who broke in. My father and I have been back and forth on the subject a half dozen times. He seems convinced I’m not in danger. But I’m not comfortable taking his word. Maybe he’s telling me things are fine so I won’t go to the police with what I know about his background.

  I have thought about visiting Abe, telling him what my father said when I asked about their disagreement—which is what I presume he meant by “ask your father.” But I’m afraid to initiate contact. The vehemence of his anger when I visited and the savagery with which he vandalized my home terrify me. Plus it’s not the type of thing you do—show up at someone’s house and announce, “I asked my father and he said he never ratted on you.” For all I know, Tootsie turned Abe in.

  The shower wakes me up and, after throwing on a sweat suit, I head downstairs to start work. As I near the first floor, I hear noise in the kitchen, as though the television’s on. I stop for a moment, then smile, picturing my cat on the counter, lying across the remote control. Mulligan’s developed this habit of landing on it when he jumps on the kitchen counter, turning on the television. Then he sits there until I shove him aside. I was frightened by the noise the first time he did it and it took me fifteen minutes to find the remote beneath his belly. As though reading my mind, Mulligan trots out of the kitchen and rubs up against my legs.

  “Let me guess,” I say, reaching down to scratch between his ears, “you wanted to watch the funniest cat videos?”

  After the last break-in, you’d think I’d know better.

  When I walk in to the kitchen to flip off the television, I come to such an abrupt halt that the towel wrapped around my hair drops to the floor. I open my mouth in a silent scream, then close it. The man I’d noticed talking to Mrs. Karpowsky at Schatzi’s funeral sits at my kitchen table with a half-filled cup of coffee. He’s roughly the same age as my father, but is shorter and has a stockier build. Skin droops beneath his eyes and jowls, giving him the melancholy, hangdog appearance of a bloodhound. He wears a formal, heavily-starched, white guayabera with sleeves that extend below his wrists to reveal short, pudgy fingers encased in gold rings. He smiles at me gently and inquisitively like an old friend delighted to have surprised me with his visit.

  Standing behind him is a squat, bulked-up Latin with a bowling ball head. A black spit of a goatee and mirrored sunglasses add little to his appeal.

  He’s pointing a gun at my chest.

  And he is not smiling.

  I step back, too stunned to scream.

  “You must be Tootsie’s girl,” the old man says, rising from his chair. He pronounces it ‘goyl’ and the conciliatory tone of his voice is more frightening than anger. “Becks, isn’t it?”

  I nod. It’s a struggle to hear his words over the thumping of my heart. I want to know how he got in and what he’s doing here, but I’m too scared to speak.

  “Sorry for the surprise visit, but old habits die hard. This is my friend, Pinky.” He motions toward the bruiser, then frowns. “You want to lose that gun.”

  Pinky sets the ugly metal object on the kitchen counter but keeps a hand on it.

  The old man drops back into his chair and motions to the seat opposite. “Sit. Please. We have a lot to talk about.”

  I move mechanically, one leg then the other, until I’m seated across from him. I can’t believe this is happening. In my own kitchen. The newspaper I left on the table that morning lies open to the crossword puzzle, which is filled with unfamiliar handwriting. “Who are you?” I ask. I’m not feeling altogether confident but decide to take the man’s greeting as a sign he’s not here to kill me.

  “I’m a friend of your father going way back. Maybe he told you ab
out me. Murray Landauer.” The hair on the back of my neck rises. He reaches a hand across the table and I take it, hoping a firm grip will hide its trembling. “He and a buddy, fellow named Louie, worked for me years ago. Sound familiar?”

  I’m so frightened that my “yes” emerges as a croak. I picture my body splayed across the wooden table in a pool of blood and imagine the boys coming home and finding me dead. Idiotically, I wonder how Daniel would handle this. Would he try to be a hero and attack these men? Probably not. Daniel’s too realistic. The old man seems sane but Pinky looks like he could shoot a man—or woman—without a twinge. I want to kick myself for not calling the police after the first break-in.

  “My sympathy on the loss of your Uncle Moe. I heard he died young.”

  I thank him, not knowing how else to respond. Why bring that up? It’s like every gangster in town wants to console me for my uncle’s death.

  “I heard the Plotnik brothers went legit and did okay for themselves. That’s wonderful,” he says. “Tootsie raised two lovely daughters, one of whom, so I hear, has been poking around in the past.”

  I’m starting to catch on.

  He smiles again, a benign, gentle smile, and points a gnarled finger at me. “That would be you. Would you care to share what you’ve learned?”

  I try to focus, to figure out what the man’s after. It’s got to be the story about Fat Louie. I can’t think of anything else. So I tell him what I know, starting with Tootsie’s sighting of Florence Karpowsky at the Schmuel Bernstein. “He felt terrible about turning Louie in,” I conclude. “He had no idea things would turn out so badly for his friend.”

  As I speak, Mr. Landauer makes occasional eye contact with Pinky, who remains standing next to the counter with his lids half closed.

  “And your visit to Abe Kravitz?” Landauer asks when I’m through. “How’d that go?”

  “Is that who told you I was asking around?”

  The old man jerks forward in his seat and any resemblance to a bloodhound disappears in a cold scowl. “I’m asking the questions.”

  I can sense the menacing power of the mobster my father feared and struggle to hide the terror in my voice. “I was doing research for work and came across an article about Abe’s conviction. He was a friend of my dad’s. I don’t care about Abe’s record. I thought he might tell me more about my father and Uncle Moe.”

  “What’d he tell you?”

  “Nothing. He threw me out.”

  Mr. Landauer smiles, barely moving the corners of his mouth. “And how about the little visit with your father after the break-in?”

  I jump from the chair. “That was you?” The man’s familiarity with my recent movements and family frightens and infuriates me.

  He leans across the table and enunciates his words. “None of your fucking business. Sit down. I told you. I ask the questions.”

  My throat constricts and I swallow a few times before continuing. “My father told me Abe robbed trucks and sold him and my uncle the stolen goods. They quit buying from Abe after police came by looking for stolen refrigerators.” Then, speaking rapidly, “My father and Uncle Moe did not turn Abe in.” I don’t know if I believe that anymore. Or if it matters. I can’t believe this goon broke into my home because of refrigeration stolen fifty years earlier. There’s got to be more to this and my father’s past than I know.

  “Of course they didn’t turn Abe in.” His voice is thick with sarcasm. “They were much too loyal for that.”

  Landauer hands his mug to Pinky, who pours another cup of coffee from the carafe on my counter and brings it to the table. The old man leans back in his seat and scrutinizes me. “You seem like a nice girl, so I’m going to play it straight with you.” He takes a slow sip of the steaming brew. “Your father’s full of shit.”

  “I can’t believe . . .”

  He slams his hand on the table so hard that I jump. “Shut up and listen. My friends had a reason for leaving that crap in your bedroom. It’s too bad you didn’t have the smarts to figure it out. If you did, you wouldn’t be talking to your old man and I wouldn’t be here today. Your father killed Fat Louie as sure as I’m sitting here. Then he let me take the rap. And that’s just half the story. So here’s what you do. Go back to your father. Tell him that you met me. And let him know I haven’t talked to my wife and kids in sixty years. You can also let him know that if he doesn’t tell you the truth, his life isn’t worth a red cent. Neither is yours. You got that?”

  I nod, too frightened to speak.

  He stands. My heart skips a beat as Pinky reaches for his gun, then tucks it into the waistband of his pants.

  “I’ll return,” Landauer says. “And if you’re father doesn’t confess.” He glances at Pinky, then me. “You got two boys, right. Well, he knows what I’ll do.”

  He walks around to my side of the table and pats my head. “Don’t get up. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  Pinky picks up Landauer’s cup and places it in the sink. I’m terrified. Landauer knows about Josh and Gabriel! They could be in danger. My stomach heaves. I’m afraid my knees will buckle if I try to stand so follow the two men with my gaze as they leave the kitchen. I’m too weak to do anything but stare after them for several minutes after the back door slams.

  When I hear their car pull away, I pick up the phone and dial the Boca Raton police. I love my father. But this has gone far enough.

  The two officers who show up fifteen minutes later are polite but exchange skeptical glances when I tell them about the intruders waiting for me at my kitchen table. As I describe the visit, I understand their skepticism; except for the threats, Landauer’s visit sounds too civilized. After I’ve shown the men where we sat and point out the coffeepot and mug Pinky and Landauer touched, the policemen suggest we go to the family room to talk. Officer Lopez, a baby-faced cop in his early twenties with a shadow of a mustache, stays with me while his partner, Officer Amodio, checks the house. We make small talk about the neighborhood and Boca’s growing crime rate.

  “All clear,” Amodio says when he rejoins us. He’s a foot taller than his partner and carries an extra ten pounds, most of it shelved neatly above a thick black belt. “Your rear sliders are easy to break into so you might want to replace them. But from the scratches on the front doorknob, I’d say your visitors picked the lock and entered there.”

  “Wouldn’t they worry about being spotted?”

  Amodio shrugs. “I guess they scoped out the area before entering. I called the station and a detective will be here soon.” He inclines his head toward the kitchen. “That business you mentioned earlier, about seeing one of the men before. Did you catch his name or any of the other people at the funeral?”

  “My father identified a few people, but not Mr. Landauer.” I’m uncomfortable lying, but decide not to mention that I recognized Landauer’s name from my father’s account of Fat Louie. I don’t want to go there—at least not yet. My goal at this point is to feel safe. If that means telling them about Tootsie’s past later, I will. But I want to talk to the old man first. He must have had a good reason for failing to point out Landauer at the funeral.

  The doorbell rings and Lopez—announcing “that’ll be Detective Cole”—answers it. I’m surprised when an attractive silver-haired man in a navy sports jacket strides into the hall. He’s broad-shouldered but slim and the angle of his eyes suggests Asian blood. Where the other police officers look official in their heavy black uniforms and shiny badges and guns, this man could be a doctor or lawyer or insurance salesman. I follow the officers to the kitchen to show the detective where Landauer sat, but Cole raises his hand, directing me to stop at the entrance.

  “Have you touched anything since the intruders left?” he says, walking briskly to the counter and glancing into the sink. Amodio must have told him about Landauer helping himself to coffee.

  “Just the phone and my chair,”
I say. “And the front door when I opened it for the officers.”

  He nods and sends a silent signal to the policemen, who wish me luck and leave through the garage door.

  After Cole checks the kitchen, we return to the family room, where he spends fifteen minutes going over the same territory I covered with the uniformed officers. I can’t seem to get comfortable on the couch and cross and uncross my legs as we speak. He stands before me, blocking my view of the television, arms crossed. What time did I arrive home? Did I notice anything odd before going upstairs? Were the men wearing gloves? The answer is no.

  Detective Cole asks if I recognized the intruders and I repeat my story about seeing Mr. Landauer at the funeral. He cracks the barest of smiles when I describe Landauer as a bloodhound and asks me to come down to the station to meet with a sketch artist. I agree, though I don’t know how much good it’ll do. Landauer’s been out of the country for years, according to my father, and Pinky looks like every other punk with a shaved head.

  When the detective questions me about my conversation with Mr. Landauer, my palms grow damp.

  “What do you mean by threatened you?” he asks. “Did he say he was coming back to harm you?”

  “He didn’t spell it out. He said he’d be back if my father didn’t tell me the truth. He mentioned my sons.”

  “Do you know what he meant?”

  “Just that they’d be in danger.”

  I’m a lousy liar—thanks, I suppose, to an open face and penchant for blushing. The detective picks up on it. He keeps at me for what feels like hours, posing questions from multiple angles. Why were we at the funeral? Does my father know the older man? It’s not easy to avoid bringing up my dad’s criminal past and I grow increasingly resentful about the position Tootsie’s put me in.