The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

more shirts. He still calls every day and I still ignore him. Thursday, he emailed me about seeing a marriage counselor. I wrote back that he’s welcome to consult a therapist about his cheating. As far as I’m concerned, that’s our only problem. I know I’m hiding, avoiding any steps toward moving on in our relationship, but I don’t have the strength yet to deal with the future.

I follow my father to the men’s dressing room and stand at the entrance so Tootsie can model his pants. This is the first chance I’ve had to mention my visit to Abe’s.

“I saw an old friend of yours Wednesday,” I yell into the general emptiness of the dressing rooms. “You remember Abe Kravitz?”

I hear a rustle of clothing, then the jingle of coins.

“You hear me?” I ask after a few minutes.

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“Do the pants fit?”

“The first pair’s too big.”

“So what do you think? Of seeing Abe?”

“What am I supposed to think?”

“He seems fine. His wife died a few years back.”

“Good for her.”

My father steps out of his dressing room. The pants drape around his ankles and over his shoes and fit too snugly across the stomach. I shake my head and he returns to the room.

A few minutes later, the saleslady enters the changing area and dashes from room to room snapping up discarded clothing. Once she’s out of earshot, I speak up again. “I came across a newspaper article about Abe while doing research last week. Did you know he went to jail for selling stolen goods?”

“What about it?”

“You tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. That was before we met.”

“I decided to pay Abe a visit. I thought it’d be fun after all these years.”

My father sticks his head out of the dressing room door. “You’re full of crap.” Then he ducks back in. “What’s with you, Doll? I tell you a little story and, before I know it, you’re all over me and everyone in town with these stupid questions. No one cares anymore. Everyone’s dead. Or should be.”

“Not Abe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He was friendly at first, talking about good times with you and Uncle Moe.” I don’t mention I was pumping Abe for information about Fat Louie. “When I showed him the article, he went ape.”

“What’d you expect? It’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not. What I don’t get is why he got mad at you. He said to tell you to go to hell.”

Tootsie doesn’t answer. Instead, he leaves the dressing room in a pair of pants clearly made for a giant. I shake my head yet again and he returns to the room.

My father is right about the pants. The fifth pair he tries fit. After the saleslady rings us up, we head to the food court for lunch.

“What happened between you and Abe?” I ask after we’re settled at a table with our trapezoidal orange trays. The seating area is surrounded by delicatessens, Chinese takeout joints, and fast food outlets. I have to lean in so my father can hear me over the chatter and clinking of trays. “He used to come over all the time. Then he disappeared.”

“You are a pain in the ass, Becks,” my father says, tucking a napkin under his chin. “Do you promise to leave him alone if I tell you?”

I shrug.

“You can’t let things drop, can you? Maybe this’ll convince you. Abe was a hoodlum. I knew he had a hand in the rackets and did time, but everyone had something not quite kosher going then. It was no big deal. By the time we met him, Abe was in the electronics business. At least that’s what he called it.”

“We?”

“Your Uncle Moe and me. When we first started the restaurant supply business, we bought our refrigerators from Abe. He had the best prices in town. Nobody could compete. Of course, I should have figured it out.”

“Figured out what?”

He rubs his thumb against his fingers, making the sign for cash.

“The stuff was hot?”

“You bet.” He reaches across the table and taps me on the forehead. “Smart girl. One day, two cops stop by. Tell us someone’s been holding up trucks heading south on U.S. 1 with restaurant equipment. Ovens. Refrigerators. You name it. The police have serial numbers for a few dozen stolen items and leave us a list. If any of it shows up, we should call them.”

“Did you have any of the stuff?”

“Sure we did. But we’re not about to report it. We know what refrigerators cost. That’s what we put in our books. The police aren’t going to say ‘thank you very much’ and leave us alone if we turn Abe in. They’re going to check our records. And have the IRS on our asses so fast, our heads will spin.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Moe, as usual, had all the answers.”

I wait as he takes a bite of his sandwich, two thick slabs of seeded rye that barely restrain an inch and a half of fatty pink pastrami. Only in Miami do the food courts serve good deli. And café con leche. Tootsie takes a sip of coffee and another bite of pastrami before I realize that he considers the story over.

“So what did you and Uncle Moe do about the stolen refrigerators?” I ask, louder.

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know why Abe’s so angry.”

My father sets his sandwich in its clear plastic container and wipes each finger, an elaborate operation that involves the use of one flimsy paper napkin per digit. “I’m not sure,” he says once he’s through. “It’s been a long time. As far as I can remember, Moe doesn’t bother to tell Abe the cops stopped by. Instead, he calls Abe’s office manager and tells the girl we’re through doing business with him. We’ve got a new supplier and Abe should find himself another schmuck to buy the refrigerators.”

The old man’s got a pretty accurate memory of events, considering the decades that have passed and his claims to have forgotten.

“Abe