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

When the waitress leaves, Tootsie pokes Daniel in the ribs. “See that broad?” He speaks in a stage whisper as he motions toward a tall, attractive blonde in her early forties. She’s snuggled up to an elderly gnome with gnarled hands about three tables away. She could be the guy’s daughter, except that no one goes to breakfast with their father in a leopard skin tank top that shows off her two best assets. She’s positioned them under the old man’s face. “Son of a gun married her a month after his wife died. Everyone knew he kept her for ten years before the old lady croaked.”

Daniel shrugs. He knows how I feel about cheating. My father’s serial affairs have made me a bit touchy on the subject. “She’s a good-looking woman,” he concedes.

“Good looking, my foot. She’s a beauty. The guy, Morton Shapiro, did well for himself. Made a fortune in the underwear business and could afford the best broads in town. Can’t blame him for having a little on the side.”

It’s the closest my father’s come to the subject of cheating since we reunited and I’m uncomfortable with the conversation. “Dad, you want to drop it?” I try to distract him with news of our youngest son, Gabe, who left for college three months earlier. He has Asperger’s syndrome and we’ve been worried about his ability to survive on his own. He’s high functioning but has trouble meeting people and negotiating complex situations—like signing up for classes.

“Gabe called yesterday. He likes his dorm and professors.”

But Tootsie’s not biting. “Men cheat. That’s all there is to it. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

“Not to you, maybe. I doubt Mom would agree.”

He glares at me. I pretend not to notice.

“She stayed with me, didn’t she?” He curls his lip and glances at Morton Shapiro. “Your mother understood that it’s unnatural for a man to be with just one woman.”

There’s no point in arguing with him. It would be like convincing an addict to stay off heroin.

Our breakfast arrives and we’re silent as we eat. I figure we’re safely off the topic of Morton and his friend. But Tootsie continues to sneak glances at the woman. She makes a production of smearing cream cheese across one half of a bagel, then layering it with bright red lox and sliced tomato before handing it to the gnome.

To tell the truth, I’m watching her too, fascinated by her diamond rings, the largest of which has to be ten carats. She’s remarkably adept at manipulating the knife and bagel despite inch-long red nails. Morton’s no more than five feet, two inches and his bald head barely reaches the woman’s shoulder.

“Come on, Daniel, be honest.” Tootsie says. “You wouldn’t give your left nut for one night with a dame like that?”

Daniel frowns and laughs. “No, I wouldn’t.” He squeezes my knee under the table. “You’re like a dog in heat, Tootsie. I never saw anything like it.”

“Not every wife would mind, you know. I bet half my friends didn’t bother to hide their affairs from their wives. It’s what men did back then. At least I was discreet. I don’t know why you get so upset when I discuss it, Becks.

Blood rushes into my cheeks. I can’t help wondering if my dad’s becoming senile. What kind of man talks about his affairs in front of his daughter? I decide to leave the table before I lose it.

“Let me know when this discussion is over,” I say and rise. “I’ll be up front reading the menu or whatever.”

I pass the gnome and his wife on my way to the glass picture window that faces out to the street in front of Zimmerman’s. The view is partially blocked by yellowing newspaper reviews, most of which are at least ten years old. The food’s gone consistently downhill and no self-respecting food critic would set foot inside Zimmerman’s these days.

Five minutes later, I’m squinting to read a faded review when Daniel puts his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

“You bet.”

He takes my hand and leads me to our table, where Tootsie rises and follows us through the rear door to my car. On the ride home, I tell my father about Gabe’s call Saturday. He sounded happy and excited for the first time since leaving for college. He’s just a few miles away from us at the moment, at the University of Miami, but we’re steering clear until he adjusts to school.

Tootsie sounds interested and asks a few questions about Gabe’s call. When we reach the Schmuel Bernstein, he reaches over the seat to squeeze my shoulder. “Sorry for giving you a hard time, Doll. I’m an old man and it’s hard to break old habits.”

I feel guilty for being judgmental at breakfast. It’s one of my nastier habits. “It’s okay,” I say. “I still love you.”

On the drive home, Daniel and I chat about the bars and restaurants we frequented before we had kids and moved to Boca Raton. Zimmerman’s was not one of them.

“You remember the Fontainebleau?” Daniel asks as we pass the I-195 exit that leads to the classic Miami Beach hotel. He grins lasciviously.

“What about . . .” Then I remember and, despite thirty years of marriage and two sons, feel the heat rush into my face. It was the first—and last—time the boys caught us in the act.

Daniel raises his eyebrows Groucho Marx-style. “What do you say to a repeat performance when we get home?”

I smile and stomp the gas in response.

Yes. Your typical family Sunday—full of food and memories. Little did I know it would be our last.

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2

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True to his word, Daniel takes my arm after we get home and tries to lead me upstairs. But there’s voice mail on my cell. I must have missed it in the noisy restaurant.

“Let it go,” Daniel says. “What could be so important?”

I shrug. “What if it’s one of the boys? I hate to miss their calls.”

I place the cell