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

It’s vindictive and cruel. The con he pulled on Nudelman isn’t as bad as what he did to Fat Louie. But it’s criminal all the same—stealing from a victim who can’t go to the police. Whether Nudelman deserved that or not isn’t my—or Tootsie’s—place to judge. I suspect the crazy thinking that helped him justify Louie’s murder is the same kind of reasoning that spurred him to con Nudelman.

I’m about to suggest as much when the doorbell rings. It’s the deliveryman with the Chinese food. My father brings the brown paper bag to the table.

“I should have taken you out for a nice steak,” he says as we pull warm aluminum containers from the bag, releasing the honeyed scent of General Tso’s chicken and fried rice. “After all the money I saved on the trip.”

He looks up from the table and frowns. “What? You don’t like the way I finance my travel.”

I’m tempted to make a smart-aleck comment about the fruits of criminal labor but hold my tongue. I haven’t seen him in two weeks and don’t want to argue. He’s eighty-six and operates under his own set of rules. And if I want to continue to spend time with him, I have to keep my mouth shut.

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37

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Tootsie

I’m clearing the table after Becks leaves when I realize she completely missed the point I was trying to make. The whole time I talked about Nudelman, she chewed her lower lip and threw me sidelong glances. A son would’ve understood. You don’t take crap from anyone. And you don’t let anyone get away with shit—even if it means waiting fifty years. What I did was justice, pure and simple. No better and no worse than what happened to Fat Louie. That’s how the game is played.

I’m hunched over, loading cartons of leftover rice and chicken into the fridge, when an idea strikes me. I stand so fast I bang my head on the freezer door. Maybe that’s how Landauer felt—that the bad blood between us gave him the right to intrude in Becks’ life. That it was perfectly legitimate for him to confront my daughter.

But the situation with Nudleman is different. I settled my accounts with Landauer years ago. And offered to pay him extra to leave Becks alone. But Landauer hasn’t responded. I tried to reach Abe before leaving for Israel but he didn’t return my call. Bastards. They know I’m sweating it out and want to keep me hanging. I’m sick of waiting. I’ve got to bring this business to a close.

It’s past ten, but there’s no point in delaying. I hate begging Abe to contact Landauer but have no choice. I feel like a heel for making Becks wait so long but figured I’d hear from them eventually. I dig through the junk mail on my cocktail table for the scrap with Abe’s number and dial.

“What is it now?” Abe says. “I’m in the middle of a football game.”

“Did you hear from Landauer?”

“About what?”

“My offer. Will he take my money and leave Becks alone?”

“He’s not interested.”

“What did he say?”

“He doesn’t want your, quote, fucking money.”

“Then what does he want?”

“You miserable. And alone.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Then don’t ask.”

I think about it for a minute. “Did he tell you that?”

“Why would I lie?”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re the big shot businessman. Figure it out. Then tell me.”

Abe hangs up the phone.

I pace the living room puzzling out what he meant. Me miserable? Like things can get worse. I’m losing sleep and ruining my health over Landauer’s plans for Becks. Maybe that’s Abe’s point. Landauer wants me to stew. Keep me dangling, then do nothing. It’d be like that son of a bitch.

I’m not biting. The bastards have better things to do with their lives than torment me and Becks. Hell, Abe barely remembered my asking him to call Landauer. And Lord knows Landauer doesn’t need the money. He stashed plenty away before being sent to prison and probably made a fortune in the Bahamas. He wants the satisfaction of knowing I’m sweating it out more than he wants my dough.

It’s been four months since Landauer visited Becks. If he hasn’t done anything yet, he’s got to be bored with this whole cat and mouse game. He’s had his sick fun and it’s over. If he wants to leave me up in the air, fine. I’m not wasting any more of my time on his bullshit. When he’s ready to call, he’ll call. And if he doesn’t, so what. Becks will be fine.

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38

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It’s early March and I’ve established myself as the newspaper’s “Jewish epicure,” which means my stories make it to the food section’s front page when there’s a religious holiday. I’ve been so busy trying to meet my editor’s deadline and working on my cookbook that I haven’t seen much of my father. Passover will be here in less than a month and my article is due Friday. I’ve decided to write a piece on dishes traditionally made by Sephardim, especially Iraqi Jews—baked eggplant, date haroset, spinach soufflé. The kitchen is redolent with the aroma of roasting leg of lamb I started earlier.

Last night, Daniel called to tell me he had dinner with Tootsie. When he asked about Fat Louie’s murder, my father said it was no big deal and that I’d blown things out of proportion. All of that happened long ago. Daniel’s shocked by Tootsie’s attitude. So am I. I can’t believe the old man has the nerve to minimize what I’ve been through. I haven’t told Daniel about Landauer’s unexpected visit or his threat. And neither, apparently, has my father.

I still haven’t heard from Landauer and Tootsie refuses to tell me whether he’s contacted the gangster. I suspect he has but doesn’t want me to know. Maybe he paid the old gangster off and is loath to tell me. Afraid I’ll be upset that he spent his so-called fortune buying “protection.” At this point, I’m so frustrated by Tootsie’s obfuscations that I don’t know