The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (best authors to read .TXT) 📕

didn’t mind but I didn’t believe her—especially knowing her friends were gossiping about how she had to go back to work.

To top it all off, a month after I started at the Deauville, Fat Louie and Florence came sauntering into the restaurant where I worked, Louie looking like a big shot millionaire in his tux and Florence flashing a diamond bracelet. I wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the customers. But once Louie and Florence had settled in and were waving their martinis around, I strolled over, casual-like.

Louie’s eyes narrowed but he kept his cool. We hadn’t seen each other since Landauer canned us. We’d been through enough bad times, I figured, why go looking for more?

“Louie,” I said, “you’re looking good. I guess things turned out okay for you after all, huh?” I made no secret of eyeing Florence’s bracelet.

She had the decency to blush but Louie smiled and nodded his head like one of them Hawaiian bobble dolls. He must have thought I was a schmuck.

“You got a job right away.” I said. “That’s great. How about giving me a piece of that action?”

Louie laughed like I’d made a big joke, which I clearly hadn’t. “Got lucky,” he said. “Got a great deal on a restaurant. It’s turning into one of the hottest joints in town. You know it, the Blue Smoke.”

I scratched my head like I was stumped. I knew the Blue Smoke all right. Me and Louie shook the owners down for protection. The joint went out of business a month before Landauer let us go. No way Louie was buying diamond bracelets with what he took in at that shit hole.

“Well, good to see you,” I said when I saw the boss moving in my direction.

“Keep in touch,” Florence said. “My love to Bernice.”

Yeah, right, I thought. Some friend you are.

It killed me, that son of a bitch showing up at the club where I’m busting my ass. And Florence wearing diamonds while my Bernice is on her feet all day. I don’t have to be a genius to figure something doesn’t add up.

The next day I called Moe and told him about running into Louie and my suspicions over his newfound wealth. Moe offered to set up a meeting with Landauer to go through the receipts from the period before Louie and I were given the boot. By this time, I figured Landauer had some doubts about whether the two of us were cheating. If he knew we were, we’d have ended up in the hospital with busted knee caps.

For once God was smiling on me. Moe convinced Landauer to let me go through some old records. Turned out the old gangster had held on to the receipts from the six weeks before he sacked us and was willing to let me check them out.

I was plenty nervous going to Landauer’s office, a crappy storefront on Collins Avenue where he kept a metal desk and a wall of file cabinets—I guess to look legit. Who knew what he’d have waiting for me? But after running into Louie at the restaurant, I had to find out what he was up to. One of the girls who handled the money met me at the office and went over the receipts with me. And sure enough, Louie hadn’t bothered to hand in five thousand bucks we’d collected before getting the sack. That son of a bitch, Louie, held on to the money, screwing me and Landauer.

Moe agreed to join me to break the news to Landauer. And no surprise, the old gangster went ape, rising from behind his desk to yell at Moe and me. His face went bright red and I thought he’d have a stroke. Then he tells us we brought Louie into the operation, we’ve got to take him out.

The bile rises in my throat as my chest burns. I toss the deck on the table and leave the card room. On the elevator ride to my floor, I picture Becks, her eyes wide as she presses me to tell her what happened fifty years ago. I told her more than I should. It’s painful enough recalling those days—never mind repeating what happened to her.

Inside the apartment, I go to the kitchen and down an antacid with a glass of milk. I finish it off with one of the sleeping pills I’ve been hoarding for those nights when the nightmares return. I always end up wide awake with the shakes, unable to fall back to sleep. This is certain to be one of those nights. A sleeping pill. That’s what I need. For a few hours at least, my memories will disappear.

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5

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It’s Monday morning and I’m running late, thanks to heavy traffic on I-95. The fifty-mile drive from Boca Raton to Miami usually takes an hour. Today, it takes an hour and a half. When I called the historical museum last Friday, the librarian I spoke with ordered me to be there by eleven. By the time I find the parking garage, circle the ramp to the top floor, and squeeze in between a black Hummer and a red Cadillac, it’s eleven thirty. I race down the stairs, stepping gingerly around a homeless man snoring beneath layers of newspaper on the second floor landing.

My chest contracts as I realize that the last time I came here was when Daniel and I brought Gabe and Josh to the art museum. The boys made no secret of the fact they’d rather stay home, but Daniel and I insisted. Gabe followed us around the whole time whining that he was bored. Josh plopped on a bench in the first room we entered and said he was too tired to budge. After fifteen minutes, I gave up and told the boys to wait outside. By the time Daniel and I joined them a half hour later, Josh had mustered enough energy to kick a beer can around the plaza. Gabe sat on the ground watching his brother.

That was