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

flatware aside. I wait while he tucks the cloth into his pants and smooths the fabric over his thighs. I suspect he’s giving himself time to invent a story.

“You remember my trip to Turkey last year?”

Has it been that long? He saw a television special about Turkey over a year ago and immediately booked a trip. Esther and I worried he’d become ill while overseas. He went anyway, joining an American tour. He sent me half a dozen postcards but never mentioned anything about the other travelers.

“What about it?” I ask. “You meet them there?”

“I ended up eating with them most nights. The little girl’s a doll and the boy stuck to my side the whole time. It turns out they’re from Miami. We’ve stayed in touch ever since.”

“You never told me about them.”

“I’ve got to tell you everything that goes on in my life?”

He must see the hurt in my face because he continues. “I love you, Doll, but an old man’s allowed to have a few secrets.” He takes a sip of iced tea, then sets his glass on the table. “You want to meet the Nudelmans? Fine. We’re getting together next Sunday night at their synagogue. It’s a planning session for our trip to Israel.”

I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “You’re going to Israel?”

“Did I forget to mention that?” He gets a big kick out of my shock. “Their boy, Bobby, is having his bar mitzvah on Masada in two weeks and he wants me there. How can I say no?”

The phone’s ringing when I unlock my front door. In the rush to answer, I stumble over Mulligan in the hall. It’s Esther. I tell her what I learned.

“That’s just weird,” she says. “What do these people want from him? It’s not like he’s the most charming guy in the world.”

In fact, I tell her, he can be. How else would he have become so successful in a business that depended on sales?

“You said this guy was an investor. Maybe he’s after Tootsie’s money?”

The thought has crossed my mind but I’ve pushed it into the background. “I don’t think so. It is possible this family likes Dad.”

Esther snorts. “You don’t believe that anymore than I do. Dad’s got plenty and I’ll bet this Nudelman knows it. Maybe we should hire a detective. Find out if he’s legitimate. You read about these financial shysters who scam old people.”

“Dad’s smarter than that. And they’re going to Israel with a tour. Nothing will happen.”

“Don’t be naïve. An older man has a heart attack while overseas, no one’s going to ask questions. For all we know, Nudelman’s convinced Tootsie to rewrite his will.”

“You’re getting carried away.”

“Maybe not.”

Neither of us speak.

“So what do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Meet Nudelman. And let me know what you think.”

The following week is busy. My editor’s asked me to write weekly restaurant reviews and the trip to see Milt has forced me to play catch-up. So far, I’ve written essays to go along with twenty of my mother’s recipes so the cookbook’s going well. Friday, after I email an article in to the paper, I run a search on Ira Nudelman. He looks fine to me. He’s on the boards of a handful of Jewish organizations. I figure my dad knows what he’s doing, traveling to Israel with the Nudelman family. Esther and I are being paranoid.

That Sunday, Tootsie and I grab a quick bite at Zimmerman’s Deli, then drive south to Coral Gables. I assume we’re meeting at a synagogue, but my father directs me to an office building.

“It’s a new congregation,” he says as we ride the elevator to the tenth floor, “and they’re still working on a building fund. Nudelman owns this place and lets the congregation use it for free.”

We step off the elevator and travel down a freshly-carpeted hallway to a room the size of an Olympic swimming pool. The chemical smell of paint and drywall permeates the air and strips of brown paper lie along the corners of the room. A coffee urn sits on a folding table at the front, next to a stack of paper cups, a jar of creamer, and a handful of sugar packets. A man in his early thirties wearing a black yarmulke over close-cropped black hair—I assume he’s the rabbi—stands next to the table talking to a dozen adults and children. The chairs are set out in semicircular rows. My father waves to a man I recognize as Nudelman and we seat ourselves a few rows behind him and his children.

I struggle to stay awake as the rabbi explains that the group will base itself in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv but visit religious sites throughout the country. When the meeting’s over, Nudelman strides across the room to Tootsie and gives him a bear hug. Releasing my father, he turns to me. “You must be Becks. You’re lucky to have such a sweet guy for a father.”

I glance at Tootsie. No one ever calls him sweet. The best I can offer is “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about your dad. We’ll take good care of him. Though I suspect, with his energy, he’ll take care of us.”

I don’t have a response. It’s a cliché and doesn’t deserve an answer, so I smile blandly.

My father introduces me to Nudelman’s kids, an attractive girl named Mindy and Bobby, the bar mitzvah boy. He’s small for thirteen with thin legs and arms that look like stick figures emerging from his shorts and tee shirt. I find myself comparing this fair, delicate child to my sons, who were clumsy, noisy creatures at that age. Nudelman leads us to the elevator and he and Tootsie talk about hotel accommodations on the ride down. The whole time, Bobby hangs on to my father’s hand. I’m surprised when he gives Tootsie a kiss before leaving for his father’s car. My father’s not demonstrative and he rarely gave his grandsons more than a quick hug. I’m jealous but still touched by his affection