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

figured he’d take the money and leave. Or wait for the extra cash. It sounds crazy now, but I thought I could come up with more—sell my car or my watch—before Landauer knew what was what.”

“That was one hell of a gamble,” I say, “and Moe lost.” I rise to leave, but he grabs my arm. He’s crying. I’ve never seen him like this, eyes red and hands trembling. I’m shocked and drop back in my chair.

“Listen to me. I did everything I could for Moe’s family after he died. I told your Aunt Gert we’d taken life insurance on Moe and supported her until she remarried. I paid for Zvi’s college and law school. What more could I do? Your uncle wouldn’t have taken care of my family. He was a gonif. He was doing business on the side, selling our equipment and pocketing the profits. I caught him filching cash from the safe when he thought I wasn’t looking. The bastard was robbing me blind.”

Our gazes lock. Then he looks away, realizing what he’s admitted. Maybe he didn’t do it consciously. But he sent Moe to Landauer, intending to settle the business’s debts and avenge his brother’s thievery. And whether or not it was intentional, my uncle paid with his life.

I rise. When I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder. Tootsie remains at the table, his head in his hands and his shoulders heaving. I burn the image in my brain, suspecting this will be the last I see him, and leave. He doesn’t stop me.

----

39

----

The next morning, as I drive to Ft. Lauderdale International Airport to pick up Esther, I consider how to tell her about Uncle Moe’s death. She may already be aware—she seems to know more about our family’s dark side than I do. She finished chemotherapy and has an appointment with Daniel at nine to decide on the next course of action. I’ve decided to stop for breakfast on the way to his office and fill her in.

I’m killing time in front of the Delta terminal when a fat cop with a nasty sneer moseys over to my car. He wears knee-length boots and a holstered gun and walks with the bowlegged stance of an overweight broncobuster. I’m in no mood for his attitude.

“Move on,” he says, snapping his head to the left.

I glance around. Mine is one of two cars pulled to the curb. The terminal’s deserted at this ungodly hour. The sun isn’t up yet and no one in her right mind—except my sister Esther—flies into Ft. Lauderdale at six on a Wednesday morning.

“I’m waiting for my sister. She should be in the baggage area.” I say. He purses his lip and crosses his arms. “She’s been ill and I’d rather she not stand too long waiting for me.”

He doesn’t give a damn. “Look lady,” he says, “there’s no stopping here so get going.”

I’m in a lousy mood to begin with, having stayed up most of the night. I’m ready to leap from my car and tell the officer what I think of power hungry cops hassling drivers at empty airports. Then it hits me. I’m doing exactly what my father would’ve done. Gone straight for the jugular. It’s a frightening notion and stops me as I reach for the door handle. Fortunately, the cop’s too busy harassing the other driver to notice my anger. I put the car in drive, then leave Esther a message I’m circling the airport.

It was torture getting out of bed this morning. My anger had subsided marginally by the time I got home from Tootsie’s but I was too charged up to go to sleep. Once I got into bed, I spent the night struggling to suppress disturbing images of my uncle’s last hours. Uncle Moe was a big man who laughed from his gut and whose unrestrained use of four-letter words made my mother blush. But he was also a kind, gentle person who told me I was the prettiest girl in Coral Gables. Lying in bed, I tormented myself with the image of him bloodied and pleading with Landauer. It was like being trapped in an endless loop of 1940-era film noir. At three in the morning, I took a sleeping pill. Now I’m groggy and confused.

“Becks.” I look up. I wasn’t conscious of pulling up to the terminal. Esther’s standing at the open passenger door with her brows drawn together. “What happened to you?” She throws her suitcase in the backseat, then crawls in beside me. “Ever hear of a brush?”

I laugh and slide my fingers through my hair. It’s matted. I forgot to brush it. “Hard night,” I say, then pull on to the road. “I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

Ray’s Diner is ten minutes from the airport so we stop there. I pull up to the metal-framed structure and park between Ford F-150s that dwarf my Mercedes. It’s six thirty and the place is deserted except for a handful of bulky men on their way to construction sites. Three women in heavy makeup enter after we’re seated. I figure they’re dancers coming off work at the strip club next door. We order buttermilk pancakes from an Amazon of a blond in a pink uniform.

While we’re waiting, Esther takes a sip of the coffee the waitress drops at our table. “So what happened?” she says. “You get mugged?”

I grunt. “Might as well have been. You remember I told you about dad’s old mob boss showing up at my house?”

“He came back?”

“God, no.”

“Then what? Please tell me you worked things out with him?”

I grab a napkin from the metal dispenser that anchors the salt and pepper shakers and blow my nose. It could be allergies. Or relief Esther’s here. But my nose is stuffier than usual this morning.

“Not yet. Dad told me he’d take care of Landauer, but when I asked if he’d talked to the man, he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I’ve been a wreck for the