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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  “Why don’t you call my father?” I say, sick of this exercise in deceit.

  The detective assures me he will.

  Just then, the doorbell rings and Detective Cole opens it to one of the tallest women I’ve ever met. She’s more than six feet and walks into the hall slowly, gazing around. The creases around her eyes suggest she’s nearer fifty than forty, though the curves revealed by her well-tailored black suit hint at the body of a weight lifter. She carries a red tackle box and follows the detective into the kitchen. He tells me to wait at the door.

  Cole speaks to her in a voice too low to hear, then turns to me. “Why don’t you show Pam every surface the intruders touched?”

  I show her the cup and coffeepot, and indicate where Pinky left his gun and Landauer sat. Then I return to the doorway to watch her. She sets several vials and brushes on the table before selecting a small feathery brush and dipping it in black powder. It looks like she’s painting as she swirls the brush in the sink and on my countertop, then on the cup and carafe. I can’t tell if she’s found fingerprints but suspect she has when she covers the carafe handle with what looks like packing tape, then lifts it off and attaches it to a card. Next she wipes the edge of the cup with a cotton swab.

  It strikes me—stupidly after all I’ve been through—as unfair that I’m the one who’ll have to clean up the kitchen once the technician leaves. It’s not bad enough my house has been ransacked and I’ve been threatened by strangers. Now I’m being grilled by the police and will have to spend half the afternoon removing fingerprint dust from counters.

  This is all Tootsie’s fault. And I’m ready to kill him.

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  24

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  “What’s the big God damn secret?” my father says the minute he opens the door to my Mercedes. He slides into the passenger seat and slams his door. “You couldn’t tell me what you wanted to talk about over the phone?”

  I’m parked at the entrance to the Schmuel Bernstein, picking up Tootsie for what I know is going to be a rough night. Two nurses having a smoke on the front porch glance up as the door clangs shut. Terrific. The old man’s on the warpath. I can’t wait until he hears about Landauer. And the police.

  It’s been five hours since the aging gangster paid me a visit. Two since the detective left my house. I realize I’m being optimistic but hope the police will find the intruders from the prints. I ran to the car the minute they left, leaving the cleanup for later.

  On the drive over, I made myself crazy debating how to ask Tootsie the questions Landauer raised. I’ve never been this angry at my father and breathe deeply to calm myself. Attacking him will get me nowhere and if I don’t wrestle the truth out of my dad soon, my life and my sons’ lives may be in danger. The police reassured me they’d look into Landauer’s whereabouts and talk to Tootsie. But that won’t happen until tomorrow. I need answers now.

  When I called my father an hour earlier, he refused to see me, claiming he couldn’t “sacrifice” his Friday night poker game. I told him I couldn’t see him Sunday and he relented. Even so, it’s hard to believe his door slamming is because of a couple of missed poker hands.

  “I ran into Sadie Goldfarb at breakfast this morning,” my father announces once he settles into the car. “She said her daughter, Mavis, saw Esther at the grocery store Wednesday. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Great. Like I don’t have enough problems.

  “She needed to get away,” I lie, “to take it easy, go to the beach. It gets cold in Greensboro.”

  There’s no way I’m getting into his relationship with Esther tonight. Normally, I’d hedge my answer but am too angry to worry about sparing his feelings. I thought I’d start yelling at him the minute he got in my car. But I decided to hold off and attempt a rational discussion when we reached the restaurant. That’s enough compassion for one night.

  “Esther told me not to let you know she was in town. She wouldn’t tell me why.”

  Tootsie shrugs. The movement releases the dead animal stench of wool that’s been stored without washing. It’s dark so I turn on the car’s interior light. I’m surprised to see my father in the cheap leather jacket Daniel bought on our honeymoon in San Francisco. I had no idea he’d given it to Tootsie. It reeks like a dump.

  I open my window and pull onto the road.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on with you and Esther,” I say, “because I’d like to know? Being forced into the middle of your argument stinks.”

  Tootsie looks away from me, and remains staring out the window as we take the causeway to Miami Beach. It’s dusk and streetlights are beginning to flicker to life. The sky is hazy blue and the narrow stratum of clouds that hover above Biscayne Bay reflect the faded pinks and oranges of the setting sun.

  When we exit the causeway on Forty-First Street, Tootsie starts in with his complaints. It’s Esther’s fault they’re not getting along. She didn’t call him the last time she was in town. She forgot his birthday last year. She never acknowledged his Hanukkah gift. None of this explains their rift. When he accuses me of monopolizing her time, I lash out.

  “You know I’ve got my own problems. This is taking a toll on me too.”

  “What is?”

  I catch myself. “You know, having a houseguest.”

  “So why doesn’t she stay with me? Sleep on my sofa.”

  I laugh and he glares at me. My father has a one-bedroom apartment and never invites anyone to stay with him. If relatives ask, he offers my house.

  “Why would she do that?” I say.

  “Because, for Christ sake, I’m her father.”

  “How long has it been since you talked to her?”

  He stares out the window.

  I pass the stately homes along Alton Road, figuring I’ll cut across the island farther north to reach Pino’s, the restaurant my father chose. Most of the homes along this thoroughfare date from the 1930s and have a dignified charm and understated elegance absent from Boca Raton’s stucco mini-mansions. The soil down here is richer too so the landscaping is lusher.

  I’m speculating how to bring up Landauer’s accusations when it hits me. Esther knows something I don’t. That’s why she isn’t talking to Dad.

  I hit the brake and come to a stop on Alton.

  “Hey watch out,” Tootsie yells as the driver behind us honks his horn.

  I gun the motor, breathing heavily. That’s got to be it. Esther knows what’s going on. Whatever she learned has to be pretty dreadful if she hasn’t told me. It’s not going to be easy, but I have what I need to confront my father about Landauer’s accusations.

  “Does Esther know about you and Fat Louie?” I ask when we stop at a red light.

  He chews his lip before answering. “I told her. But she didn’t take it too well.”

  “How’d she react?”

  “Your sister’s always judging me, just like your mother.” His glances toward me, his eyes slit. “She thinks I was responsible for Fat Louie’s death.”

  “Why?” Then I hazard, “You didn’t know your boss would kill him, did you?”

  “Don’t talk crazy.” He looks away. “Of course not.”

  Pino’s Pizza is buzzing tonight. It’s six twenty and the pizza, minestrone soup, and soft drink special is good for another ten minutes. An elderly couple get up as we enter, and Tootsie grabs my elbow and steers me into their booth. He motions a waitress over to bus the table, then studies the menu.

  The place is packed. Families with small children crowd into high-backed red leather booths while couples of all ages share the small wooden tables that fill the center of the room. The waitress takes our order. We decide to go with the early bird special.

  “Something happened this morning,” I ease into the subject. “It has to do with Fat Louie.”

  He gives me a quick glance
. “What? Did Esther say something?”

  “She didn’t say a word. But I think there’s more to the story than you’re telling me.”

  He grimaces.

  “Come on, Dad. How bad could it be? I’m not Esther. I’d never cut you off.”

  It’s dim in the booth, but enough light flickers off the candle to reflect the fear in my father’s eyes. And I realize that’s exactly what he’s afraid of. Why he’s withholding the truth. He thinks I’ll abandon him. The thought saddens and empowers me and I realize that if I don’t force him to tell the truth now, he never will. I need to know. Ever since my house was ransacked, I’ve been afraid to enter my home. Landauer’s break-in has terrified me. I can’t live like this. Josh and Gabriel are due home for Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of telling them to remain at school.

  Pino’s bustles with the clatter of china and cutlery and the slap of pizza pans on metal stands. A child in the booth behind us whines and a man two tables away laughs. But our heavily-padded booth creates a cozy, cushioned space. It’s safe and private in here and, though we can hear each other, our conversation is absorbed in the clatter and hum of restaurant noise.

  “Mr. Landauer broke into my house today,” I say. My father’s head shoots up from the menu. “I found him and his bodyguard in my kitchen.”

  Tootsie jumps up, but his thighs hit the table and he drops back into his seat.

  “When?” The word comes out in a whisper. He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mops his brow.

  “This morning. When I returned from taking Esther to the airport.”

  He stares at me a second, eyes wide. “Jeeze. I thought I recognized him at Schatzi’s funeral. But I wasn’t sure. I heard he was dead. What did he want?”

  I tell him about my encounter with Landauer. He cringes when I mention Pinky’s gun. “He said to tell you he hasn’t seen his family in sixty years. And that, if you don’t tell me the truth, he’ll come back and . . . he didn’t say. Just that you’d know.” A chill like iced water ascends my spine. My father, who’s chewing the edge of his thumbnail, turns pale.

  He’s about to speak when the soup and pizza arrive. I want to push for his response, but I can see from the way he dives into the minestrone that he’s grateful for the break. I pick at my food in silence, interrupted only when the waitress appears with soft drink refills. When she leaves with the metal pizza plate, my father sets his glass down.

  “I’m sorry, Doll.” He shakes his head from side to side, deliberately, like a buffalo warding off flies. “It must have been horrible coming home to that. I’ve spent my life trying to forget that bastard and what he forced me and Moe to do. But if we hadn’t cooperated, it might have meant our lives.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The couple at the table to my left look over. I’ve raised my voice.

  “I told you I discovered Louie double-crossed me and Mr. Landauer.” Tootsie whispers.

  “Yes.”

  “And that Mr. Landauer found someone to kill Louie.”

  I nod.

  He leans outside the booth and looks left, then right, before turning back to me. “That someone was Moe.” He hesitates. “And me.”

  A knot forms in my gut. I already sensed my father had more to do with Louie’s death than he admitted. And I’m not surprised my uncle was involved. From what Tootsie’s said over the years, Moe had some tough friends. But my dad a murderer? I swallow and fight a building nausea. The threats to my life and Tootsie’s start to make sense.

  “When Landauer figured out what Louie did, he yelled at Moe and me. He said we’re the ones who brought in the bad apple, we got to get rid of it. He didn’t come out and say so, but it was clear he expected us to take Louie out.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish. Well, I didn’t like it. Neither did Moe. But what choice did we have? Landauer was connected with some characters who’d be glad to do the job. Kill me and Moe too. We figured better Louie than us.” There’s pleading in his voice.

  “Moe ran into Louie a few days after Landauer’s outburst and learned Louie’s wife, Florence, was in New Jersey visiting her folks. That’s when he came up with his plan. I’d invite Louie over for Shabbat dinner at your grandmother’s, then get her out of the house. Moe would shoot Louie and dispose of his body before Ma returned. It sounded nuts to me, but it’s all we had. Moe insisted he knew what he was doing.”

  My father speaks rapidly. He seems relieved to be talking.

  “The next Friday afternoon, I gave Louie a call. Remember, he had no idea I was on to him. I told him my mother was making noodle pudding, his favorite, why didn’t he come to dinner. My father was out of town and Louie could take my old man’s place at the table.

  “I guess Louie saw this as an attempt to rekindle our friendship because he agreed. Your Grandma Yentl set the table with her nice white linen and fine china. We hadn’t told her what happened with Louie and my job, but she knew there were problems between us. She was glad we were making up.

  “Moe and I sent our wives out to dinner, saying we had to work that night, and went to Grandma Yentl’s with Louie. She’d prepared a regular Shabbat meal. Chicken soup with matzo balls. Brisket she’d simmered all day. The noodle pudding. Once we finished dessert, Moe gave Grandma a couple of bucks and told her to take Mrs. Horowitz from upstairs to see a movie. We’d do the dishes. Mrs. Horowitz agreed and the ladies took off.

  “Moe, Louie and I stayed at the table, talking about old times. I found myself chattering, nervous about what lay ahead. Moe knew this so he played older brother, telling me to get my ass in the kitchen and start the dishes. I was in there, with the water running and the dishes clattering, when I heard a pop. It wasn’t loud—Moe used a silencer. But I knew what it meant. I felt sick but returned to the dining room.”

  “Uncle Moe shot the man?”

  “You’d better believe it. Louie lay on the floor, blood down the front of his shirt. I didn’t know how Moe did it—I didn’t even want to know how he learned to do it—but the only place blood splattered was on Grandma Yentl’s tablecloth.”

  “Was he dead?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Of course he was dead. I had to hand it to Moe, though. He planned everything. Pulled out a bag of rags he’d stashed under Ma’s couch and used them to wipe up the blood. Sent me to drive his car to the alley behind Ma’s apartment building. I was sobbing like a baby as we rolled Louie into the tablecloth and dragged him down the back stairs to Moe’s trunk. Your uncle was a cool character. I don’t think he felt a thing.”

  I’ve heard enough, but my father keeps talking. I don’t think he’d stop if I asked.

  “Moe arranged everything. He drove to the Miami River and pulled behind a shack where two goons waited in a filthy skiff. They watched with dead eyes—you know, like they’d seen it all—as we dragged Louie’s body across the old dock. I had to stop twice to puke in the river. We got Louie in the boat and took off, driving to Ma’s apartment in record time and changing into clean shirts in the car. When Ma turned up a half hour later, we were doing the dishes. Moe told her he spilled Manichewitz on the tablecloth and would take it to be cleaned. We joined her for a glass of tea and a piece of honey cake and made it home by eleven.”

  My father’s face is flushed and the armpits of his blue polo are soaked. He leans back and looks at me, eyebrows raised, as though daring me to respond. I’m not fooled. The pleading I’d seen in his eyes remains.

  I’m sickened by what Tootsie told me and don’t know what to do with his confession. I’m shocked and angry—but my anger is tinged with pity. He’s had to live with the knowledge he murdered a friend. It could not have been easy.

  I want to believe my father when he says he had no choice. But he’s lied before. It’s been hard enough coming to terms with the notion that he associated with gangsters. But a cold-
blooded killer? That may be more than I can handle.

  I wonder if my mother knew. And if so, what choices she had. She loved my dad. And turning him in would’ve sent him to prison, leaving her alone with a small child. I can see why Esther won’t talk to Tootsie. I’m tempted to leave the table and let him catch a taxi home. I glance around the restaurant—anything to avoid his gaze. My fingers are numb from grasping the edge of my chair.

  My father studies me, reading every muscle on my face. I try to smile, but my lips feel stiff and it probably comes across as a grimace. He slides the check around the table without looking at it; my eyes follow his hand. I’m torn between disbelief and horror as I try to adapt to this reality. This alter cocker, with his soft gut, his waddle of a neck, a killer? It seems so far-fetched, so part of the distant past. As though he’s talking about someone else. But he isn’t.

  He drops a twenty on the table and rises. I slide out of the booth and lead him through the parking lot to my car.

  “Jeeze, Dad,” I say once we’re buckled in. He turns to me as though awaiting a verdict. “I can’t believe you’ve lived with this secret so long.” It’s the best I can do.

  The Miami skyline draws near as we cross the causeway. The view has changed a lot since I was a kid. The office towers are taller and more densely packed. Steel and glass fill the horizon. People on the street come in every shade of red and brown and white and are as likely to speak Creole or Spanish as English. It’s entirely different from the Miami Tootsie knew as a young man. The only remnants of that era, of the years when Miami was a Mecca for glamorous movie stars and underworld figures, are old men’s memories and crooked gravestones in Mount Nebo Cemetery.

  When we reach the campus of the Schmuel Bernstein, my father tells me to pull into a parking spot. There’s more. We sit for a few minutes, listening to the frogs chirruping and my air conditioner wheezing.

  “Your uncle and I almost got away with it,” he says without looking at me. “Your uncle was sharp and did a good job of covering our tracks. No one could trace Louie’s death back to either of us. But word had reached the street that Louie was double-crossing Landauer. A cop saw the two goons who took Louie’s body out to sea returning in the skiff the night Louie died and knew they worked for Landauer.”