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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  I laugh and motion for him to speak.

  “Dad seemed so grateful you came. He never told me those stories. It’s almost as if he was saving them up for you.”

  “I’m glad I got to see him. He’s a special man. A love.”

  Daniel nods and returns to his pasta.

  After a few minutes, he lifts his head from the plate. “While my father was talking, I thought about what you said on the plane. About your dad.”

  He absentmindedly twists spaghetti onto his fork.

  “I don’t know that what your dad did was so unusual. Don’t get me wrong. Running numbers and ratting on a friend are pretty lousy. But think about how our fathers grew up. My dad told me his mother was so desperate at one point that she rented a corner of their living room to a prostitute. The lady hung a blanket and serviced her customers behind it. Can you imagine living like that?”

  I shake my head recalling similar stories told by my father.

  “It’s no wonder people who grew up in that neighborhood looked up to gangsters,” Daniel continues. “Those were the guys who made it. No one hired Jews back then. It was the Depression and everyone was miserable. Who wouldn’t want what the gangsters had?”

  “Are you saying that what my father did was okay?” My voice rises.

  “Not at all. I’m just suggesting that, given his background, there was some justification for hooking up with the syndicate. When your dad saw the kind of money gangsters made, of course he was tempted.”

  The waiter removes our plates and takes our order for tiramisu. When it comes, I take a bite of the creamy espresso dessert, then watch as Daniel devours the rest. What he says makes sense. My father had no idea Louie would cheat him and his boss or that Landauer would force the brothers to kill their friend. And he couldn’t go to the police if what he said about Miami law enforcement being on the take then is true. He had to follow Landauer’s orders.

  Daniel’s always been good at stepping back and analyzing a situation. He doesn’t see things in black and white, as I often do. He knows how to confront the gray areas where compromise and understanding lie. He’s made some good points. But I’m not buying his argument. At least not completely. If Milt could break out of the neighborhood and make an honest living, so could Tootsie.

  I’m starting to yawn and, when I check my watch, realize we’ve been talking for two hours. We take a taxi back to St. Luke’s, but Milt’s asleep so we pick up our luggage without saying good night. Back outside, the sleet’s turned into a soft, steady snowfall and our cabdriver, remarkably, takes his time driving to our hotel. When Daniel takes my hand in the darkened backseat. I don’t pull it away.

  Once I’ve hung up my clothes and arranged my toiletries in the hotel bathroom, I stretch out on the bed and call Esther. It’s been a strange day and I need to share it with someone. The week before, she told me her hair was thinning from the chemotherapy but she thought she was going to be okay without a wig. She’s still teaching. We talk almost every night now and I’m dying to get her take on what happened today. I tell her about Daniel’s early morning call and the visit with Milt. She sends him her love.

  “So how’d it go with Daniel?” she asks. “Was it strange?”

  “Yes and no. Everything was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Whenever I start to feel comfortable with him, this gremlin on my shoulder whispers ‘watch out.’”

  “You can’t let go, can you?”

  “I’ve never been good at forgiving.”

  She laughs. “Me neither. Or mom. I wonder if resentment is genetic.”

  “It was nice of Daniel to bring me. He didn’t have to, but he knows how much I love Milt.”

  I tell her about my impulsive kiss in the restaurant and holding hands with Daniel in the taxi.

  Esther releases a long low whistle followed by “And?”

  “And nothing. He went to his room and I went to mine.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you ever think about how Mom and Dad’s relationship affected you and Bruce?”

  “It’s one reason I stay away from Tootsie. I’m afraid our marriage will become like theirs if I spend too much time around him. That I’ll treat Bruce the way mom treated Dad.”

  “You’re not saying Mom drove Dad to cheat?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that after a while, she became so bitter she couldn’t see beyond her pain. Everything she did was ruled by resentment. She’d snap at him the moment he opened his mouth. And he’d do the same. They expected the worst from one another and that’s what they got.”

  What she says is frightening. It hits too close to what’s happening to me.

  “It’s scary how often I notice myself thinking about Mom since Daniel cheated,” I say. “I’m so afraid our marriage will be like theirs—that I’ll take Daniel back and he’ll cheat again. Then I’ll become bitter and snap at him all the time. I don’t want that.”

  “It’s hard to believe Daniel would do that.”

  “It’s hard to believe he cheated with Dawn.”

  “Sometimes you have to go on faith.”

  We’re silent. I’ve heard all the clichés about how no one knows what goes in other people’s relationships. I assume everyone is as happy as they seem. It upsets me that I didn’t realize my marriage was falling apart. Daniel was unhappy, but he kept it from me. He became a stranger and cut me off. That feels like almost as great a betrayal as his affair.

  “I can’t help suspecting I overreacted to Daniel’s affair because Dad treated Mom so abominably,” I say. “She made me feel that it was up to me to create her happiness, like I had to live the life she couldn’t.”

  “What’s that got to do with Daniel?”

  “Maybe I am punishing him because I can’t do anything about Dad. I can’t erase the pain he caused Mom but I can prevent Daniel from doing the same to me. Daniel accused me of that a few weeks ago and I told him he was crazy. Now I don’t know. We’re different from Mom. We’re not stuck with men like Dad. We can leave our husbands. And if we stay, it’s because we want to.”

  “So you’re taking Daniel back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You just got through telling me . . . ”

  She sounds annoyed and I realize how confused I sound. “I’m talking from my head, not my heart,” I say. “I’m not sure I’ve forgiven Daniel. It just means I think I can. What would you do?”

  “That’s an impossible question.”

  Esther says nothing for a few seconds. A police siren thirty stories below emits a piercing wail that reverberates off the towers of Midtown. Holding the phone to my ear, I walk to the window and look for the cruiser. It’s long gone. The snow’s given way to sleet and rain and the street below shimmers with the dappled reflection of red, green and white lights. A couple bundled in heavy coats crosses the street at a crosswalk.

  “Okay, Beckygirl,” Esther says, using my mother’s pet name. It makes me feel safe and reminds me I’ve got at least one person in my corner. She may not have the answers I need but she’s there to help me find them. “You know what’s best. Give Milt my love. And good luck with Daniel.”

  I hang up and, after changing into my flannel nightgown, slide between the cool, silken sheets. As I pick up my novel, I realize I’ve never stayed in a New York hotel without Daniel. I wonder if he’s thinking about me.

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  34

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  My father takes a long time getting to our table tonight. It’s my birthday and we’re celebrating at his favorite restaurant, the Circus Diner. I’d hoped Gabe would join us but, when I invited him yesterday, he said he had an exam Monday and promised to celebrate another night. I don’t believe him. He can’t forgive me for making Daniel move out.
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  “Can’t you just let it go, Mom?” he said this morning, a refrain I’ve heard at least a dozen times since Daniel left. “It’s over and Dad wants to be back with you”

  “I know, Sweetie, but I’m not ready.”

  “When do you expect to be ready? What’s it been, three or four months? It’s cruel to make him live in that stupid apartment. And think about what it’s costing.”

  So now I’m the cruel one. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to play the drama queen but he needs to know how deeply it pains me that he’s taking Daniel’s side.

  “I love your Dad but he hurt me and I need time to forgive him.” I don’t add if I ever do. “Try to see things my way. I trusted your father and his actions stung.”

  It seems that every conversation we have ends with him shutting down and finding an excuse to get off the phone. Birthday or not, this is no different. A friend, he says, is waiting downstairs to leave for the library. He has to go.

  On a more positive note, Joshua called this morning and sang happy birthday, after which we chatted for fifteen minutes. He has a new girlfriend, a freshman from Atlanta, and sounds happy. I’m lucky to have him in my life. He has the sensitivity, or maybe it’s maturity, to understand what I’m going through. If he thinks I’m being stubborn, he has the insight not to say so. Both boys talk to their father every week. I’m relieved they have a good relationship.

  Five minutes after Josh hung up, Daniel phoned. He wanted to take me out for my birthday. I declined, explaining I was meeting Tootsie. Daniel’s called twice since returning home from New York last week. Milt’s making a remarkably fast recovery and should be going home in a day or two. Daniel seems as hesitant as I am about discussing the connection—I don’t know what to call it—we made while visiting Milt. It’s like a bubble that’ll burst if we prod it too closely. Better to let it float and see where it lands.

  I’m still not sure I can trust him the way I used to and I enjoy my independence. No waiting for a phone call to start dinner. In fact, no making dinner. I spend almost every night testing recipes for my cookbook and, last week, got a letter from an editor who wants the first fifty pages.

  At any rate, my father and I have worked our way down the diner’s narrow aisle, squeezing between the chrome-topped bar and the row of symmetrically-spaced, linen-draped tables. It’s just after five on a Sunday and the two white-aproned waiters behind the bar are caught up in a game of soccer on the overhead screen. Neither glances up when my father and I enter so we seat ourselves.

  My father looks every bit his eighty-six years. He spruced up a bit in new khakis and a crisply-pressed, button-down shirt. But his eyes are redder and rheumier than when I ran into him during our warehouse “break-in” and he shuffles slowly down the aisle. I’m dying to ask about running across his picture in the newspaper this morning but decide to hold off.

  I rose early this morning, leaving plenty of time to get through the headlines, circulars, and advice columns before testing recipes. I don’t usually read the society section, but today it caught my eye. In fact, I almost dropped my coffee. Smiling out from the front page was an eight-by-ten inch photograph of Tootsie. He sat at a table at what was obviously a formal affair with a middle-aged man wearing a goatee and a tuxedo, a slim blonde in a red silk gown, and a rather mousy teenage girl. My father’s arm draped the shoulder of a small boy, who looked at him adoringly.

  The caption on the inside front cover offered little, just that Ira Nudelman, the man in the photo, was being honored at an Israel Bonds dinner. The story that ran inside mentioned he was a financial advisor who’d made a long list of contributions to the Jewish community.

  I searched my memory for the name. Nudelman? It meant nothing. It was too early to phone Tootsie, so I rang Esther.

  “You ever hear of this Nudelman?” I asked after telling her about our father’s star billing on the society page. “Because I haven’t.”

  “I can’t recall anyone. What’s in the article?”

  “Not much. Nudelman’s an investment advisor, a big shot in the Jewish community. The article says he used to be president of The Jewish Federation. He must be doing okay. You’ve got to give big bucks to get invited to the Israeli Bonds dinner.”

  “Tootsie sure as hell didn’t do that.”

  I laugh. My father made a nice income, but he never spent it supporting Jewish causes. Or, as far as I can remember, any cause before the Karpowsky Foundation.

  “We’re going out for my birthday tonight,” I said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  “Do that.”

  I waited for her to send her regards, maybe a hello to her father. But she clicked off with just a goodbye.

  We order dinner—snapper for me, roast duckling for him—and I wait for the server to bring our iced tea before pulling the article out of my purse.

  “What’s this all about?” I slide the circular across to him, orienting the page so he can read it. The newsprint leaves a smear on the white linen tablecloth.

  I expect Tootsie to be embarrassed or apologize for not alerting me to his society section coverage. Instead, he seems pleased with himself.

  “Oh you saw it,” he says, not missing a beat. “My new family.” He leans back in his heavy walnut chair and flashes the grin he wears in the photo. Then, he places two fingers on the article and draws it closer. “The front page, huh? Bet you didn’t know your old man was such a society big shot.”

  “Who are these people?”

  He looks at me in mock horror. “I never told you about the Nudelmans? The nice people who adopted me.” He laughs and turns the photo so I can see it clearly. “Those are my new grandchildren.” He taps the image of the girl. “Mindy.” Then the boy. “Bobby.”

  I know he’s playing a game and he knows I know. But we keep it going.

  “Adorable,” I say.

  “And smart,” he adds. “They’re both on the honor roll.”

  “You should be proud.”

  “I’m kvelling.” He uses the Yiddish term for pride.

  “Okay,” I concede. “How’d you meet the Nudelmans and what were you doing at the Israel Bonds dinner?”

  He smiles and picks up his napkin, setting the flatware aside. I wait while he tucks the cloth into his pants and smooths the fabric over his thighs. I suspect he’s giving himself time to invent a story.

  “You remember my trip to Turkey last year?”

  Has it been that long? He saw a television special about Turkey over a year ago and immediately booked a trip. Esther and I worried he’d become ill while overseas. He went anyway, joining an American tour. He sent me half a dozen postcards but never mentioned anything about the other travelers.

  “What about it?” I ask. “You meet them there?”

  “I ended up eating with them most nights. The little girl’s a doll and the boy stuck to my side the whole time. It turns out they’re from Miami. We’ve stayed in touch ever since.”

  “You never told me about them.”

  “I’ve got to tell you everything that goes on in my life?”

  He must see the hurt in my face because he continues. “I love you, Doll, but an old man’s allowed to have a few secrets.” He takes a sip of iced tea, then sets his glass on the table. “You want to meet the Nudelmans? Fine. We’re getting together next Sunday night at their synagogue. It’s a planning session for our trip to Israel.”

  I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “You’re going to Israel?”

  “Did I forget to mention that?” He gets a big kick out of my shock. “Their boy, Bobby, is having his bar mitzvah on Masada in two weeks and he wants me there. How can I say no?”

  The phone’s ringing when I unlock my front door. In the rush to answer, I stumble over Mulligan in the hall. It’s Esther. I tell her what I learned.

  “That’s just weird,” she says.
“What do these people want from him? It’s not like he’s the most charming guy in the world.”

  In fact, I tell her, he can be. How else would he have become so successful in a business that depended on sales?

  “You said this guy was an investor. Maybe he’s after Tootsie’s money?”

  The thought has crossed my mind but I’ve pushed it into the background. “I don’t think so. It is possible this family likes Dad.”

  Esther snorts. “You don’t believe that anymore than I do. Dad’s got plenty and I’ll bet this Nudelman knows it. Maybe we should hire a detective. Find out if he’s legitimate. You read about these financial shysters who scam old people.”

  “Dad’s smarter than that. And they’re going to Israel with a tour. Nothing will happen.”

  “Don’t be naïve. An older man has a heart attack while overseas, no one’s going to ask questions. For all we know, Nudelman’s convinced Tootsie to rewrite his will.”

  “You’re getting carried away.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Neither of us speak.

  “So what do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “Meet Nudelman. And let me know what you think.”

  The following week is busy. My editor’s asked me to write weekly restaurant reviews and the trip to see Milt has forced me to play catch-up. So far, I’ve written essays to go along with twenty of my mother’s recipes so the cookbook’s going well. Friday, after I email an article in to the paper, I run a search on Ira Nudelman. He looks fine to me. He’s on the boards of a handful of Jewish organizations. I figure my dad knows what he’s doing, traveling to Israel with the Nudelman family. Esther and I are being paranoid.

  That Sunday, Tootsie and I grab a quick bite at Zimmerman’s Deli, then drive south to Coral Gables. I assume we’re meeting at a synagogue, but my father directs me to an office building.

  “It’s a new congregation,” he says as we ride the elevator to the tenth floor, “and they’re still working on a building fund. Nudelman owns this place and lets the congregation use it for free.”