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

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your life than pester your old man?” he says when the noise dies down. “This is a lousy time to talk.”

“Where are you?” I have no patience for his games.

“Where do you think? I bowl Monday nights.”

“I forgot.”

“You would. What’s so important you have to interrupt my game?”

“I can’t discuss it over the phone.”

“Hold on a sec.” I hear the low grumble of men’s voices before he comes back on the line. “I’m going to be here a few hours. If it’s so important, come here.”

“To the alley?”

“That’s where I bowl.”

I debate a moment. I’m tense and angry. And frightened of leaving the house, then returning alone later. The intruders could come back. My stomach clenches at the prospect. But I’m not going to be able to sleep until I talk to my father. Might as well drive back to Miami and confront him. If anything seems out of order when I return, I’ll call the police before entering.

“Do you still bowl at Lopez Lanes?”

“Where else?”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

I make it to Miami in record time and park my car next to a tall metal lighting fixture. It throws sharp-edged pools of light on the patches of broken tar and gravel that are all that remain of Lopez Lane’s parking lot. The bowling alley was a dump when I went there as a kid forty years ago and the neighborhood has continued to deteriorate. A ten-foot metal fence protects the parking lot from the vandals and thieves who drove the adjacent businesses away. Two scratched and faded red bowling pins twice the size of a grown man tower over the entrance.

Walking into the bowling alley is like descending into a Las Vegas version of hell. The crash of heavy balls hitting solid floors and the crack of high-velocity plastic colliding with wooden pins creates an unrelenting racket, broken occasionally by the cheers of men’s voices. Covering the floor is a jarring interweave of purple, red, and black triangles interspersed with yellow images of bowling balls and pins. Small groups of men gather at orange and red plastic tables with molded seats, at the front of which rests a computer monitor. No one seems to be eyeing the large overhead screens that post team scores.

It’s not hard to find my father. He’s with the group of older men sporting wrist, knee and elbow braces. Tootsie, not to be outdone, wears a wide black belt that supports his back.

I’m so torn between anger at my father and desperation for his reassurance that I break into a trot when I spot him. My throat tightens and my jaw aches, forcing me to swallow a few times to control the sobs that threaten to swell up from my chest.

“Dad.” My voice breaks with the word.

Three heads turn in my direction and a deeply-tanned, silver-haired man in a coral shirt frowns. It’s the man I met at Wolfie’s, Winchell Levin. He taps my father on the shoulder.

Tootsie turns around with a smile that fades when he sees me. He puts the paper cup he’s holding on the plastic table and strides to where I’m standing.

“What’s wrong?” He tries to put his arm across my shoulders but I step away.

“Someone broke into my house.”

“My God. Are you all right? ”

“I’m fine.”

A cheer goes up from my father’s teammates and he glances at the overhead screen.

Then, turning back to me, he says, “You look awful.”

“I’ll survive.”

He shrugs. “What did they get?”

“That’s what’s so weird. They didn’t take anything.”

“Did you catch them in the act?”

“I was home a half hour before I noticed anyone had been there.” I tell him about the mess in my dining room and bedroom.

“I’m so sorry, Doll. It’s odd they didn’t take anything.”

I cross my arms and hug myself. “I think they wanted to scare me and get a message to you.” I look him in the eye. “And I think you know who broke in.”

My father looks at me a second too long. He opens his mouth to speak but a voice breaks in.

“Plotnik, get over here.” It’s a man with a black wrist brace. “You’re holding up the game.”

My father raises a finger, motioning his friend to wait. “This is my last frame. Give me a minute. Then we’ll talk.”

I drop onto a bench a few feet from the alley and watch my father approach the ball return and pick up the black speckled ball he kept in the front hall closet at our home in Coral Gables. Before we were old enough to bowl, he would bring Esther and me to Lopez Lanes to watch him practice. I loved the way he’d send pins ricocheting off the walls with his powerful swing. Esther was his favorite, which is doubly sad now that they’re not talking, and it was a special treat to be included when he took her on their regular Saturday afternoon outing to the alley. Esther told me he was the best bowler in Miami and I believed her. She worshipped our father.

He’s got the same great form tonight but, when he releases the ball, it veers to the left and clips three pins. He raises both palms in a gesture of resignation as he approaches the ball return. Then he takes a few seconds to study the pins, cocking his head right then left before letting the ball fly. For a few seconds, he’s the old Tootsie, raising a fist in the air as the ball edges to the right and sends the remaining pins clattering to the ground. And I’m a little girl again, proud of my dad and confident he’ll make everything right.

But the feeling doesn’t last. And that upsets me. After what happened tonight, I don’t know who he is or if I can trust him. It’s frightening how the most important men in my life have let me down. First Daniel. Then Tootsie. I thought they