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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

“Did you let him go?”

  My father looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “Of course I did. What the hell kind of person you think I am?”

  I’m not about to answer that.

  “I got mad all right. But not at the kid. At Moe. He’s five years older than me and, like an idiot, I always listened to him. But this was sick. I grabbed the gun out of his hand, walked into my office, and locked it in my drawer. Then I came back and told the cops to get the kid out of there before I killed them. They called an ambulance and the boy got hauled out on a stretcher. After they left, I gave Moe a piece of my mind. He acted like the whole thing was a big joke, said he’d used the threat of my arrival to frighten the intruder. Idiot.”

  My father rises and returns to the kitchen, where he removes the latkes from the pan and places them on a paper towel-covered plate. They turned a little too brown while we were talking. Tootsie brings the plate to the table, then returns to the kitchen for bowls of apple sauce and sour cream. I’m silent, eating the crispy potato pancakes and digesting what he told me.

  “You think Uncle Moe would’ve killed the kid?” I say when I’ve had my fill.

  “You didn’t know your uncle if you need to ask.”

  He’s got a point. My uncle was kind to me and, as far as I knew, a good husband and father. But I was a child when he died and most of my memories of him revolve around holiday dinners, magic tricks, and the Barbie outfits he and Aunt Gert bought me. I recall his temper though, yelling at my father and Aunt Gert. My mother whisked Esther and me from the room when he started up. And then this business about Louie’s murder. Maybe he would have killed the intruder.

  My gaze wanders back to the gun. “Why give it to me?” I ask, picking it up and putting it back in the box. “What am I supposed to do with a gun?”

  “Kill Daniel?” He laughs. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I found it last night while cleaning out the closet in my bedroom. I wanted to see how you’d react.”

  That’s quite an admission. Pissing me off, then watching me sputter, is one of his favorite pastimes.

  “I should’ve dumped it years ago. Your Uncle Moe’s gone. The cops we met that night are six feet under. I guess you could call it a memento of Miami history. A lesson in business one-oh-one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He stands and takes our plates to the sink.

  “You think you’re doing some good, hiring people, helping the community. But after a while you realize no one gives a damn. We knew we were taking a chance, buying property near Overtown. The cops warned us to be careful. I figured we’d be fine. Treat our neighbors fairly. Be treated fairly in return. It didn’t happen that way. Most people in the neighborhood were fine. But a couple of animals ruined it for everyone. A week after we opened, we hid a prostitute in the store when her pimp came looking for her with a club. She was on the street the next morning. Then this kid falls through the roof.” He shrugs.

  I clear away the glasses, then drop the box with the gun in my purse.

  “You going to keep that thing?” my father says.

  “You gave it to me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get rid of it.” He reaches for my purse, but I pull it away.

  “You call Landauer or Abe yet?”

  He shrugs. “You don’t need to worry.”

  “Did they promise to lay off?”

  I wait for more but he sets his jaw.

  I pat the side of my purse, where the gun is lodged, and walk to the door. “It’s mine now.”

  My purse feels heavy when I sling it on to the Mercedes’ passenger seat. I head out of my father’s neighborhood and turn north on Biscayne Boulevard to mount the ramp on to I-95. As I drive, I consider taking the gun to a shooting range and learning to use it. After all, who knows when or if Landauer will show up again? The idea of carrying a gun—“packing heat”—is appealing and gives me a little shiver of power.

  Could I shoot someone? Even if my life was in danger? I might. I consider what I would do with a gun if I found Landauer and Pinky in my kitchen. Or if they came near Josh or Gabe. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I’m smiling. It’s a twisted grin and I don’t like it—or the emotions the gun evokes.

  I make a U-turn on Biscayne Boulevard, then cross the Miami River and pass under the towering marble-and-glass behemoths that line the Brickell Avenue financial district. After a few miles, the skyscrapers give way to elegantly landscaped estates and I pull off at a roadside park that faces onto the bay. It’s dusk and I don’t spot a soul as I cross a grassy field to the water’s edge.

  More than twenty years have passed since that kid broke into my father’s store. Fifty since the Kefauver hearings on organized crime. Law-abiding citizens have wrested control of Miami from the gangsters of the forties and the cocaine cowboys who put Miami on the map in the eighties. We’re more civilized now. At least that’s what I’d like to believe.

  Across the bay, Key Biscayne is a faint grid of lights flickering low on the horizon. The gentle splash of waves against the rocky shore and the distant hum of a skiff motoring to safe harbor create a music of their own. I pull the gun out of my purse and reach back to build leverage in my right arm. Then I release the solid metal projectile into the air. The stainless steel glints in the moonlight as it arcs up, then drops toward Biscayne Bay. It makes a faint splash as it hits the water.

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  29

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  Tootsie

  I slide the frying pan in the sink and return to the living room. I’ve left the balcony doors open and a cool breeze fills the apartment. It’s been miserably hot lately and I hope this signals the end of our heat spell. I go outside and ease myself into the white wicker chair. It creaks under my weight. Across the open lawn, lights flicker off in the nursing home.

  I’m surprised Becks agreed to come over tonight. The last time I called, a few days after telling her about Fat Louie, she was too busy to talk but said she’d get back to me. She never did. I considered phoning a week later but put it off to give her time to cool down. I’ve been a nervous wreck waiting to see what she’d do and it took all my willpower not to call until today. Thank God she’s forgiven me. The girl has a lot of sense. Unlike her father. What the hell was I thinking, wrapping that gun and presenting it to her as a Hanukkah gift?

  I didn’t expect her to be so shocked. It’s a lousy chunk of metal, for crying out loud. I forgot she’d never seen it. I didn’t keep a gun at the house when she was growing up. Didn’t need one there. But my business was another story. I spent my working hours in Miami’s worst slum surrounded by whores and pimps, then went home to a beautiful house in Coral Gables. Sometimes I didn’t know which of my worlds was real—the big house in the suburbs or the gritty downtown business. What I did know was that I had to protect Bernice and the girls from the world I’d escaped.

  And I succeeded. At least until now.

  That Landauer is one nasty bastard and Abe isn’t much better. I’ve called Abe twice, asking if he’s set up a meeting with Landauer, but he refuses to talk. It’s typical. Landauer’s got a cruel streak and probably delights in the knowledge I’m sweating over his next step.

  I didn’t tell Becks or Esther, but my problems with Landauer didn’t end when he went to jail. If fact, they just got worse. And Moe, that schmuck, was no help.

  It was a Monday morning and I was at my desk, rushing to finish a bid I’d stayed up writing the night before. Profits had been down for a few months because our biggest customer, a resort called Paradise Palms, decided to take its business elsewhere. If I didn’t find more business soon, we’d go under.

  I always got to the office by eight but Moe rarely sauntered in before nine. That day he showed his face at ten. “Toots, you got to come outside and see what I got.”

  I glanced up to find him standing in the
door to our office grinning like a hyena. “Later,” I said and went back to work.

  “You can afford five minutes. I’m telling you, you’ve never seen anything like this.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the front of the store.

  “What the hell do you . . .” My jaw dropped as he opened the door.

  Parked in front of the building was the most beautiful car I’d ever seen. Every angle of the powder-blue Mercedes was as perfectly proportioned as a Broadway actress. Its front fenders had the rounded slopes of a woman’s breasts and the sun sparkled like a diamond necklace across its chrome bumpers. The rear of the Mercedes was a smooth, creamy blue that invited you to run your hand along its curvaceous lines.

  I couldn’t believe it. Jews didn’t buy Mercedes. Everyone knew they’d been made by Nazis who exploited concentration camp prisoners. And the expense? I could barely make the payments on my Oldsmobile.

  When I asked Moe what he paid, he gave evasive answers that implied the car was hot. I went inside, disgusted.

  It was a busy day and I didn’t have time to think about the Mercedes until later, after everyone had left the store. How had my brother paid for it? Moe and I earned the same salaries and lived in similarly-priced homes so I knew he hadn’t saved enough money for the car. Even stolen, the Mercedes was out of his range. Something felt off. And knowing my brother, it wasn’t legit.

  There was only one way Moe could have raised enough money to buy the car. As I put down my pen, I realized the idea had been eating at me all day. Moe handled the Paradise Palms account but hadn’t been all that upset when we lost it. I’d written that off as typical of his lazy ass approach to doing business. He told me a competitor was selling equipment to the resort at cost and we couldn’t compete without losing money. Like a moron, I believed him.

  But what if Moe had taken the account for himself? I felt sick as I sat in my brother’s chair and searched his desk. It took a while but I found what I was looking for—ten Paradise Palms purchase orders, all marked paid. I was speechless. That son of a bitch sold thousands of dollars’ worth of ovens, grills, and walk-in refrigerators to the resort—and cut me out of the deal.

  I had trouble sleeping that night and got into work before sunrise. Hours later, when I heard Moe in the front office flirting with the girls, I stepped outside our office.

  “Get your ass in here.”

  Moe looked up and smiled, taking my tone of voice for a joke. “What’s the problem?”

  “Now. We need to talk.”

  Moe’s eyebrows shot up and he followed me into the office.

  Once he closed the door, I grabbed the purchase orders off my desk and waved them in the air. “You want to tell me what’s going on here. Where these Paradise Palms orders came from?”

  The color drained from Moe’s face. “They’re old. I just happened to—”

  “Don’t bullshit me.” It took all my self control not to reach across Moe’s desk and slug him. “You’d undercut your own brother and drive us out of business for a lousy car?” I tossed the orders on his desk, ignoring the handful that slid to the floor. I slammed my hand on his desk. “You owe me five thousand bucks. Show up with the money by Friday or you’re out. And I’ll let Paradise Palms know what you’ve been up to.”

  Moe tried to break in, but I jabbed a finger at him. “If I have to, I’ll go to the—”

  Before I could finish, the phone rang. It was our direct line to the secretaries. I grabbed the receiver. “Can’t you see we’re busy ?” I listened to her then waited a few seconds as she transferred the call. My breathing grew heavy as I listened. I must have turned white because Moe stared at me with concern in his eyes.

  I hung up and turned to my brother. “That was the police.”

  “And?”

  “Landauer escaped from prison.”

  We stared at each other.

  “I don’t know what this means for us. It can’t be good. But right now I don’t give a damn. You have the dough here by Friday or you’re out on your ass.”

  The next morning Moe walked into the office with five thousand bucks, cash. And I never saw the Mercedes again. But from that point on, I never trusted Moe. It’s a lousy thing to say about your brother—but he was as crooked as they came.

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  30

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  A week after the Hanukkah dinner with Tootsie, I pull my car behind the block-long warehouse and showroom that used to house his business. He’s been less than forthcoming about contacting Abe and Landauer and I’ve got to do something before the gangster shows up again. Finding the articles Tootsie mentioned at the bowling alley seems my best bet for learning what happened between him and Landauer. My father claims they’re still in the warehouse. I’ve got no choice but to find them. Maybe there’s something there I can use to force my father to face Abe or Landauer—or the police.

  The neighborhood’s even more blighted now than it was five years ago when my father retired and sold his business to a cocaine dealer who now calls federal prison home. The grass swale along the road is a patch of weeds. Paper cups, newspapers, and condom wrappers clog the gutters.

  It’s ten in the morning and the encampment of cardboard and makeshift tents on the lot across the street from the warehouse appears deserted. Within minutes of my arrival, though, a woman with a leathery, cracked face emerges from a pile of cardboard boxes and limps in my direction. Her clothes are a shabby assemblage of skirts, shirts, and more sweaters than I can count but the red coat that engulfs everything lends a note of cheer to the overcast wintry morning. As she draws near my car, I get out to greet her. Her hair is longer and grayer than I recall, but I recognize her as Mashed Potatoes, the name my father assigned her for her lumpy cheeks. His office adopted the lady, in a manner of speaking, years ago—bringing her food, clothing, and books to make survival on the streets more bearable. I’m not surprised she doesn’t recognize me. The drugs that landed her here in the first place left her in a fog.

  “Bless you,” she says when I hand her five singles and ask how she’s doing. “The good Lord will watch over you.”

  I’m tempted to ask if she and, perhaps, the good Lord, will watch over my car. But it’s probably wasted breath.

  The building’s enclosed by a rusted chain-link fence that’s four feet taller than I am. Once Mashed Potatoes hobbles back to her cardboard cottage, I walk around the fence looking for a way through. Apparently, I’m not the first person who’s wanted in. A few feet from my car, a sprung metal lock lies on the ground where someone jimmied the gate open. When I push the fence, it slides reluctantly, emitting an arthritic groan. I slip through and walk to the building.

  Bags of garbage rot against the back wall and I jump when a rat scurries across the parking lot. I approach the back door gingerly fearing what else may crawl from the disintegrating mass of wooden pallets to its left.

  When I called Esther this morning and told her what I’d planned today, she said I was crazy. But this is something I have to do. Waiting for Tootsie to act is pointless; he doesn’t answer when I ask if he’s contacted Abe or Landauer. And after the lies he’s handed me so far, I suspect the newspaper clippings hold all sorts of surprises.

  The door appears to be securely closed but, when I turn the knob, it gives. Damn. Someone’s been in there. Most likely, homeless people have broken in and I’m intruding—which they may not take too kindly. I draw a breath and inch the door open. It glides easily. I look over my shoulder and fight an urge to run to my car. I’ve come this far. There’s no way I’d muster the guts to return.

  The acrid odor of dead rodents accosts me when I step inside but no one responds to my loud “hello.” I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. It’s at least ten degrees colder inside the warehouse and I shiver as much from the temperature as from nerves. After a few minutes, I make out the shape of large brown puddles on the floor. I l
ook up and notice that rain has seeped through the roof, leaving blotches of mold on the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. At the sound of scratching I hold my breath, expecting a herd of rats to race across the floor. When nothing moves, I tiptoe farther inside. The place is a disgusting mess.

  The warehouse feels strange, familiar and foreign at the same time, as though I’ve come home to find my house ransacked by strangers. I spent hundreds of hours here during high school, helping my father take inventory. Half of the pots and pans, serving pieces and knives in my kitchen came from these shelves. The dark pools of shadow and raw cement-smell of the abandoned building fill me with sadness and dread.

  The wooden pallets my father placed in the central section of the warehouse to keep equipment dry are still there, but sit empty. To my left and right, rows of metal shelving extend ten feet high, almost reaching the ceiling, and thirty feet to the wall.

  I don’t know where to begin. Thin rays of sunshine pierce ragged holes in the ceiling, providing enough light to see where I’m stepping, but the warehouse is a large empty space with shadowy corners that could hide full-sized men. I pull a flashlight out of my purse and run its beam across the shelves to my right. The bottom two are empty, but the top ones hold huge stockpots that glare down at me like squat malevolent ogres. My father’d need a ladder to put anything that high so I rule against searching the upper shelves.

  The middle shelves hold metal baking sheets, industrial cooking pans, and giant stainless colanders. I run the beam between them, reaching with my hand to feel if there’s paper stuffed where I can’t see it. After a half hour, my nose itches from the dust and my hair is soaked in sweat. I’m dying to go home to a long hot shower.

  I’m pushing a set of pans aside to look beneath it when I hear a door click. I freeze and keep my breathing shallow for a few seconds, then pop my head around the corner. The warehouse door is closed and no one moves. I consider making a run for it. But it may be a rodent and I hate the idea of giving up my chance to find the clippings. It took a lot of nerve to enter the warehouse and I’m resolved to go home with them.