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

I rise and glance to my left. An aide is helping Mrs. Karpowsky stand and position herself in front of the walker. We wait as she approaches, each step an agony of effort. A fine dusting of powder covers her pink-skinned cheeks and, as she nears us, I catch a hint of past beauty in the curve of her chin. I feel a pang of pity for the elderly woman. How horrible it must have been to learn her husband was murdered? Yet she moved on with her life. My problems with Daniel pale in comparison. Tootsie grips my elbow as she passes. Mrs. Karpowsky ignores us.

Once she’s inside, we follow her into the air conditioned lobby. I tell my father I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to start research for a Rosh Hashanah food article that’s due in three weeks. It’s a pain because it means a return trip to Miami to visit the historical museum. After accepting his offer to make me dinner the following Sunday, I kiss him good night.

I return to my car and sit with the engine idling and the air conditioner blowing full blast. I consider what my father told me. It’s hard to imagine him a hoodlum, an errand boy for that gangster Landauer.

I try out the image of my dad in a striped suit and fedora hanging out with tough-looking men with heavy New York accents. He loved those characters in the gangster movies he took me to as a child. But the image is too absurd, too Hollywood to fit Tootsie. It reminds me of when I was a kid and studied the silver-framed photo my father gave my mother when they were dating. Tootsie had a full head of thick black hair and his lips curved into the dreamy smile of a forties movie idol. I wondered how that good-looking man could be my dad.

Now I’m stuck with this new image. A numbers runner. A criminal who made a living preying on poor people’s dreams. It doesn’t jive. That isn’t the dad I knew. The father who brought me pretty dolls whenever he traveled. The cantankerous alter cocker with the dumb jokes.

As I pull out of my parking space and leave the grounds of the Schmuel Bernstein, I try to figure out why he decided to tell me now. Sure, I pressed him for information about Mrs. Karpowsky. But maybe he feels the need to confess before he grows too old to remember. On the other hand, he could be lying, trying to impress me. It wouldn’t be the first time. Over the past few months, he’s mentioned old girlfriends and bragged about business deals. Some of the stories are preposterous, involving huge sums of money. His story about Fat Louie sounds just as over the top.

I’m not sure if I believe my father. And if what he says is true, I have a feeling he hasn’t told me the whole story. I resolve to check it out for myself.

The road’s pitch dark and I can barely read the clock in my old Mercedes. It’s almost nine and I’m exhausted. I head up I-95 to Boca Raton. The highway’s empty so the drive goes quickly. I’m in Boca Raton in less than forty five minutes. But I’m so lost in thought I miss my exit and have to backtrack.

----

4

----

Tootsie

Becks’ shoulders slump as she walks to her car and I realize I should have kept my mouth shut. My throat tightens as I realize how hard she’s taking this. But running into Florence after all these years threw me for a loop. I should have known the old broad would show up at the Schmuel Bernstein. Her big shot husband’s name is plastered on practically every building on campus. Even so, I thought I’d have a heart attack when she accused me of murder.

Watching Becks get in her car, I realize that I’ve been waiting for the shit to hit the fan. I shouldn’t have told her sister about my past. I can’t imagine where I got the stupid idea that telling Esther what I’d done would make her feel better about the embezzling charges against Bruce. Which, I might add, turned out to be bullshit. Esther’s like her mother—always judging and letting me know when I don’t live up to her standards. I never thought she’d stop talking to me.

Becks is different—more realistic and understanding. At least since we started talking again. Esther promised not to tell Becks, but who knows what’ll happen. I don’t want to lose my youngest daughter too.

There’s nothing I can do about it tonight so I head upstairs to the card room, figuring a couple hands of poker will take my mind off my problems. All that’s left of the regular Sunday night game, though, is a lousy folding table and a deck of cards. Damn shame. I could use the company. The television’s still on and I try to catch the last few minutes of the Marlins against the Reds. The Marlins are losing.

I drop into a chair and shuffle the cards, but my mind keeps returning to the anger on Florence’s face. I wonder how much she knows. Or remembers. Growing old had to be tough for a beauty like Flo. I wouldn’t have recognized her if she hadn’t come up to me. I haven’t seen her since Bernice was pregnant with Esther.

A familiar pain—the doctor tells me it’s heartburn—constricts my chest at the memory. A few weeks after Landauer canned me, Bernice announced she was expecting. I should have been thrilled. We’d been trying to have a baby. But I wasn’t making enough to support a family. Fortunately, Moe used his connections to land me a job as a bouncer at the Deauville. It didn’t pay much, but what choice did I have? I hated it when Bernice returned to her job at Woolworths. She said she