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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  He stares straight ahead. “The police were having a hard time tying Landauer into some other hits and, when they found blood in the boat, they were sure they could nail him. When they offered me and Uncle Moe immunity, we took it. What choice did we have? Landauer pleaded to first-degree murder and was lucky not to end up in the chair. Last I heard, he escaped while being transported to a hospital in the 1960s and made his way to the Bahamas. I couldn’t believe it when he showed up at Schatzi’s funeral. That’s why I left so suddenly. I couldn’t be sure it was him, though. It’s been fifty years.”

  “Weren’t you afraid he’d come after you and Uncle Moe?” The idea of my father living with this guilt and fear of being hunted down for so long disturbs me.

  “When he first escaped from prison, yes. But then nothing happened and I figured he’d made himself a life. I’d have helped him if he wanted it.”

  Honor among thieves, I think, but don’t say as much to my father.

  “So how are you supposed to let Landauer know I’ve told you the truth?” Tootsie asks.

  “I don’t know. That’s what makes me so nervous. I’m afraid he’ll show up again.”

  “God forbid.” He flips the AC vent on and off a few times, then turns to me. “Tell you what, Doll. Go home. Or better yet, you and Esther stay with a friend or have Daniel move in. I’ll make a couple of calls and try to close the books on this.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “That depends on Landauer.”

  “Don’t do anything crazy. We can always explain to the police.”

  “No.” The word comes out in a quick breath. “What’ll you tell them? That your father killed a man fifty years ago?”

  “If that’s what it takes to be safe.”

  “Please. I’m begging you. Hold off. Just a few more weeks. I promise I’ll take care of things.” He opens the passenger side door. “Sweetheart. Becks, I’m sorry to put you through this. It happened so long ago. Try to forgive me.”

  “You’re still my dad,” I say as he gets out. “I’m glad you told me the truth.”

  He cracks a faint smile, but says nothing. I watch through my rearview mirror as he passes through the automatic glass doors of his apartment building.

  As I back out of my parking spot and pull onto the road, I wonder if I meant what I said or came up with words he wants to hear. The whole thing’s so crazy, so horrible. And I’m concerned about reassuring him. My father murdered a man, for God’s sake. I try to convince myself he had no choice. But I don’t know if I believe his story.

  As I drive home, I ask myself if I’ll come back. If I can face my father, knowing he took a life. I’m tempted to tell the police what I’ve learned. But the statute of limitations on murder never runs out and, as horrified as I am by what he told me, I don’t want my dad to spend his last years in jail. I’ve never been in such a dangerous and untenable position. I hate it. And it’s all because of my father’s lies.

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  25

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  Tootsie

  “Well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Winchell says as I let myself into the Schmuel Bernstein’s card room after leaving Becks. He motions me to the table where he and his poker buddies are clearing a hand. “You want to fill in? I’m not doing so good.”

  Ira, a retired cardiologist, purses his lips into a smug grin and squares off the pile of bills in front of him. The other men—Friday night regulars Bill and Jack—eye me like a piece of steak they’re ready to tear into. Each has a lousy little pile of bills on the table.

  “Why not?” I say. A few hands of poker may take my mind off Becks. I drop into Winchell’s chair and throw a ten on the table. But it’s no good. Three hands in, I’m down fifty bucks. I can’t concentrate. Becks’ forced smile at the restaurant and halfhearted attempt at reassurance keep returning. I make my apologies and go upstairs.

  I’m not a big drinker but tonight I need one. After letting myself into the apartment, I go straight for the fifth of Dewar’s under the kitchen sink. I take a swig from the bottle, then pour two fingers into a glass and bring it into the living room.

  Damn that Becks. Sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

  When she dropped me off tonight, she seemed anxious to assure me she loves me, but her words rang false. My heart was beating so hard when she told me about Landauer’s break-in I thought I’d pass out. It’s bad enough he threatened me. But to threaten my daughter? Bastard. Of course she’s scared. The man’s a monster. And no one wants to believe their father is a murderer. I’m sick about burdening her with this.

  There must be some way to earn back Becks’ respect, to persuade her I’m not a callous murderer. Maybe if she knew what my life was like back then, why my involvement in the syndicate, even Louie’s death, were inevitable. Who the hell knows if she’ll understand—or walk away? I sure as hell didn’t expect Esther to write me off.

  I take another sip. The heat from the Dewar’s travels down my gullet and sends a comforting glow through my body, but it doesn’t calm me. Losing Becks may be the least of my problems. More important is getting Landauer to back off. It was shocking enough spotting the bastard at Schatzi’s funeral. What the hell does he want from me or Becks? I paid him off years ago. If he wants more money, I’ll give it to him.

  My hands tremble. Time has done nothing to ease my fear of the mobster. The bastard would smash a man’s face in at the slightest provocation. A joke about his thinning hair. A comment about his wife. I don’t want to come up against that animal. But this is my daughter. My Becks. I need to get in touch with Landauer and find out what he wants.

  I take the last sip of Dewar’s and set my glass on the cocktail table. Then I reach under the sofa for my white pages. It’s a long shot. A delaying tactic. I leaf through the Ls. Of course Murray Landauer isn’t listed. The old bastard’s still wanted by the police.

  There’s just one way to reach the man: Abe Kravitz. He was Landauer’s lieutenant when the mobster was sent up and everyone knew he masterminded the old man’s escape. Abe’s got to know where he is.

  My palms are damp when I dial Abe’s number.

  “Abe, it’s Tootsie,” I say when he answers.

  “So what.”

  “I hear Landauer’s back in town. He paid a visit to my daughter.”

  “No kidding.”

  “You knew?”

  Abe is silent.

  “Can you put me in touch with him? Maybe you got a phone number where I can reach him?”

  “I’ll tell you, Tootsie, I don’t know if I can help you.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “Why should I? You screwed me. I got no reason to put you in touch with anyone.”

  “Abe, I’m begging you. This is my daughter. Do you know how to reach him?”

  Abe hesitates. “I might.”

  A sigh of relief escapes my lips. “Then tell him this. I’m not a rich man but I’ve got a little stashed away. It’s his. Just leave Becks alone.”

  Abe, again, says nothing.

  “You got that?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Listen Abe . . .”

  I hear a click at the other end of the line.

  All I have now is hope. And prayer. And a desperate need to make Becks understand how my life took such an ugly turn before she learns the worst of it.

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  26

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  The next Monday night, I arrive home late, having wasted an evening at the opening of a new Mexican restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale. I would love to tell my editor that there’s no point in running a review of the greasy spoon. But he left a six-inch slot in Wednesday’s newspaper for the article and I have to give him something, even a negative review. That’s one reason I prefer writing about food, rather than critiquing restaurants. I feel guilty
about panning a business—worse when it’s starting out. But I owe it to readers to be honest.

  I let myself in the front door and cringe when I notice a light in the kitchen —then remember Esther’s back in town. She was supposed to rent a car from the airport and go to the hospital for blood work and a chest x-ray before letting herself into my house. Tomorrow morning’s her lumpectomy.

  I haven’t told Esther about Landauer’s break-in. Why worry her? It can wait until after her surgery.

  I went to the Boca Raton police station the Saturday after the break-in despite my dread of getting the second degree from Detective Cole. I was relieved he wasn’t around when I met with the sketch artist, who created remarkably accurate drawings of Pinky and Landauer. Shortly after I returned home, my dad called to tell me he got a phone call from the detective. Tootsie sounded angry but wouldn’t tell me what they discussed.

  Esther stands at the sink and looks over her shoulder when she hears my footsteps.

  A head of romaine lettuce, a tomato, and a cucumber sit on the black granite in front of her.

  “So how’d it go with Tootsie?” she says, pulling out a drawer and riffling its contents. “I meant to call about your dinner Sunday.” She denies any interest in our dad but asks about our get-togethers.

  I reach under the counter and hand her a knife and cutting board.

  “Actually, we had dinner Friday instead of Sunday. And it could have been better.”

  “What happened?”

  “He knows you’re in town and he’s pissed off you didn’t call.”

  “So.”

  “So I told him you don’t want to see him.”

  “He okay with that?”

  “What do you think?”

  She shrugs. “Where’d you end up eating?”

  “At his favorite pizza joint, a place off Collins.” I hesitate, then decide to dive in. “I asked him what he told you about Fat Louie. He came clean.”

  She stops in the middle of slicing the cucumber and stares at me. “He didn’t.”

  “I almost wish he hadn’t. I can see why you’re angry with him. I’m still reeling. He told me how his boss forced him and Uncle Moe to . . . to do away with Fat Louie. You know the details?”

  “Enough that I don’t want to hear them again.”

  She makes precise, even cuts in the cucumber and I wonder if she’s taking her time to consider what I’ve said or if it’s her habitual slowness. I could put an entire salad on the table in the time it takes her to slice a cucumber.

  “Did he tell you about Landauer going to prison?” I say.

  “The gangster who ordered the killing?”

  “Right. He ended up taking the rap while Dad and Uncle Moe got off.”

  She stops slicing to look at me. “He never mentioned that.”

  “He told me just before I dropped him off. He’s been looking over his shoulder ever since.”

  She shakes her head and returns to the salad. “I’m not worried. He always lands on his feet.”

  She’s rather cavalier about our father’s safety.

  I can’t abide her puttering around with the vegetables and offer to make the salad. She agrees and drops into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “You know I’ve been trying to get closer to Dad since Daniel and I separated,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I thought it’d make me feel better if I had a relationship with him.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I turn and give her a dirty look. “He isn’t much help. But with the kids gone and this business with Daniel . . . well, he is family. And he has told me about his past, stories about growing up in New York. I did some research about Jewish gangsters, trying to find out about the people Dad named. You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty interesting about his hanging out on the sidelines of the mob. At least it was until I found out . . .”

  “That Dad’s a murderer?”

  I put her salad in a glass bowl and slide it in front of her without answering. There’s no point in bringing salad dressing. She watches every calorie. Where I’m tall and substantial with curly hair I’ve abandoned to Florida’s humidity, she’s tiny and thin and would be delicate if not for the sinewy arm and leg muscles she developed training for marathons. My love of cooking extends to a love of eating, so I’m always fighting my weight. She has little interest in food.

  “What is it with you? Why are you digging into Dad’s past?” she says after picking at her salad.

  I hesitate. I’ve been asking myself the same question. “I’m not sure. It’s like one day Dad’s this fairly normal person, a man I know and understand. Then he turns out to be a gangster. Remember when we were growing up and Dad would return from a trip with these great presents, all excited about watching us open them? I thought he was the best father in the world. We didn’t know until later he was cheating on Mom.”

  She nods.

  “Now I find out he’s not the great dad who brought us gifts and he’s not the horrible man who cheated on Mom. At least, he isn’t just those people. He’s an aging gangster, a criminal. I don’t know when he’s telling the truth anymore. I think he was straight with me Friday night. But who the hell knows?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  I laugh.

  “Anything else I should know?”

  I bite my lip, wondering how much to tell her. She handled the news about Abe’s break-in pretty well. I owe her the truth if she’s going to stay with me. “I told you Dad suspected his old friend, Abe, of breaking into my house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I started digging around and learned he did time for dealing in stolen goods.”

  “No way.”

  “And Dad and Uncle Moe did business with Jewish gangsters who owned hotels and restaurants.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  I root around in the refrigerator to give myself a moment, then grab a diet soda and sit in the chair opposite her. “I need to tell you something else. You may decide not to stay with me after you hear it.”

  She looks up from the salad, fork poised in the air. “You’re a gangster too?”

  I laugh. “Not that.” Then more soberly. “I should have told you. But I didn’t want to worry you. It was selfish, but I . . .”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Word reached Dad’s old mob boss, Murray Landauer, that I’ve been poking around in the past. I think Abe told him. Landauer showed up here a week ago. Broke in with his bodyguard while I was in the shower. When I came downstairs and found him, I freaked. He threatened to come back, to kill me and Dad if Tootsie didn’t tell me the truth. He also knew about the boys. That’s why Dad finally told me the whole story.”

  “My God. Did you call the police?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t mention the gangster business or Fat Louie’s murder. All we need is Dad in prison.”

  “I have no problem with it.” Esther stabs a tomato. “That’s where he belongs.”

  At first I think she’s joking. But she’s not smiling. She’s known about Louie’s murder for a while. It can’t have been easy hiding it from me.

  “Why didn’t you call the police when you learned about Dad’s past?” I say. “Or tell me.”

  “I felt Dad should tell you himself. He said he would.” She pushes her bowl away. “I don’t know. When you come right down to it, there didn’t seem to be any point in telling anyone. It’s history and it’s not like Dad went on to murder other people.”

  “But a man is dead because of him and Uncle Moe.”

  “I’m not saying he shouldn’t be punished. He should. I think. I don’t know anymore.” She brushes a lock of hair off her forehead. “It’s not our job to turn our father in. Wives have the right not to testify against their husbands. So why should we tes
tify against our father?”

  I can’t argue with that. I’m sure she’s discussed this with Bruce. I pick up Esther’s bowl and fork and place them in the sink. Then we retire to the family room and stretch out on the couches.

  “So you still want to stay with me? In spite of Landauer’s break-in?”

  She shrugs. “You’re still here. If you feel safe, so do I. And it’s cheaper than a hotel.” She pulls my patchwork quilt up to her neck. “But if you don’t get answers from Tootsie soon, you ought to tell the police about Louie.”

  I assure her I will.

  “It’s a relief to learn you finally know about Dad,” she says. “You can see why I’m not talking to him.”

  “Oh, I understand. What’s strange is I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing. It was so long ago. I’m horrified by his role in killing Fat Louie and angry that his lies led to the break-ins at my house. But I shouldn’t be surprised. His whole life’s a lie. The funny thing is, up until now, it hasn’t affected us.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  I wait for her to continue, but she’s quiet, staring through the French doors to the patio. I follow her gaze. The white mesh chairs that go around the patio table are stacked one on top of the other. Daniel pressure cleaned them a week before I threw him out. It seems such a long time ago. After a few minutes, I lean across the couch to see if Esther’s sleeping. Her eyes are open.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’ve got my own little confession.” She sits up and crosses her legs. “I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you or anyone else. At first, I couldn’t talk about it without crying and, then later, I was embarrassed. It seems unimportant now, but it bothered me for a while. You remember my boyfriend, Darrell?”

  “The creep who stood you up for senior prom?”