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

businesses in Colored Town are from Brooklyn? Well, these guys are used to paying protection. But no one’s collecting it here. You want to do them a favor?”

I cringe at the term, Colored Town, but don’t bother to correct him. At eighty-five, he’s not about to change his ways.

“Louie’d mentioned it before, but just joking around,” my father continues. “So I decide to play along. Louie says we’ll let them know, friendly-like, that we’ll take care of them. Give them a price. See if they bite.

“I didn’t like the sound of that. But I figure he knows what he’s doing. Louie had a way with people, kibitzed with them and got what he wanted. He was a short guy with a solid barrel chest that made him look fat. And always with the big smile on his face and slicked-back hair. The kind of guy who cared how he looked. I’d hang back, keep my trap shut. I knew when to turn on the scowl. And I was in shape then. Not like now.”

He pats his stomach, which has softened from a solid beer gut to a less than impressive mound of flab, then punches me in the arm. “Didn’t know your old man was such a tough guy, did you?”

I laugh. It’s hard to picture my father a tough guy. He’s tall but always moved with a soft fluidity that suggested a lack of muscle tone. We lived in Coral Gables, suburbia itself, and as with all my friend’s dads, he left for work in a suit and tie and came home expecting dinner. He was the joker, the soft touch among our parents. All this talk of running numbers and providing protection makes me uncomfortable, as though I’m talking to a stranger disguised as my father. The man he describes, this tough guy, has nothing to do with the dad who took the family and dog to the beach every Sunday.

“Louie, the hustler, doubled our income in three months, which was great by me. He kept the tote sheet. The guys who took the bets—the restaurant and bar and grocery store owners—would turn their receipts in to Louie, and we’d run them over to the counting house on Saturdays before the lottery number was announced. I let Louie handle the money. He was better at keeping track of it than I was. Plus he had a good memory. Always knew which counting house we were using that week.”

My father, who’s not exactly gifted in the manners department, leans across me to stare at Florence Karpowsky. “A great big wing of the nursing home named for her husband the big shot and she sits there like a bump on a log. Damn shame.” He settles back in his seat. Mrs. Karpowsky hasn’t moved a muscle. The expectation’s gone from her face, leaving only a slash of smeared lipstick.

“I got to hit the sack,” he says. “I’m beat.”

My father’s cheeks are flushed and I realize how much this story has upset him. But if I let him go, I’ll never hear the story.

“Come on, Dad. You can’t stop now. You still haven’t told me why Mrs. Karpowsky got so worked up.”

“She wasn’t so worked up.”

“She called you a murderer, for God’s sake.”

“She’s in la-la land.”

“All right.” I rise. “Call me when you’re ready to finish your story. I’ll see you then.”

“You are something else.” He glares at me, then nods. “All right, I’ll finish.”

I return to my seat.

“It had to be December because I was wearing one of those bomber jackets the air corps guys were coming home with. It was a Saturday afternoon. Fat Louie and I’d just gotten out of the car and were heading toward the counting house to turn in our dough when the boss, Mr. Landauer, comes at us with this gigantic Yid.

“ ‘Youse guys, give your tote sheets and money to Hymie here,’ he says, ‘and come with me.’ ”

I have to laugh. My father sounds like a gangster in a forties movie.

“You think that’s funny? I almost shit my pants.”

“Sorry.” I’m shocked. He never used that expression before.

He shakes his head. “Landauer’s so furious he’s turning red but I don’t know why or what he’s going to do about it. Usually we enter through the front door of this rundown wooden house and hand the money off to two broads at the kitchen table. That day, we hand our envelopes to the big Yid and follow Landauer around the side of the house, past a slimed out pool, and onto the back porch.

“The minute I step inside the house, POW, a fist slams into my nose. Blood drips down my face and onto my jacket. Before I can figure out what’s going on, another bastard delivers a blow to my gut. Turns out Mr. Landauer’s got two goons waiting. The whole time they’re pummeling us and bouncing us off the furniture, Landauer’s screaming about how we double-crossed him and he’s going to kill us. The rest I don’t know. I must have passed out. When I wake up at home, your mother’s crying and Moe’s standing over me, muttering about what an asshole I am.”

The anger and fear on his face frighten me and his hands, which grasp the arms of his chair, tremble. My head starts to throb as I realize how upset I am at the idea of my father being beaten, even decades ago. I’m not sure I want to hear more, but curiosity gets the better of me. “What’d you do?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do. Once I can breathe and sit up, I call Fat Louie. He’s as messed up as I am, says he has a busted lip, maybe a broken nose. Tells me it’s the Christmas season and people are spending on their kids, not the numbers. But he’s already got a plan to pay back the two thousand bucks Landauer claims we owe. He wants to confess to the protection racket,