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

he dismissed my concerns about getting sick while so far from home. I didn’t mention Esther’s suspicion that Nudelman was running a con. The last time she accused Tootsie of getting scammed—by a woman half his age—Tootsie didn’t talk to her for three months. I don’t need that. Apparently, my nagging’s forgiven. Tootsie invites me for dinner Sunday night.

He’s still jet-lagged when I show up, so we send out for Chinese food.

“How was Israel?” I ask after he calls in our order. “Any problem keeping up?”

“It was tiring but I enjoyed the trip.” He tells me about exploring the Old City in Jerusalem and gives a brief roundup of the bar mitzvah at Masada.

“And the Nudelmans?” I say when he’s through. “They have a good time?”

My father laughs, a short staccato bark, and walks into the kitchen.

“What is it?”

He looks at me, shakes his head, and laughs even harder. Each time he glances at me, he starts in again. In seconds, he’s bracing himself, palms on the counter and arms straight, laughing so hard tears run down his cheeks.

I watch, amused and dumbfounded. “What’s so funny about a trip to Israel?”

“I’m sorry,” he says once he catches his breath. “The answer to your question—at least for Ira Nudelman—is nothing.”

I raise an eyebrow and he motions me to the couch.

“I don’t know where to begin.” He eases himself into the armchair across from me. “I told you about meeting Ira on the trip to Turkey.”

“Yeah, with his family.”

“There’s more to the story. I knew his father.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Of course not. With your big mouth, it would’ve been all over Miami. I didn’t want Ira to know. It’s so crazy. Ira’s father was a big time hoodlum on the Lower East Side. Everyone called him Boots because he’d kick over your fruit or vegetable stand if you didn’t pay protection. It wasn’t a sophisticated scheme, just a pain in the butt. At least until my father, who had a small grocery store, refused to pay. The son of a bitch beat him up and put Grandpa Leo in the hospital for a couple of days.”

I don’t remember my grandfather, who died when I was five, but family photos show him as a big guy who could handle himself. Nudelman’s father had to be pretty tough to beat him up.

“Moe and I were too young to do anything about it. Luckily, at least for my dad, Boots had bigger fish to fry. He joined a gang and left the neighborhood peddlers alone.”

“But how did you figure Ira— ”

“Let me finish, will you. You don’t meet many Nudelmans in this world. So when I got back from Turkey, I called friends in New Jersey. Sure enough, he was Boot’s son. And a con man like his father. Got caught scamming a couple of investors in New Jersey and managed a plea deal. Made a new start in Florida. I wasn’t surprised. The bastard was sizing me up in Turkey, asking about my business, my family. I bet he looked into my finances when we got home. The wife and kids are sweethearts. But I can spot a con artist a mile away.”

“So why’d you go to Israel with him?”

He holds up a finger in answer. “About a month after we got back from Turkey, I met Ira for lunch and mentioned I needed a lawyer to update my will. Figured I’d play the half-witted old geezer who needed advice. He bit and gave me a name, Juan Perez. Then, when Ira invited me to Israel, I reeled him in. My guess is he thought I’d update my will before the trip and he’d arrange for Perez to give him a piece of the fee. I didn’t think he was planning to knock me off or anything like that, but I took measures. Told him I had an appointment with Perez to work on the will the week I got back.”

He leans in my direction and plants his hands on his knees. “Did I mention that Ira advanced the money for my trip? Ten thousand bucks with first class seating on El Al. I told him I’d pay him back a few days after we returned. That I had a certificate of deposit coming due.”

“Dad, are you telling me you went to Israel just to—”

“Hold on, Doll, I’m not done. And in case you think I’m some kind of cheapskate, I bought the boy a beautiful gift. A prayer shawl and yarmulke from the Holy Land.”

He waits for me to comment, express my admiration for his generosity. I say nothing.

“We flew back Thursday night and got in about four Friday morning. At the baggage carousel, I pulled Ira aside. The bastard was all smiles, thinking I was going to thank him.” My father curls his lip. “I told him the same thing I told you. What his father did to mine. What I know about him. And how I’m not paying him back.

“You should have seen his face.” My father sighs and shakes his head. He looks genuinely sad. “I could tell he was scared. I’m not going to kid you, Becks, I was out for revenge. But the guy’s got a wife and two great kids. I couldn’t ruin it for them. Nudelman knows I’m watching. And he can’t be sure I haven’t told anyone about his past. That should be enough to keep him straight.”

My father rises bracing both hands on the arms of his chair and eases himself up. He goes into the kitchen, gets two paper plates and two plastic forks, and sets the table.

I don’t know what to make of his story. He planned this carefully and went to great lengths to exact revenge. But why? It’s been forty-five years since Grandpa Leo died. What good does it do Tootsie conning the son of a man who, no doubt, has been dead for decades?

His story makes me uncomfortable. How many people would go to such lengths for revenge?