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

phones a couple times after that,” he continues. “He wants to know what’s going on. We tell our girl—you remember Mary—to inform Abe we’re not in. A couple weeks later I see an article in the Miami News. Some bums—we figure they’re Abe’s men—get pulled over with a semi full of stolen ovens and refrigerators. Abe gets off. Must have greased the right palms. But his men get sent away. Next we hear, Abe’s selling shoes at Jordan Marsh.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“Not a word.”

“And he’s still angry?”

“According to you.”

“It seems like a long time to hold a grudge,” I say, stuffing the remainder of my tuna sandwich in the polystyrene container.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t turn him in. You could have.”

“So what?”

“So why’d he have a fit and throw me out of his apartment after all these years?”

“You’re so naïve, Doll. You don’t know nothing about human nature.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re a lucky girl. Some people forgive and some don’t.” He stands and picks up his tray. “Not everyone’s as warmhearted as your old man.”

----

11

----

Tootsie

I’m gazing out at the marina, studying the multimillion dollar yachts docked at Bayside Marketplace, when a raspy voice breaks into my musings.

“Been a long time.”

My stomach contracts and I rise from my seat at the small outdoor café. Struggle as I might, I can’t hide my shock. It’s been fifty years since I’ve seen Abe Kravitz and the man’s as emaciated and stooped as a holocaust survivor. I’d never have recognized the well-muscled son of a gun I used to hang out with. His face, hard-boned and swarthy as an Italian’s in the old days, is gaunt and sallow.

I called Abe the night before, after Becks dropped me off, to let him know what my daughter told me about her visit. I asked if we could get together. Turned out the old goat had a doctor’s appointment in Miami this morning and grudgingly agreed to meet for coffee. I am confident this will not be a joyful reunion.

I drop back in my seat and try not to stare as Abe lowers himself into the rattan chair across the table. I’m surprised that Abe—as sickly as he appears—has the strength to wend his way through the waterfront shopping center’s parking lot and past the colorful cramped kiosks. Most are stocked with trashy souvenirs for passengers from the cruise ships nearby.

“Long time,” Abe repeats. “Heard about Bernice.”

I shrug. It’s nice of him to say something. “My condolences on Betsy. She was a good woman.”

The waiter takes Abe’s order for American coffee and leaves the dregs of my café con leche on the table. Latin dance music wafts toward us, carrying the salsa beat from a band performing along the wharf a hundred feet north.

As Abe checks the menu, I eye him. The old bastard hasn’t aged well. There’s nothing left of the tough guy I knew in the late forties, when we had full heads of dark hair, flat guts, and our pick of the dames. Abe had just moved to Florida from Bayonne, New Jersey, same home town as Louie, and Louie helped Abe get a job with Landauer. Abe proved himself smart and aggressive and became one of Landauer’s top lieutenants in less than six months. The three of us—Abe, me, and Louie—spent many a Saturday night hitting the nightclubs on Miami Beach, picking up broads. It seems like another lifetime.

“So what am I doing here?” Abe says, tilting his head and studying me. His lips are pursed and his eyes squint in the manner of a scientist examining a rare and repellant insect. It occurs to me I haven’t aged so well either. “What do you want?”

“Like I said last night, Becks told me you threw her out. I want to find out what you told her.”

“I had to come here for that?” Abe snorts. “I told her more than you did.” His eyes narrow. “Does she know anything about your past? What happened with Landauer and Moe?”

“Of course not,” I say, waving away the possibility with a flick of my wrist. I’m trying to play it cool but my palms are damp and perspiration drips down my back. “My daughter’s nosy and she’ll dig around until she finds what she’s looking for, or what she thinks she’s looking for. She found out about Moe going before the Kefauver committee and came across an article on you.” I glance at Abe, then down at the flashy cigarette boats docked at the seawall. “If she finds out—I’m begging you not to say anything. For old time’s sake.”

Abe laughs, an ugly rasp that draws the attention of the obese pink-skinned couple at the adjacent table. “You want me to keep quiet for you? Let your daughter think you’re a sweetheart? After what you did to me?”

“What are your talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m supposed to protect the reputation of a rat? The creep who closed down my business.”

“Wait a minute now. I didn’t turn you in.”

“What do you take me for?”

“I swear it. Some of Moe’s friends, cops, showed up at the store and told us you were selling hot merchandise. They asked us to let them know if we came across stolen goods. But we never ratted.”

I’m breathing hard and stop talking as a leggy blonde glides by on Rollerblades. Her short, skintight black dress punctuates every curve of her derriere and her thigh and calf muscles ripple with each stride. “Girls today dress like whores,” I say, then add, “nothing wrong with that.”

“So how’d my men get caught if you didn’t rat?” Abe persists.

“Damned if I know.”

“Come on. Do I look stupid? Who else knew they were heading down U.S. 1 with a shipment of refrigerators?”

I shrug. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t us. You never told us where the merchandise came from or when it was coming in. We couldn’t have snitched if we’d wanted to.”

Abe jumps up, knocking his chair backward, then braces