My father rises bracing both hands on the arms of his chair and eases himself up. He goes into the kitchen, gets two paper plates and two plastic forks, and sets the table.
I don’t know what to make of his story. He planned this carefully and went to great lengths to exact revenge. But why? It’s been forty-five years since Grandpa Leo died. What good does it do Tootsie conning the son of a man who, no doubt, has been dead for decades?
His story makes me uncomfortable. How many people would go to such lengths for revenge? It’s vindictive and cruel. The con he pulled on Nudelman isn’t as bad as what he did to Fat Louie. But it’s criminal all the same—stealing from a victim who can’t go to the police. Whether Nudelman deserved that or not isn’t my—or Tootsie’s—place to judge. I suspect the crazy thinking that helped him justify Louie’s murder is the same kind of reasoning that spurred him to con Nudelman.
I’m about to suggest as much when the doorbell rings. It’s the deliveryman with the Chinese food. My father brings the brown paper bag to the table.
“I should have taken you out for a nice steak,” he says as we pull warm aluminum containers from the bag, releasing the honeyed scent of General Tso’s chicken and fried rice. “After all the money I saved on the trip.”
He looks up from the table and frowns. “What? You don’t like the way I finance my travel.”
I’m tempted to make a smart-aleck comment about the fruits of criminal labor but hold my tongue. I haven’t seen him in two weeks and don’t want to argue. He’s eighty-six and operates under his own set of rules. And if I want to continue to spend time with him, I have to keep my mouth shut.
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37
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Tootsie
I’m clearing the table after Becks leaves when I realize she completely missed the point I was trying to make. The whole time I talked about Nudelman, she chewed her lower lip and threw me sidelong glances. A son would’ve understood. You don’t take crap from anyone. And you don’t let anyone get away with shit—even if it means waiting fifty years. What I did was justice, pure and simple. No better and no worse than what happened to Fat Louie. That’s how the game is played.
I’m hunched over, loading cartons of leftover rice and chicken into the fridge, when an idea strikes me. I stand so fast I bang my head on the freezer door. Maybe that’s how Landauer felt—that the bad blood between us gave him the right to intrude in Becks’ life. That it was perfectly legitimate for him to confront my daughter.
But the situation with Nudleman is different. I settled my accounts with Landauer years ago. And offered to pay him extra to leave Becks alone. But Landauer hasn’t responded. I tried to reach Abe before leaving for Israel but he didn’t return my call. Bastards. They know I’m sweating it out and want to keep me hanging. I’m sick of waiting. I’ve got to bring this business to a close.
It’s past ten, but there’s no point in delaying. I hate begging Abe to contact Landauer but have no choice. I feel like a heel for making Becks wait so long but figured I’d hear from them eventually. I dig through the junk mail on my cocktail table for the scrap with Abe’s number and dial.
“What is it now?” Abe says. “I’m in the middle of a football game.”
“Did you hear from Landauer?”
“About what?”
“My offer. Will he take my money and leave Becks alone?”
“He’s not interested.”
“What did he say?”
“He doesn’t want your, quote, fucking money.”
“Then what does he want?”
“You miserable. And alone.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Then don’t ask.”
I think about it for a minute. “Did he tell you that?”
“Why would I lie?”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re the big shot businessman. Figure it out. Then tell me.”
Abe hangs up the phone.
I pace the living room puzzling out what he meant. Me miserable? Like things can get worse. I’m losing sleep and ruining my health over Landauer’s plans for Becks. Maybe that’s Abe’s point. Landauer wants me to stew. Keep me dangling, then do nothing. It’d be like that son of a bitch.
I’m not biting. The bastards have better things to do with their lives than torment me and Becks. Hell, Abe barely remembered my asking him to call Landauer. And Lord knows Landauer doesn’t need the money. He stashed plenty away before being sent to prison and probably made a fortune in the Bahamas. He wants the satisfaction of knowing I’m sweating it out more than he wants my dough.
It’s been four months since Landauer visited Becks. If he hasn’t done anything yet, he’s got to be bored with this whole cat and mouse game. He’s had his sick fun and it’s over. If he wants to leave me up in the air, fine. I’m not wasting any more of my time on his bullshit. When he’s ready to call, he’ll call. And if he doesn’t, so what. Becks will be fine.
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38
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It’s early March and I’ve established myself as the newspaper’s “Jewish epicure,” which means my stories make it to the food section’s front page when there’s a religious holiday. I’ve been so busy trying to meet my editor’s deadline and working on my cookbook that I haven’t seen much of my father. Passover will be here in less than a month and my article is due Friday. I’ve decided to write a piece on dishes traditionally made by Sephardim, especially Iraqi Jews—baked eggplant, date haroset, spinach soufflé. The kitchen is redolent with the aroma of roasting leg of lamb I started earlier.
Last night, Daniel called to tell me he had dinner with Tootsie. When he asked about Fat Louie’s murder, my father said it was no big deal and that I’d blown things out of proportion. All of that happened long ago. Daniel’s shocked by Tootsie’s attitude. So am I. I can’t believe the old man has the nerve to minimize what I’ve been through. I haven’t told Daniel about Landauer’s unexpected visit or his threat. And neither, apparently, has my father.
I still haven’t heard from Landauer and Tootsie refuses to tell me whether he’s contacted the gangster. I suspect he has but doesn’t want me to know. Maybe he paid the old gangster off and is loath to tell me. Afraid I’ll be upset that he spent his so-called fortune buying “protection.” At this point, I’m so frustrated by Tootsie’s obfuscations that I don’t know what to do. I’ve yelled and screamed at him and all I’ve gotten is reassurance he’ll take care of it. Like, I ask, he took care of Fat Louie? He gives me a dirty look, but says nothing. It’s hard to imagine the old man killing Landauer. But Tootsie had no problem carrying out his vindictive plan of revenge against Nudelman.
As I slice the eggplant and sprinkle it with salt, I find myself growing angrier and more disgusted with my father and Landauer. I replay the gangster’s visit and become incensed at the memory of the old bloodhound planting himself at my kitchen table and threatening me. When I toss a knife too forcefully in the sink and break a glass, I realize I’ve got to act. It’s been nearly five months since Landauer threatened me and I’m still edgy when I enter my home. It does no good to tell myself he’s lost interest, as my father claims. He could show up at any time.
This is no way to live. As I slide the breaded eggplant into the oven, I resolve to settle things and get on with my life. There’s no choice. I’m going to meet Landauer and tell him what I’ve learned about my father. I decide to do it that afternoon.
There’s one snag. The road to Landauer passes through Abe, the last person I want to contact. I’m sure he won’t talk to me over the phone or, if I give him warning, answer the door. I need to surprise him. I call my friend Aviva, who assures me her mother will tell the Harbour Villas guard to admit me that afternoon. Then I take a quick shower and steel myself for the meeting.
I idle fifteen minutes in line behind five cars waiting t
o get through Harbour Villas’ gated entrance. The same elderly commando who let me in before mans the guardhouse. Today he wears a sparse red toupee that’s slipped forward and perched above his eyes. He looks like a demented swimmer in a burgundy bathing cap. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he asks who I’m going to visit and if I’m making a social call. As if it’s any of his business. I feel like an alien life form going through customs in a Woody Allen film.
This time, I find Abe’s building right away and, after parking, rehearse what I’ll say. The parking lot and sidewalk are deserted even though a light breeze blows from the east. It’s a perfect afternoon for a walk. But Mother Nature and a gentle wind aren’t much competition for the canasta tournament or water aerobics class Harbour Villas recreational mavens have, no doubt, scheduled that afternoon.
I drag my feet climbing the stairs and shift my shoulders to release the knot in my back. I don’t know if he’ll talk to me. And if he does, if he’ll give me Landauer’s phone number. But I am certain of another angry outburst when the door opens.
When I reach his door, I knock, wait a minute, then knock harder. A muscle in my back twitches. It takes Abe a few minutes to open up. His eyes narrow and his face reddens.
“What do you want?” He spits out the words.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help. I’m not sure what you know about this.” I realize I’m blathering but can’t stop. “After I met with you, I got a . . .”
The door to the neighboring apartment flies open and a woman in a red house robe splashed with black-and-yellow ladybugs sticks out her head. She looks me over, curiosity stamped across her leathery features. “Everything okay, Abe? I heard banging and voices.”
“Not to worry, Millie,” he says, then takes my elbow and draws me inside. He pulls the door closed behind him. “What’s this about?”
I don’t know how much time he’s willing to give me, so I talk fast. I tell him about finding my house ransacked and a warning slashed across my mirror. About Landauer showing up in my kitchen and threatening me. I tell him I’ve complied with Landauer’s demand that I learn the truth from my father.
“So what’s this got to do with me?” he says when I’m through.
“I think you know where I can reach him.”
Abe looks at me, shakes his head. “You and your father. What am I? Fucking directory assistance?”
“Will you give me his phone number so I can tell him what I’ve learned.”
Abe considers a moment, then motions with his cane toward the sofa. “Here’s the deal. Tell me what you want Mr. Landauer to know. I’ll pass your message along.”
I follow him into the living room, where he settles into the recliner. Sitting opposite him on the sofa, ready to sprint, I tell him about my father’s confession. He listens to the story with a bland expression, nodding now and then. I tell him what I know about Tootsie and Uncle Moe luring Fat Louie to their mother’s home and disposing of the body near the Miami River. I also mention my father’s admission that Landauer took the rap. My voice breaks and I stop every few minutes to swallow my fear. I could be reciting Japanese haiku for all the emotion Abe shows.
When I’m through, he raises his eyebrows and looks at me expectantly. We seem to be at an impasse. “And that’s it?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all he told you?” He sounds incredulous.
“That’s all there is.”
At that he seizes the lever of his recliner and propels himself upright. He grabs his cane and hunkers over the stick, hands clasped on its wooden grip. “The old bastard.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Even lied to his kid. I’ll tell you the truth.”
I perch on the edge of the sofa. Adrenaline courses through my veins and my hands tingle. I’m stunned. Not so much by the news that my father lied. He’s done that often enough. But it’s hard to take in the fact that there’s more. And, from Abe’s sneer, possibly worse.
“You got some of it right.” Abe says. He sounds sad and resigned and shakes his head as though in disbelief. “Including the part about Mr. Landauer taking the rap for Louie’s death. But you’re an idiot if you think Mr. Landauer let your father and uncle off that easy. I worked for him then but, unlike your uncle and father, I knew the meaning of loyalty. Before he went away, he asked me to make arrangements.”
He looks at me, eyes widened, to confirm I’m following him. I nod.
“Here’s how it worked. I made phone calls, let Mr. Landauer’s friends know your father and uncle had a restaurant supply store and should send business their way. A lot of the casino operators who opened restaurants in Hallandale and Miami Beach owed Landauer for . . . services rendered. Mr. Landauer told Tootsie and Moe to deposit seventy percent of their earnings in his wife’s bank account. He figured it’d be enough to take care of his family while he was away. Your father and uncle had to live on the other thirty percent, if they could. That wasn’t Landauer’s problem.”
I recall the news clippings left at my house. S&G, the name penciled on one of the clips, must have been a casino operator Abe contacted to do business with my father.
“Things were okay for a while,” Abe continues. “Moe and Tootsie were grateful for the restaurant contracts not to mention being alive. Landauer chewed over the idea of having them knocked off, but figured he’d arrange that later if need be. Meanwhile they were cash cows. They deposited money in Estelle’s bank account and she and the kids, a boy and girl, did okay. Then one day, the ungrateful broad decides a nice girl from New Jersey shouldn’t be married to a bum who’s doing time in Raiford. She divorces Mr. Landauer and takes the kids back to Jersey. Won’t let them visit their father, write him, nothing. Turns out Estelle has an old flame in Newark. In less than a year, they’re married.
“Then, as if that’s not bad enough, your father and uncle decided that the broad’s remarriage took them off the hook. Which it did not. They stopped depositing money for Estelle. When Mr. Landauer got out of prison and found an empty bank account, he went nuts. Told me to put a hit on Moe and Tootsie.”
I flinch as I realize how close my father came to being killed. The room feels chilly, as though someone opened a window and let in an icy breeze. I wrap my arms around my shoulders and shiver. He may be a pain in the neck, but I can’t imagine growing up without my father. If Tootsie’d been murdered, I would’ve ended up like my cousin Zvi, fatherless and flipping burgers in high school. Still—and I feel guilty at the thought—my mother might have remarried a man who treated her well.
“What happened?” My voice is shaky. “Did he . . . order the hit?”
“Obviously not. Landauer’d been in prison for fifteen years and didn’t know the score. I told him we didn’t have as many friends on the police force as we used to. And most of the guys we hired for these jobs were doing time or had gone legit. Maybe he should consider a financial settlement. I argued with him, explained how things stood, and he finally bought it. I told Moe and Tootsie to meet us at the Miami River, same place they took Louie’s body, with a half million bucks. They had three days. Your father and uncle agreed. What choice did they have?”
He looks at me and I shrug. My stomach aches at the prospect of where this is going.
“It was raining the night of our meeting and the only shelter was a stinking shed bums used as an outhouse. Landauer and I waited a half hour in the rain before Moe showed up with a briefcase. He apologized over and over, said he and his brother had a hard time raising the dough. Tootsie’d assured him it was all there. Landauer didn’t give a damn. He made Moe take the cash out of the briefcase and count it in the rain.”
Abe takes a deep breath and rubs his chest. “Moe came up short. A hundred thousand. I could smell his fear as he counted a second time. He swore he was as shocked as we were. Then he promised he’d get the rest of the money the next day. But Landauer was h
aving none of it. He’d worked himself into a rage waiting in the rain. And your father and uncle stiffed him. Next thing I knew, Landauer was holding Moe by the collar and using his face as a punching bag.”
I cringe, but Abe continues.
“Your uncle fought back but it only made things worse. Landauer was out of control. Seemed like all the anger he’d stored up in prison exploded. He went crazy, punching and kicking your uncle. Moe was a big guy, but no match for Landauer. After five minutes, Moe collapsed on the dock. I tried to help him up but he didn’t move. We didn’t know if he was unconscious or dead. But we got out of there fast.”
Abe settles back in his recliner and stares at me, his upper lip curled. I struggle to keep my expression neutral, but swallow repeatedly to restrain my sobs.
“Was he . . .?”
“Yes.”
My uncle may have been loudmouthed and crude, but I loved him. The image of him being savagely beaten and dying alone behind an abandoned building is more than I can bear. I lose control.
“After that, I gave up the rackets for good,” Abe says, ignoring my sobs. “Moe and Tootsie had been my friends. So had Louie. I’d had enough of the stupid killing.”
“But the police, didn’t they . . . ?”
“Forget about the police. We didn’t have a lot of friends in law enforcement then, but we had enough. Including a medical examiner with a gambling debt that disappeared after your uncle’s death. And if you’re thinking of going to the cops, forget it. The doctor died fifteen years ago.”
I’m panting as though I’ve run a marathon. As I catch my breath, I stare at Abe’s hands, still grasping his cane. His fingers are as crooked as the roots of a banyan tree and the knuckles look painfully swollen. The skin on the back of his hands is crepe paper thin and splotched with purple age spots.
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 25
