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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  “Yeah. It was because of Dad.”

  “What’d Dad do?”

  “He didn’t do anything. When Darrell’s parents learned who Tootsie was, they forbid him to date me. He ignored them. Then, two days before the prom, Darrell said his parents threatened to take away his car if he brought me as his date. I was devastated. I ended up staying home while all my friends partied. And I couldn’t tell anyone why.”

  Her eyes are damp.

  “How’d Darrell’s parents hear about Dad’s past?”

  “Everyone in Miami knew. Except us.”

  “Is that true?” I mull that over. Did my friends’ parents forbid them from coming to my house because of my father?

  “I don’t know. I asked Dad about what Darrell said. He claimed it was a lie. That Darrell made it up to get out of taking me to the prom.”

  I’m stunned. What kind of father would let his daughter suffer that much pain and rejection to hide his past? Esther didn’t deserve that. With a jolt, I wonder if he’s lying to me too—about contacting Abe and Landauer. Does he think I’ll forget about Landauer’s visit? Can he be naïve enough to think they’ll leave us alone?

  Esther gazes at me, then down at her lap. She has to be thinking the same thing.

  “So how’d you learn the truth?” I ask.

  “Dad told me.”

  “But I thought you said . . .”

  “It was last year, when he was visiting for Rosh Hashanah. You remember. Bruce had just been accused of stealing from a client’s trust account. Of course it turned out to be the bank’s mistake. I guess Dad wanted to comfort me. He got this crazy idea that I’d feel better about Bruce being a crook, which he wasn’t, if I knew my father had been involved in a murder.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Not to you and me. But this is Tootsie we’re talking about. And who knows what goes on in his mind?”

  That night, lying in bed, I can’t let go of what Esther told me. Our father’s confession about his past opened up old wounds for her too. I’ve had to deal with my father’s absence most of my life, with the fact that he was away on “business trips” during my piano recitals and school awards ceremonies. He never praised anything I did no matter how hard I worked. I can forgive that. And I’ve been trying to let go of my resentment for the way he treated my mother.

  But I don’t know how to deal with the ugly truth of the murder. I need time away from my father. I can’t forgive Tootsie. At least not while I’m living in fear of Landauer’s return.

  That night, I sleep in short spurts, waking frequently to the sound of creaking doors and footsteps that turn out to be Mulligan prowling my room. I’m worried about Esther’s surgery tomorrow. As is so often the case with my late night ruminations, I imagine the worst—that she’ll have more advanced cancer than the doctors anticipate or the cancer will spread. I’ve lost my husband and it feels like I’m losing my father. I don’t know how I’ll live without Esther in my life.

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  27

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  “Get up. It’s six o’clock.”

  I groan and drag my arm from across my eyes. I couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two. Esther perches at the edge of my bed holding out a cup of coffee. I shimmy up against my pillows and accept it. She’s already dressed in a soft pink skirt made of tee shirt fabric and a matching top. She smiles but her face is pale. Today’s the big day, I realize with a pang of anxiety. We need to be at the hospital by seven.

  Last night before bed, Esther told me the surgeon assured her the lumpectomy would be a brief, outpatient procedure, but that she might be at the hospital all day waiting to come out of anesthesia. Dr. Simon would take lymph nodes from under her arm during the surgery to make sure the cancer hadn’t spread. She’ll have to take it easy for a few weeks to heal from surgery before going on to chemo or radiation therapy. We’ll know more about her options after the pathology reports come back.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed and my sister returns downstairs. I’ve showered and am in the closet reaching for jeans when it strikes me that I should dress a little nicer. Despite my insistence I’ll be fine, Daniel is adamant about staying with me while Esther’s in the operating room.

  I throw on a comfortable paisley knit dress and dab on foundation and lipstick. I tell myself it’s not for Daniel, that I always make an effort to look good when I visit the hospital. But there’s more to it. I know it’s terribly superficial but half the people on staff at the hospital doubtless know about Daniel’s affair. I don’t want to be pitied as the aggrieved wife of Dr. Ruchinsky. And that means looking attractive and confident.

  When Esther and I arrive at the surgical waiting room, a nurse ushers us back to the pre-op holding area. Despite the nurse’s warmth and reassurances, the place unnerves me. It’s a large open space with black linoleum flooring, a speckled, acoustical-tiled ceiling and six curtained bays behind which patients chat with family members. Daniel is at a desk reading charts when we get there. He says he went in early this morning to round on patients and doesn’t have office hours until two. I feel awkward, yet relieved. The constant beeping of heart monitors unnerves me and the oxygen tank and blood pressure machine in Esther’s bay remind me that all surgery is risky. I stand by Daniel’s desk in uncomfortable silence while Esther goes behind the curtain to put on her hospital gown. We’re both a little too eager to join her when she announces she’s changed.

  In a few minutes, Dr. Simon stops by to chat with Esther. He’s followed by an anesthesiologist. Esther will be unconscious for the entire procedure and may have some soreness in her arm for a few days after. With each doctor’s visit, the cramping in my stomach worsens. What if the cancer has spread? Will they remove her entire breast? I keep my questions to myself. When the orderly comes for her, I grab Daniel’s arm. His muscles tense beneath my hand, then relax. Once the double doors to the surgical suite swing shut behind her, I let go.

  There’s a lot to be said for being married to a doctor. The hours are lousy and you’re always playing second fiddle to your spouse’s patients. But when your husband or wife is a doctor, you can count on him or her to help you and friends and family navigate the daunting universe of medical care. It’s at times like this—when I face a frightening medical situation—that I most appreciate Daniel.

  My husband may have cheated on me and caused more pain than I imagined possible. But he’s a good doctor and has never lied to me about a family member’s prognosis. So when he tells me Esther will be fine, I believe him.

  Daniel suggests we wait for Esther in the hospital coffee shop. Dr. Simon has promised to call once surgery’s over. Neither of us are hungry so, after the waitress brings coffee, Daniel returns to his paperwork and I read the novel I’ve brought along.

  It’s hard to concentrate as I imagine Esther on an operating table, vulnerable and alone. Every now and then, Daniel risks a glance my way which I’m careful to avoid. After a half hour, he taps my hand.

  “Becks, shouldn’t we . . .”

  I stop him with a shake of my head. “Not now.”

  The wait seems endless. I jump each time a pager beeps or a phone rings. It always belongs to another doctor. An hour after we enter the shop, Daniel’s phone rings. I don’t understand most of the medical terms he uses and the call is brief. When he smiles and hangs up, I release my breath.

  “It looks good,” he says, rising. “We can see her in ten minutes.”

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  28

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  The earthy orange scent of turmeric greets me as I step off the elevator to my father’s floor at the Schmuel Bernstein. I haven’t seen Tootsie in over a month and wonder if a new resident, maybe an Arabic Jew, has moved in and is toiling over exotic stews in her kitchen. I picture a tiny woman with raven black hair and wrinkled hands pinching and rolling out dough and sautéing eg
gplant for mouthwatering bourekas. The cilia in my nose quiver as I pass the door before the old man’s. I slow down and take a deep breath, savoring the musky aroma and willing it to calm my nerves.

  I’m still appalled by my father’s story and haven’t come to terms with the claim he and Uncle Moe had no choice but to murder Fat Louie. And although Esther’s lumpectomy went well and the doctors said her lymph nodes were clear, her health has been uppermost on my mind. She is back in Greensboro, where she’s started chemotherapy. We talk every day.

  Esther’s visit, and her determination to beat breast cancer, inspired me to get back to work on my cookbook. I’ve spent a few hours every day for the past month testing my mother’s recipes. I’ve also developed a few of my own, putting a spin on traditional dishes and adapting Middle Eastern Jewish recipes for the American palate.

  I’ve been waiting for my father to call, to tell me he’s contacted Landauer or Abe and that everything’s okay. But Tootsie’s kept his silence and I didn’t want to see him until he could assure me I’m safe. Finally, this morning, I get a call. He sounds hesitant, afraid I’ll hang up. He reminds me it’s the first night of Hanukkah and invites me over for latkes. Daniel, the boys, and I have celebrated Hanukkah with my father’s potato pancakes since the kids were born. When my father asks if the boys are coming, I tell him Josh is at school and Gabriel is studying for an exam.

  The truth is, a month ago, when I told Josh about Landauer’s threat, he was shocked. He’s an easygoing kid and I was surprised by the vehemence of his anger at his grandfather. I don’t think he’d have visited his grandfather if he was in town.

  Gabe was another story. I didn’t know if a phone call would be sufficient. It can be hard to get through to him. I hoped that, by visiting, he’d pick up on enough of my emotional cues to realize how upset I was over Landauer’s threat. We needed a face-to-face meeting.

  I called him the Monday after the break-in to set up a date and he gave me every excuse for not getting together—a paper he had to write, an upcoming exam. I announced I’d be on campus the following Friday for lunch and hung up.

  That Friday, when I finally found a parking spot near Gabe’s dorm and called him, he said he’d already eaten. I was irritated but agreed to meet him at a lake on campus where we could sit on the grass and talk. Gabe hadn’t been home in a month and I was curious to see if he’d changed. His hair was still close-cropped, but he’d grown a pale blond goatee that softened the square, hard lines of his face. I wasn’t thrilled with his pierced ears but kept that to myself. He always had a hard time fitting in and, if that’s what it took to make him comfortable, so be it.

  Gabe listened passively as I told him about finding Landauer in my kitchen. When I was through, he shook his head. I was hoping for a bit of shock and dismay but the danger didn’t seem to register. I hoped he might offer to come home for a weekend or two—feel protective toward his mother. His reaction stunned me.

  “Mom, don’t you think it’d be safer if Dad moved back?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think the man would’ve broken in if Dad lived there.”

  So much for my effort to raise liberated men.

  I struggled to keep my voice from growing shrill as I explained that Landauer’s visit came in the middle of the day, when Daniel was working. And that his father’s presence would hardly impede a man with a gun. I’d planned to ease into Landauer’s implied threat to Gabriel and Josh, but lost my temper.

  “Maybe you’d like to have Dad move in with you,” I said. “Landauer said he knew I had two sons and suggested you might be in danger too.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “It’s why I came here today. To put you on alert. I don’t know what that monster is capable of.”

  “There’s no way he’d come down here.”

  I was about to straighten him out when a duck with a fleshy red wattle limped toward us. He stopped and glared at me like an ugly, petulant child.

  “He wants food,” Gabriel said. “Ignore him.”

  When the duck gave up and waddled toward a young couple picnicking closer to the lake, I rose from the grass.

  “I know you mean well, but I can handle this myself,” I said. “Meanwhile, please be careful. Landauer’s old but he’s dangerous. He’s not the kind of person to make idle threats.”

  Gabriel stood and brushed the grass off his rear. “Whatever you say.”

  I didn’t know if he meant it or not. But at least he was aware of the danger. And I took some comfort in the fact he works out and can take care of himself.

  Tonight is the first time I’ve come to Tootsie’s latke party without Daniel and the boys. I grow tearful on the drive over, contemplating the changes our family’s endured in the last year. First, Gabriel takes off for college, turning Daniel and me into empty nesters. Then Daniel has an affair, leaving me alone in the house. I didn’t see either of the kids over Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur since both were tied up with mid-terms. And now it’s Hanukkah. I’m in no mood for a celebration. The main reason I’m here is that I hope Tootsie’s Hanukkah gift will be an announcement that Landauer’s out of my life.

  “Let yourself in,” my father yells when I knock on the door, “and leave my gifts on the hall table.”

  He’s been hard at work in the kitchen and the deliciously greasy aroma of shredded potatoes crisping in hot peanut oil greets me in his hallway. I find him leaning over a pan on the oven, a grease-stained apron stretched across his belly. Truth be told, Tootsie’s latkes are a lot tastier than the frozen hockey pucks my mother bought at the grocery when we were kids. Latkes are the only recipe he got from his mother and I appreciate the effort he puts into making them. I kiss his cheek and reach for one of the crispy potato pancakes he’s set out to drain on a paper towel next to the frying pan. He’s in the middle of a batch and the potatoes look like tiny bird nests bubbling in oil.

  “Take a look at your Hanukkah present,” he says, motioning toward the kitchen table with a spatula. Not a word about why I haven’t called or whether he’s contacted his “friends.”

  A small box, wrapped in blue-and-white paper with dancing dreidels, sits dead center on the table. I pick it up and feel its heft in the palm of my hand. It’s solid and heavy for such a tiny package. When I tilt the box, nothing shifts.

  Tootsie comes around the kitchen counter and stands across the table from me. He hugs his chest, hands tucked into his armpits, and rocks back and forth in an agony of anticipation. “You going to open it?”

  “What’s the big hurry?”

  “Just open the damned thing.”

  I tear the colorful paper away to find a brown cardboard box sealed with masking tape. Once that’s off, I disentangle the gift from crumpled sheets of aged, yellowing newspaper. I’m anticipating a paperweight for my collection.

  Instead, I find a gun.

  I’m so surprised I almost drop the weapon. I’ve never touched a gun before and the cold, hard steel feels foreign and dangerous in my hand. It’s an ugly little snub-nosed revolver, shiny stainless steel at the barrel with a dark walnut grip

  “What is this?” I ask, placing the weapon on the table. “Is it loaded?”

  Tootsie picks up the gun, spins the cylinder, and delivers the verdict: “Empty.” He sets it back on the table. A smile edges his lips. Something’s up.

  “All right,” I say. “You want to tell me what this is about? You know I hate guns.”

  “You don’t recognize it?” He snorts. “It’s the gun your Uncle Moe gave me when we opened the showroom near Overtown in sixty-two. I showed it to your mother and she wasn’t too pleased either. But it was a rough neighborhood. Lots of whores and pimps hanging out on the corners. Moe and I kept guns in our office.”

  “Why’d you move into such a lousy area?”

  “That’s where all the sh
owrooms were. Everyone went there for their restaurant supplies.”

  “Did you ever use it?” I motion toward the gun with my chin.

  He looks at it, then back at me. His smile is gone. “I almost blew off a schvartze’s head with that gun.”

  I cringe at the derogatory Yiddish term for black person. He misinterprets my reaction as disbelief.

  “You heard me right. Your mother knew about it. You were probably too young to be told.” He pulls out a chair and sits. I join him across the table and make myself comfortable. This is going to be a long one.

  “What happened?”

  “It was a Saturday, around two in the morning if memory serves, when the cops called. The store’s burglar alarm went off. When I got to the store, your Uncle Moe was there along with two cops. A colored kid, maybe twenty, tried to break in through our roof but fell into the skylight. He was lying on the floor surrounded by glass shards and with his arm twisted at a weird angle. Poor kid was sobbing.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “You haven’t heard the worst of it. Moe was holding a gun to his head.” Tootsie curls his lip. “You know what my brother, that son of a bitch, did? He handed me the gun and said, ‘I got a rap sheet, you don’t.’ I stood there like a schmuck until it hit me. Moe wanted me to the shoot the kid.”

  “Uncle Moe really asked you. . .” I’m horrified. My uncle was no angel, if my father’s account of Louie’s death is to be believed. But to kill a defenseless kid?

  “You heard me,” my father says. His face is red. “I was as shocked as you are. So I looked toward one of the cops, a fat-faced Mick not much older than the kid on the floor. I figured he was going to tell Moe to lay off. Instead, he shrugged and said I had a right to protect my property. I couldn’t believe it. This bastard broke into the business I spent my life building, ready to take what I worked hard to get. But to murder him?”