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

I was frightened by the noise the first time he did it and it took me fifteen minutes to find the remote beneath his belly. As though reading my mind, Mulligan trots out of the kitchen and rubs up against my legs.

“Let me guess,” I say, reaching down to scratch between his ears, “you wanted to watch the funniest cat videos?”

After the last break-in, you’d think I’d know better.

When I walk in to the kitchen to flip off the television, I come to such an abrupt halt that the towel wrapped around my hair drops to the floor. I open my mouth in a silent scream, then close it. The man I’d noticed talking to Mrs. Karpowsky at Schatzi’s funeral sits at my kitchen table with a half-filled cup of coffee. He’s roughly the same age as my father, but is shorter and has a stockier build. Skin droops beneath his eyes and jowls, giving him the melancholy, hangdog appearance of a bloodhound. He wears a formal, heavily-starched, white guayabera with sleeves that extend below his wrists to reveal short, pudgy fingers encased in gold rings. He smiles at me gently and inquisitively like an old friend delighted to have surprised me with his visit.

Standing behind him is a squat, bulked-up Latin with a bowling ball head. A black spit of a goatee and mirrored sunglasses add little to his appeal.

He’s pointing a gun at my chest.

And he is not smiling.

I step back, too stunned to scream.

“You must be Tootsie’s girl,” the old man says, rising from his chair. He pronounces it ‘goyl’ and the conciliatory tone of his voice is more frightening than anger. “Becks, isn’t it?”

I nod. It’s a struggle to hear his words over the thumping of my heart. I want to know how he got in and what he’s doing here, but I’m too scared to speak.

“Sorry for the surprise visit, but old habits die hard. This is my friend, Pinky.” He motions toward the bruiser, then frowns. “You want to lose that gun.”

Pinky sets the ugly metal object on the kitchen counter but keeps a hand on it.

The old man drops back into his chair and motions to the seat opposite. “Sit. Please. We have a lot to talk about.”

I move mechanically, one leg then the other, until I’m seated across from him. I can’t believe this is happening. In my own kitchen. The newspaper I left on the table that morning lies open to the crossword puzzle, which is filled with unfamiliar handwriting. “Who are you?” I ask. I’m not feeling altogether confident but decide to take the man’s greeting as a sign he’s not here to kill me.

“I’m a friend of your father going way back. Maybe he told you about me. Murray Landauer.” The hair on the back of my neck rises. He reaches a hand across the table and I take it, hoping a firm grip will hide its trembling. “He and a buddy, fellow named Louie, worked for me years ago. Sound familiar?”

I’m so frightened that my “yes” emerges as a croak. I picture my body splayed across the wooden table in a pool of blood and imagine the boys coming home and finding me dead. Idiotically, I wonder how Daniel would handle this. Would he try to be a hero and attack these men? Probably not. Daniel’s too realistic. The old man seems sane but Pinky looks like he could shoot a man—or woman—without a twinge. I want to kick myself for not calling the police after the first break-in.

“My sympathy on the loss of your Uncle Moe. I heard he died young.”

I thank him, not knowing how else to respond. Why bring that up? It’s like every gangster in town wants to console me for my uncle’s death.

“I heard the Plotnik brothers went legit and did okay for themselves. That’s wonderful,” he says. “Tootsie raised two lovely daughters, one of whom, so I hear, has been poking around in the past.”

I’m starting to catch on.

He smiles again, a benign, gentle smile, and points a gnarled finger at me. “That would be you. Would you care to share what you’ve learned?”

I try to focus, to figure out what the man’s after. It’s got to be the story about Fat Louie. I can’t think of anything else. So I tell him what I know, starting with Tootsie’s sighting of Florence Karpowsky at the Schmuel Bernstein. “He felt terrible about turning Louie in,” I conclude. “He had no idea things would turn out so badly for his friend.”

As I speak, Mr. Landauer makes occasional eye contact with Pinky, who remains standing next to the counter with his lids half closed.

“And your visit to Abe Kravitz?” Landauer asks when I’m through. “How’d that go?”

“Is that who told you I was asking around?”

The old man jerks forward in his seat and any resemblance to a bloodhound disappears in a cold scowl. “I’m asking the questions.”

I can sense the menacing power of the mobster my father feared and struggle to hide the terror in my voice. “I was doing research for work and came across an article about Abe’s conviction. He was a friend of my dad’s. I don’t care about Abe’s record. I thought he might tell me more about my father and Uncle Moe.”

“What’d he tell you?”

“Nothing. He threw me out.”

Mr. Landauer smiles, barely moving the corners of his mouth. “And how about the little visit with your father after the break-in?”

I jump from the chair. “That was you?” The man’s familiarity with my recent movements and family frightens and infuriates me.

He leans across the table and enunciates his words. “None of your fucking business. Sit down. I told you. I ask the questions.”

My throat constricts and I swallow a few times before continuing. “My father told me Abe robbed trucks and sold him and my uncle the stolen goods. They quit buying from Abe after police came by looking for stolen refrigerators.” Then, speaking rapidly, “My father and Uncle Moe did