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

I glare at my father. “What kind of question is that?”

“That’s okay,” Sella says. “You’re right. She couldn’t take Dad anymore. When her mother, Grandma Nan, died, mom inherited some money and moved up north.”

“Smart girl,” my father says.

“Is your father still in the house?”

She shrugs, which I take as a yes.

It’s a pleasant enough visit. Sella’s bubbly and garrulous, though her husband and kids are quiet. My father tells her about family in the area, distant cousins and the like, which is big of him given that he refuses to talk to any of them.

“You remember your Aunt Irene?” he asks. “Your grandfather’s sister? You always looked so much like her. That’s why she left you our mother’s cameo brooch. You still have that?”

Sella looks confused. “No. But I left home in a hurry. My father threw me out. My mom may have it.”

We wait for an explanation. It doesn’t come.

Sella tells us she rarely speaks to her brothers and acts surprised when Tootsie says he’s in touch with Ari. She seems ill at ease, hesitant talking about family. I’m curious about her estrangement from my cousin, Zvi, but don’t want to make her uncomfortable so let it be.

By the time we sit down to lunch, it’s apparent Sella and Craig are beset by bad luck. Craig’s having a hard time finding work so they’ve moved into his father’s apartment, where they share a room with their children. The jobs Sella’s been offered don’t pay enough to cover childcare. I offer to look at her resume, to help her find something that pays better. She turns me down.

We have lunch in the dining room—I’ve set out bagels and bowls of tuna and egg salad—and after Sella and Craig pack their kids and stroller into their van and take off, I walk my father to his car.

“There’s something wrong here,” he says. “But I’m not sure what. I’ve got a funny feeling.” He hands me a slip of paper with a series of numbers and letters.

I raise my eyebrows.

“Their license plate number.”

He waits for me to read his mind but only adds “Just in case.”

Two weeks later, I’m in the kitchen loading the dishwasher and the phone rings. It’s Sella. Her father-in-law is driving her nuts.

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate. He despises me, hates that Craig married a Jew. I’m afraid we’re going to end up on the street.” She waits a beat. “I know I have a lot of nerve asking and I’ll understand if you turn me down. But all we need is four or five thousand for a deposit and last month’s rent on our own apartment. We’d pay you back as soon as we could.”

I consider it. She is family. I can afford it. But something holds me back. I feel awful, but the answer is no.

“I understand,” she says, “I had to ask.”

Two weeks later, I’m in Tootsie’s living room working on the New York Times crossword puzzle when my father slams his hand on the kitchen counter.

“The little pisher’s a liar,” he says, drawing my mind away from a four-letter-word for “bites like a horse.” I’ve gotten halfway through the puzzle in the time it’s taken Tootsie to decide between Chinese and Italian. I usually place the order but this Sunday he complains that I never get what he wants so, after a brief argument, I give in. He calls for Chinese takeout and, after rooting around in the kitchen for paper plates, plops into the swivel chair across from me. A sneer works its way over his face, his pink rubbery upper lip curling to reveal a neat row of yellowing teeth. He wears a faded green polo that fit twelve years ago when I bought it for him as a birthday present. Now his turkey waddle of a neck looks lost in the voluminous folds of the collar.

I set the newspaper down and lean back, resting my feet on his cocktail table. I can tell from the way he glares at me that he’s aching for an argument. I’ve got nothing better to do until the food comes, so I bite.

Okay,” I say, “who’s lying?”

“Sella. Your precious cousin.”

He gives me this twisted smile, his version of a “gotcha.” I wonder what line of logic has led from an argument over my historical failure to send out for what he wants for dinner to this crazy conclusion about Sella. He probably couldn’t tell me himself.

“What’s Sella lying about?” I ask, hoping to get the argument over with before the food arrives.

“The husband. He’s not a Jew. And those aren’t her kids.”

“How’d you reach that brilliant conclusion?”

“Craig, Greg, whatever he calls himself. He’s a shaygetz, and so are the boys. You ever see a blond in the Plotnik family?”

“Dad.” I draw out the word, putting a couple of bucks worth of annoyance into it. “Sella said Craig converted. He became a Jew long before they met.”

“And you believe her? Come on, Becks, you’re smarter than that.”

I look at my father and shake my head in disbelief. But he has a point. The husband and boys don’t look—somehow don’t feel—Jewish. Even so, what difference does it make? Anyone born to a Jewess gets to wear the Mogen David, the Jewish star. So she’s got the boys covered.

The food arrives and my father plunks the cartons of General Tso’s chicken and pork fried rice on the table. It’s only six o’clock, but the sky is growing dark as thunderclouds roll in from the east. We eat facing the sliding glass doors. There isn’t much to look at from the third-story apartment, just a tar-paved walkway that leads between concrete block buildings and small groupings of palm trees and scruffy red hibiscus. What we mostly see is our own reflection, an old man and a middle-aged woman sitting at a tiny kitchen table.

“Have you talked to Sella?” I