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

heart attack when I was eight and his son, Zvi, twelve. At that point, I wasn’t old enough to grieve for him. Which isn’t to say I didn’t love him—but I was too young to understand what death meant. He did magic tricks for Esther and me, pulling quarters from behind our ears and teaching us card tricks we’d show off to our friends. I felt sorrow for Zvi, who was much nicer to me than Esther was. He worshipped his father and spent the week after Uncle Moe’s death holed up in his bedroom

My father was so devastated he closed his business for two weeks and disappeared into his study. Esther and I were frightened by the sobs and moans coming from behind his locked door but our mother assured us he was fine, that it was his way of grieving.

“I hardly ever see him,” I tell Abe. “We used to do all the holidays together but that stopped after Uncle Moe died.”

“Well, how about that?” He sounds almost satisfied by my answer. Then he adds, “I’m sorry to hear it. It must have been hard for your cousin and aunt to see the happiness your family shared.

“What about your husband?” Abe says, changing the subject. “Did you keep your original model?”

I laugh and tell him I’m married to a doctor named Daniel Ruchinsky. At that, his eyes light up. “The Dr. Ruchinsky?” he asks, leaning forward. “The oncologist on Eighteenth Street.”

I nod and decide against mentioning our separation. “You know him?”

“Who doesn’t?” He laughs. “At my age, everything’s a scare. You feel a bump on your leg. It’s cancer. Your appetite is gone. It’s cancer. The one time I had cancer, your husband saved my life.”

I often went to Daniel’s office to help with hiring and paperwork, but didn’t get to know his patients. “I’m glad to hear that,” I say, though Daniel is the last person I want to discuss.

“It was last August. My internist noticed my white blood count was low and sent me to your husband. One, two, three, he’s got me in the hospital, on chemotherapy, and after a few months, I’m back to myself. Without Dr. Ruchinsky’s help, who knows?” He leans back in his seat and waves a hand in the air as though to indicate his apartment or his life or maybe the football game. “Bought me a few more years.”

Our conversation moves to the past, and Abe tells me stories about excursions to the horse track and jai alai with my father and uncle. About dinner parties when the men were first married, Hanukkah celebrations after my sister and I were born. When we run out of chit chat, Abe cocks his head and flashes his crooked smile. “So what brings you here after all these years?”

I’ve been anticipating this question but still don’t know how to respond. On the drive over, I considered whether to show him the article or bring up what my father told me about Fat Louie. I know Abe goes back far enough with my father and uncle to tell me about their involvement with the Jewish syndicate. Whether he’s willing to share that information may be another story. I pull the article out of my purse and place it facedown on my lap. I try not to fiddle with it as I talk.

“A few weeks ago, my father told me a strange story. I don’t know whether he was making it up, but he seemed upset. It was about gangsters he knew in the nineteen forties and a job he got through Uncle Moe.”

When I look up, Abe’s good-humored smile is gone, replaced by a scowl. He sits back with his arms crossed.

“I don’t know how much of it is true,” I continue. “Or if any of it is. He’s getting on in years and he likes to test me, to see how I’ll react to the outrageous things he says. I think that’s what he’s doing. But maybe not.”

Abe’s face darkens and his eyebrows crease to form a single line across his forehead. I’m alarmed by his reaction, but keep going.

“He told me this story about a friend named Fat Louie who crossed the mob. Dad says the guy ended up in Biscayne Bay.” I don’t know how much my father told Abe, and I don’t want to give anything away that I shouldn’t.

Abe’s been so still and quiet that I’m surprised when he leans in toward me. He grasps the wooden handle on his recliner and jerks it up, returning his chair to an upright position. Then he rises. His hand, as he reaches for his cane, trembles.

“So why come to me?” Abe speaks in a deep voice. The warm avuncular man who greeted me ten minutes earlier has turned into a frightening stranger. He sounds deliberate and sinister, and the fierce glare he directs at me makes clear he’ll accept nothing short of the truth.

I glance at the clipping on my lap, then at Abe. I cover the paper with my purse.

“What’ve you got there?” he demands, extending his free hand.

“It’s nothing. I was just—”

“Give me the damn thing.”

I debate a second, then hand it over. As Abe reads, the blood drains from his face. He looks up and his eyes narrow into a thunderous glare.

When he finally speaks, his words come out like a metal rasp drawn across rusted steel. Each word emerges distinct and sharp, repetitive blows to the gut. “Get. Out. Of. My. House,” he says, jabbing a finger in my face. “And. Never. Come. Back.”

I’m terrified he’ll hit me or have a heart attack. I slink backward toward the door.

As I pull it open, he steps forward and presses his face into mine. His breath reeks of tobacco and mint.

“And tell your father to go to hell.”

I’m so upset I don’t remember leaving Harbour Villas or pulling up to my house. The violence of Abe’s reaction left me stunned and frightened. What did my father do to