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

I look at him, then back at the road. He seems so calm. My stomach aches and my palms are clammy. We’re silent for most of the drive and I find myself mulling over his choice of the words—our lives. Daniel’s right. We need to get on with our life together. My father may have been a serial cheater, but Daniel’s not. I know he loves me and regrets what he did. And who else but Daniel would endanger his life for me. Though he may joke and act unconcerned, he’s too smart not to realize what we’re up against. A warm rush of affection washes over me. I reach over and touch his shoulder. He glances over and returns my smile.

The traffic to Miami is heavy and when we pull off I-95 onto Biscayne Boulevard it’s six forty-five. Only fifteen minutes to locate the Mad Grouper. We speed up along Biscayne Boulevard as it merges into Brickell Avenue, then make a right into a neighborhood of narrow streets and industrial buildings. Block after block of abandoned warehouses lead to a stretch of wooden shacks that back up to the Miami River. It’s starting to get dark and the cargo ships docked behind the ramshackle structures look like haunted galleons against the night sky. When I spot a bungalow that’s in nominally better shape than the others, I tell Daniel to pull over. A single exposed bulb throws harsh white light across the front porch. I get out of the car to read a handwritten sign taped to the front door. “Mad Grouper Grill.” I wave at Daniel to join me.

No one responds when I knock, so I try the knob—figuring most restaurants are open at this hour. But the door is locked. I’m ready to give up and retrace my steps to the car when I spot a handwritten sign propped against a rickety wooden chair at the far end of the front porch. It reads “Around Side to Mad Grouper.”

“This is starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland,” I whisper to Daniel.

We cross the sparse lawn to the side of the house, where a narrow gravel path leads past four beat-up metal garbage cans to the rear of the shack. I hold my breath, expecting to find Landauer and Pinky waiting. Instead, we step out to a waterfront restaurant that on any other night would be charming. Six rough-hewn picnic tables rest atop an unfinished wooden deck that extends from the shack to the river. Fishnets and colorful glass floats hang on the rear wall. The minute we seat ourselves, a stooped, elderly black man emerges from the back of the house. He nods then disappears inside.

“You think they’re open tonight?” I ask Daniel. He stares across the muddy brown water of the Miami River.

“I doubt it.”

I follow his gaze and strain to see in the deepening twilight. Three men in kayaks paddle to the rocky shore a hundred feet across the river. They lodge themselves onto the landing, slip out of their kayaks, then pull the narrow boats ashore. A bungalow, no doubt built before the neighborhood became a warehouse district, sits thirty feet back from the water. The kayakers look like college kids, scraggly and unkempt with long hair, but I find comfort in knowing people are near. The only sound is the rasp of the boats being dragged across the graveled backyard up to the house.

I glance at my watch—it’s seven thirty—then check my cell phone. No messages. I wonder if Landauer’s deliberately making us wait—playing a power game. Daniel and I don’t speak. Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting with my back to the house, watching the river, when I sense movement. I look to my right and almost jump.

Old as he is, Landauer has managed to creep up to our table in silence. His jowls hang lower than I remember and his face has the mournful, hangdog mien I noticed when I encountered him in my kitchen. I nudge Daniel, who looks up quickly, then stands.

“Daniel Ruchinsky,” he says, offering a hand. His voice sounds formal, as though introducing himself to a business associate. “Becks asked me to come.”

“That’s fine,” Landauer says, his voice expressionless. He eases himself on to the bench, sitting with his side against the table, half facing Daniel and me. He yells toward the house for three glasses of red wine, which the black waiter brings in less than two minutes. I glance around for Pinky. If he’s here, he must be inside.

“So you know about your father now.” Landauer speaks slowly and lugubriously, meeting my eyes.

“Abe told me.”

He shakes his head. “It must be hard to admit to your own kid that you’re a rat and a murderer. I was no angel. But your father. My God. His own brother!”

I’m tempted to point out he’s the one who beat Uncle Moe. But this isn’t the time or place to argue semantics.

“It’s taken a long time but the truth is out.”

I realize I should let him have his say and take off. But curiosity gets the better of me. I want to know why he’s gone to all this trouble just so I’ll know about my father’s past. If he were the monster Tootsie painted him to be, it seems he’d have done something more brutal—though ransacking my home and showing up in my kitchen uninvited felt violent enough. He’s too old to do much damage, but he’s got Pinky to do the dirty work. Maybe the cruelty and barbarism my father spoke of have aged out of Landauer, and his years on the lam have taken their toll.

“Why” I ask, “is it so important to you that I know about my father’s past?”

He looks at me and the edges of his lips rise, drawing up the loose folds of skin beneath his chin. He’s even more terrifying with the smile.

“That’s the most intelligent thing you’ve asked since we met.”

I shrug and set my wineglass on