The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) š
- Author: Joan Cochran
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āHold on. I took care of Landauerās family. And I did what heāā I start, but Abe interrupts.
āDid you know Betsy left me?ā
Stunned by the manās sudden flare up, I shake my head.
āThatās right. She was working in ladyās undergarments while I sold shoes. She couldnāt handle it. Went home to her parents.ā
āIām sorry. I didnāt know.ā
Abe waves away the sympathy. āWe got back together again. No thanks to you.ā
āAbe, I swear we didnātāā
āJust leave me the hell alone, will you? And keep your daughter out of my hair. Iām not promising anything.ā
He releases his grip on the table and stands back. āSo if you need anything, like silence about your past, donāt call me. As far as Iām concerned, youāre a load of horseshit.ā He turns his back on me and leaves, moving slowly. His shoulders are stooped and his right leg drags.
I rise from my seat and drop a ten on the table, then wait so Abe can reach his car before I head to the parking lot.
Once I get to my car, I reach for the jar of antacids in my glove compartment. Damned heartburnās acting up again. I donāt know whether to curse Becks. Or that bastard, Abe. Either way, I need to come up with a plan for stopping my daughter. If she finds out about my pastāwell, I canāt let it happen.
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12
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Two nights after my father and I visit the mall, the phone rings. Iām scouring a pan of burned noodle pudding but rip off my gloves and grab the receiver. Iām expectingāwell, hoping forāa call from Gabe. When we spoke earlier in the day, he sounded nasal, a sure sign heās coming down with a cold. He was in the middle of exams so I offered to drive to Miami to bring him cold medicine, soup and Vitamin C. He told me his health was fine but if I wanted to make him feel better, I could let his dad move back in. That threw me. After a second during which I didnāt know how to respond, I tried to explain how devastated I was by his fatherās affair. Gabe didnāt seem to care. I should know better. The Aspergerās prevents him from having any idea how I feel.
The caller is Tootsie.
āYou remember Ari Plotnik? Uncle Moeās grandson,ā he says, jumping into conversation without a hello. āI just got an email. Kid says heās a kosher butcher in some ferschtunkena Iowa town, I canāt remember which. He wants to know if our family has any Kohanim blood. Iāll email it to you.ā Then he clicks off.
I finish the dishes and read the email. Ariās wife has traced her family back to Rabbi Gamaliel or some other Hebraic bigwig and Ari is hot to enhance his own pedigree. You get more face time at the bima, the podium at the front of the sanctuary, if you can prove youāre a member of the Kohanim, the priestly tribe.
I email my father that I donāt know anything about our tribal history. Then Tootsie copies me the email he sends Ari claiming that the only relation he can find is a Plotnik in Lodz who served as the synagogueās shamus. I suspect Tootsieās lying. Either way, the old man gets a huge kick out of telling the kid that his treasured ancestor was the guy who cleaned toilets for the rabbi.
It turns out to be family reunion week because the next day my cousin SellaāAriās sisterāemails that sheād like to get together. Iām thrilled to hear from her. No one in my family has seen Sella since fifteen years earlier, when her father, ZviāUncle Moeās sonādemanded we depart his synagogue. We were there for Sellaās bat mitzvah, or the nominal recognition that passes for one in an orthodox synagogue where women canāt read from the Torah.
Zviās wife, Leah, hadnāt bothered to tell her husband sheād invited us in what turned out to be a botched attempt at family reunification. My father has refused to tell me the cause of his rift with Zvi, but that day my cousin announced we werenāt Jewish enough to set foot in his precious orthodox synagogue. As he saw it, we were practically gentiles, Reform Jews whoād committed the grievous sin of abandoning the ritual he considered critical to claiming oneās rightful place as a descendant of Abraham, Isaac, and Sandy Koufax.
Sella writes that she hasnāt seen her father in six years and her motherās moved to New Jersey. Sella still lives in South Florida, though, and wants to meet us. Iām delighted and figure this is an opportunity to reunite with Zviās family, if not Zvi himself. She accepts my invitation to lunch the next Sunday. Of course, I invite Tootsie.
Sella and her husband, Craig, show up just after noon with a two- and a three-year-old who fall asleep in their stroller minutes after arriving. I try to be subtle about studying Sella, seeking traces of the little girl I last saw in her pale purple bat mitzvah dress, all freckles and curls. She has red hair like Aunt Irene, my fatherās sister, but missed out on the Plotnik eyes, which tend to be a little close-set. Hers are beautiful, green and almond shaped. I canāt remember what her mother looks like but figure the eyes came from that side of Sellaās family. My father keeps elbowing me and trying to whisper in my ear. I refuse to listen.
āSo what happened between your father and mother?ā Tootsie asks once
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