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

before. It’s been hard enough coming to terms with the notion that he associated with gangsters. But a cold-blooded killer? That may be more than I can handle.

I wonder if my mother knew. And if so, what choices she had. She loved my dad. And turning him in would’ve sent him to prison, leaving her alone with a small child. I can see why Esther won’t talk to Tootsie. I’m tempted to leave the table and let him catch a taxi home. I glance around the restaurant—anything to avoid his gaze. My fingers are numb from grasping the edge of my chair.

My father studies me, reading every muscle on my face. I try to smile, but my lips feel stiff and it probably comes across as a grimace. He slides the check around the table without looking at it; my eyes follow his hand. I’m torn between disbelief and horror as I try to adapt to this reality. This alter cocker, with his soft gut, his waddle of a neck, a killer? It seems so far-fetched, so part of the distant past. As though he’s talking about someone else. But he isn’t.

He drops a twenty on the table and rises. I slide out of the booth and lead him through the parking lot to my car.

“Jeeze, Dad,” I say once we’re buckled in. He turns to me as though awaiting a verdict. “I can’t believe you’ve lived with this secret so long.” It’s the best I can do.

The Miami skyline draws near as we cross the causeway. The view has changed a lot since I was a kid. The office towers are taller and more densely packed. Steel and glass fill the horizon. People on the street come in every shade of red and brown and white and are as likely to speak Creole or Spanish as English. It’s entirely different from the Miami Tootsie knew as a young man. The only remnants of that era, of the years when Miami was a Mecca for glamorous movie stars and underworld figures, are old men’s memories and crooked gravestones in Mount Nebo Cemetery.

When we reach the campus of the Schmuel Bernstein, my father tells me to pull into a parking spot. There’s more. We sit for a few minutes, listening to the frogs chirruping and my air conditioner wheezing.

“Your uncle and I almost got away with it,” he says without looking at me. “Your uncle was sharp and did a good job of covering our tracks. No one could trace Louie’s death back to either of us. But word had reached the street that Louie was double-crossing Landauer. A cop saw the two goons who took Louie’s body out to sea returning in the skiff the night Louie died and knew they worked for Landauer.”

He stares straight ahead. “The police were having a hard time tying Landauer into some other hits and, when they found blood in the boat, they were sure they could nail him. When they offered me and Uncle Moe immunity, we took it. What choice did we have? Landauer pleaded to first-degree murder and was lucky not to end up in the chair. Last I heard, he escaped while being transported to a hospital in the 1960s and made his way to the Bahamas. I couldn’t believe it when he showed up at Schatzi’s funeral. That’s why I left so suddenly. I couldn’t be sure it was him, though. It’s been fifty years.”

“Weren’t you afraid he’d come after you and Uncle Moe?” The idea of my father living with this guilt and fear of being hunted down for so long disturbs me.

“When he first escaped from prison, yes. But then nothing happened and I figured he’d made himself a life. I’d have helped him if he wanted it.”

Honor among thieves, I think, but don’t say as much to my father.

“So how are you supposed to let Landauer know I’ve told you the truth?” Tootsie asks.

“I don’t know. That’s what makes me so nervous. I’m afraid he’ll show up again.”

“God forbid.” He flips the AC vent on and off a few times, then turns to me. “Tell you what, Doll. Go home. Or better yet, you and Esther stay with a friend or have Daniel move in. I’ll make a couple of calls and try to close the books on this.”

“What’ll you do?”

“That depends on Landauer.”

“Don’t do anything crazy. We can always explain to the police.”

“No.” The word comes out in a quick breath. “What’ll you tell them? That your father killed a man fifty years ago?”

“If that’s what it takes to be safe.”

“Please. I’m begging you. Hold off. Just a few more weeks. I promise I’ll take care of things.” He opens the passenger side door. “Sweetheart. Becks, I’m sorry to put you through this. It happened so long ago. Try to forgive me.”

“You’re still my dad,” I say as he gets out. “I’m glad you told me the truth.”

He cracks a faint smile, but says nothing. I watch through my rearview mirror as he passes through the automatic glass doors of his apartment building.

As I back out of my parking spot and pull onto the road, I wonder if I meant what I said or came up with words he wants to hear. The whole thing’s so crazy, so horrible. And I’m concerned about reassuring him. My father murdered a man, for God’s sake. I try to convince myself he had no choice. But I don’t know if I believe his story.

As I drive home, I ask myself if I’ll come back. If I can face my father, knowing he took a life. I’m tempted to tell the police what I’ve learned. But the statute of limitations on murder never runs out and, as horrified as I am by what he told me, I don’t want my dad to spend his last years in jail. I’ve never been in such a dangerous and untenable position. I hate it. And it’s all because of my father’s