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

“You got some of it right.” Abe says. He sounds sad and resigned and shakes his head as though in disbelief. “Including the part about Mr. Landauer taking the rap for Louie’s death. But you’re an idiot if you think Mr. Landauer let your father and uncle off that easy. I worked for him then but, unlike your uncle and father, I knew the meaning of loyalty. Before he went away, he asked me to make arrangements.”

He looks at me, eyes widened, to confirm I’m following him. I nod.

“Here’s how it worked. I made phone calls, let Mr. Landauer’s friends know your father and uncle had a restaurant supply store and should send business their way. A lot of the casino operators who opened restaurants in Hallandale and Miami Beach owed Landauer for . . . services rendered. Mr. Landauer told Tootsie and Moe to deposit seventy percent of their earnings in his wife’s bank account. He figured it’d be enough to take care of his family while he was away. Your father and uncle had to live on the other thirty percent, if they could. That wasn’t Landauer’s problem.”

I recall the news clippings left at my house. S&G, the name penciled on one of the clips, must have been a casino operator Abe contacted to do business with my father.

“Things were okay for a while,” Abe continues. “Moe and Tootsie were grateful for the restaurant contracts not to mention being alive. Landauer chewed over the idea of having them knocked off, but figured he’d arrange that later if need be. Meanwhile they were cash cows. They deposited money in Estelle’s bank account and she and the kids, a boy and girl, did okay. Then one day, the ungrateful broad decides a nice girl from New Jersey shouldn’t be married to a bum who’s doing time in Raiford. She divorces Mr. Landauer and takes the kids back to Jersey. Won’t let them visit their father, write him, nothing. Turns out Estelle has an old flame in Newark. In less than a year, they’re married.

“Then, as if that’s not bad enough, your father and uncle decided that the broad’s remarriage took them off the hook. Which it did not. They stopped depositing money for Estelle. When Mr. Landauer got out of prison and found an empty bank account, he went nuts. Told me to put a hit on Moe and Tootsie.”

I flinch as I realize how close my father came to being killed. The room feels chilly, as though someone opened a window and let in an icy breeze. I wrap my arms around my shoulders and shiver. He may be a pain in the neck, but I can’t imagine growing up without my father. If Tootsie’d been murdered, I would’ve ended up like my cousin Zvi, fatherless and flipping burgers in high school. Still—and I feel guilty at the thought—my mother might have remarried a man who treated her well.

“What happened?” My voice is shaky. “Did he . . . order the hit?”

“Obviously not. Landauer’d been in prison for fifteen years and didn’t know the score. I told him we didn’t have as many friends on the police force as we used to. And most of the guys we hired for these jobs were doing time or had gone legit. Maybe he should consider a financial settlement. I argued with him, explained how things stood, and he finally bought it. I told Moe and Tootsie to meet us at the Miami River, same place they took Louie’s body, with a half million bucks. They had three days. Your father and uncle agreed. What choice did they have?”

He looks at me and I shrug. My stomach aches at the prospect of where this is going.

“It was raining the night of our meeting and the only shelter was a stinking shed bums used as an outhouse. Landauer and I waited a half hour in the rain before Moe showed up with a briefcase. He apologized over and over, said he and his brother had a hard time raising the dough. Tootsie’d assured him it was all there. Landauer didn’t give a damn. He made Moe take the cash out of the briefcase and count it in the rain.”

Abe takes a deep breath and rubs his chest. “Moe came up short. A hundred thousand. I could smell his fear as he counted a second time. He swore he was as shocked as we were. Then he promised he’d get the rest of the money the next day. But Landauer was having none of it. He’d worked himself into a rage waiting in the rain. And your father and uncle stiffed him. Next thing I knew, Landauer was holding Moe by the collar and using his face as a punching bag.”

I cringe, but Abe continues.

“Your uncle fought back but it only made things worse. Landauer was out of control. Seemed like all the anger he’d stored up in prison exploded. He went crazy, punching and kicking your uncle. Moe was a big guy, but no match for Landauer. After five minutes, Moe collapsed on the dock. I tried to help him up but he didn’t move. We didn’t know if he was unconscious or dead. But we got out of there fast.”

Abe settles back in his recliner and stares at me, his upper lip curled. I struggle to keep my expression neutral, but swallow repeatedly to restrain my sobs.

“Was he . . .?”

“Yes.”

My uncle may have been loudmouthed and crude, but I loved him. The image of him being savagely beaten and dying alone behind an abandoned building is more than I can bear. I lose control.

“After that, I gave up the rackets for good,” Abe says, ignoring my sobs. “Moe and Tootsie had been my friends. So had Louie. I’d had enough of the stupid killing.”

“But the police, didn’t they . . . ?”

“Forget about the police. We didn’t have a lot of friends