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

My sister and I freeze at the bottom of the stairs and exchange frightened glances. We’ve got to be thinking the same thing. Landauer. I approach the door, stepping lightly to hide the sound of my footfall.

When I peer through the peephole, the sight, though not entirely comforting, is a relief. Standing on my front porch in a heavy wool suit and with a dense black beard is my cousin Zvi. He looks like a throwback to a seventeenth century Polish ghetto.

When I open the door, the scent of mothballs wafts into the hall.

“I’ll dance on your father’s grave.” His voice is gravelly with anger.

“Hello, Zvi. Why don’t you come in and tell me what you’re talking about?”

He doesn’t budge. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. Your father called this morning and spilled his guts about my dad’s death. He said you’d been digging around. It sounded like he wanted to beat you to the punch.”

Esther, who’s standing behind me, pushes the door farther open. “Come inside or leave. We’re not putting on a show for the neighbors.”

Zvi hesitates, then steps into the hall and follows us into the kitchen. I gather up the newspaper I’ve left on the table and motion for everyone to pull out a chair. I offer coffee, but Zvi refuses.

“So what’s going on?” I hand Esther a cup and pour myself one. Zvi doesn’t say a word as I serve the coffee. Instead, he glowers at me from beneath thick black brows.

“I got off the phone,” he says, “and headed straight over. The old bastard was sobbing. Told me how he’d double-crossed my father. And how that may have led to his death. I told him I already knew and that he was lucky I hadn’t gone to the police.”

“You knew?”

“My father was thirty-five when he died. He never had heart trouble. I was young, but I wasn’t stupid. I wanted to believe my mother when she said it was a heart attack. But I went with her to identify my dad’s body. His arms were bruised. And I knew there was trouble between him and your dad.”

“What kind of trouble?” This from Esther.

“My father said your dad didn’t trust him, that Tootsie treated him like a criminal and tried to steal the business from him.”

“I never heard that,” I lie.

“Why would you? My father claimed he was the one with the connections that brought in business. And that your father wanted to cut him out.”

“If they were having so much trouble, why didn’t they split up the business?”

“Your father wouldn’t have it. Didn’t want to share the profits. I guess that’s why he sent my father to meet those mobsters.”

Zvi was a teenager when his father died and may have known more than I did about our fathers’ business affairs. But I find it hard to believe Uncle Moe told Zvi about his connections with the Jewish syndicate. I consider sharing what I learned about my father and Uncle Moe, but decide to leave well enough alone. Why sully memories of his father? And who knows if my father was telling the truth? It’s just as likely he brought Uncle Moe into the syndicate.

“After the funeral, your father didn’t visit for more than a month.” He glowers at us across the table. “And I knew the story about having life insurance on my father was a crock because the checks he sent to my mother came from your dad’s personal account. There’s no way he’d have done that unless he was guilty.”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

“I should. But what’s the point? The old bastard only has a few years left.”

Despite my determination to cut my father out of my life, I’m relieved.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell Zvi, then turn to Esther to see if she has anything to add. She doesn’t. “I’m sorry. It’s been horrible for us, but I guess it’s worse for you.”

“No kidding.” He rises. “I just wanted to warn you. When the old bastard kicks the bucket, I’ll be there in my tap shoes.”

Between the cowboy cop, the appointment with Daniel, and Zvi’s visit, my day is off to a terrible start. I get Esther upstairs, where she takes a nap, and go to my study. As I’m organizing the papers that threaten to engulf my desk, I consider what Zvi said. I picture my father in his apartment, alone and miserable. Pity wells up in my chest but I swallow and suppress it. My father killed his own brother. It’s become a mantra. A wave of exhaustion washes over me. Then fear hits. I still have to call the scum who set this whole thing in motion.

I punch in Abe’s number. He answers right away. “Mr. Kravitz? It’s Becks Ruchinsky.”

“What now?”

“You said you’d give me Mr. Landauer’s number. I forgot to get it yesterday.”

Abe grunts. “I’m not surprised. You tell your father what you learned?”

“Yes.” I barely whisper the word.

“What happened?”

“He admitted it.” My voice is stronger.

“All right, then, here’s what you do. I told Mr. Landauer about our meeting. He wants to talk to you, but it’s got to be on his terms. He’ll meet you at the Mad Grouper Grill Thursday night at seven. It’s on the Miami River.”

I hesitate. The invitation sounds forbidding. The Miami River’s a polluted watercourse used mainly by cargo ships. Who would open a restaurant on its banks? The idea of meeting Landauer frightens me.

“Can I bring my husband?” The words come out on impulse.

Abe hesitates. “Sure.”

I hang up the phone and release my breath.

When Esther wakes up and comes downstairs, I tell her my plan. She’s furious. “You can’t meet that man. He’ll kill you. And Daniel too. Why are you doing this?”

“To put it behind me—get his reassurance he’ll leave me alone.”

“Can’t you call the police?”

“And tell them what? That I’m meeting the octogenarian gangster who knocked off my uncle fifty years ago? Even if they buy it, it’ll raise all sorts