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

what’s going on with you and Esther,” I say, “because I’d like to know? Being forced into the middle of your argument stinks.”

Tootsie looks away from me, and remains staring out the window as we take the causeway to Miami Beach. It’s dusk and streetlights are beginning to flicker to life. The sky is hazy blue and the narrow stratum of clouds that hover above Biscayne Bay reflect the faded pinks and oranges of the setting sun.

When we exit the causeway on Forty-First Street, Tootsie starts in with his complaints. It’s Esther’s fault they’re not getting along. She didn’t call him the last time she was in town. She forgot his birthday last year. She never acknowledged his Hanukkah gift. None of this explains their rift. When he accuses me of monopolizing her time, I lash out.

“You know I’ve got my own problems. This is taking a toll on me too.”

“What is?”

I catch myself. “You know, having a houseguest.”

“So why doesn’t she stay with me? Sleep on my sofa.”

I laugh and he glares at me. My father has a one-bedroom apartment and never invites anyone to stay with him. If relatives ask, he offers my house.

“Why would she do that?” I say.

“Because, for Christ sake, I’m her father.”

“How long has it been since you talked to her?”

He stares out the window.

I pass the stately homes along Alton Road, figuring I’ll cut across the island farther north to reach Pino’s, the restaurant my father chose. Most of the homes along this thoroughfare date from the 1930s and have a dignified charm and understated elegance absent from Boca Raton’s stucco mini-mansions. The soil down here is richer too so the landscaping is lusher.

I’m speculating how to bring up Landauer’s accusations when it hits me. Esther knows something I don’t. That’s why she isn’t talking to Dad.

I hit the brake and come to a stop on Alton.

“Hey watch out,” Tootsie yells as the driver behind us honks his horn.

I gun the motor, breathing heavily. That’s got to be it. Esther knows what’s going on. Whatever she learned has to be pretty dreadful if she hasn’t told me. It’s not going to be easy, but I have what I need to confront my father about Landauer’s accusations.

“Does Esther know about you and Fat Louie?” I ask when we stop at a red light.

He chews his lip before answering. “I told her. But she didn’t take it too well.”

“How’d she react?”

“Your sister’s always judging me, just like your mother.” His glances toward me, his eyes slit. “She thinks I was responsible for Fat Louie’s death.”

“Why?” Then I hazard, “You didn’t know your boss would kill him, did you?”

“Don’t talk crazy.” He looks away. “Of course not.”

Pino’s Pizza is buzzing tonight. It’s six twenty and the pizza, minestrone soup, and soft drink special is good for another ten minutes. An elderly couple get up as we enter, and Tootsie grabs my elbow and steers me into their booth. He motions a waitress over to bus the table, then studies the menu.

The place is packed. Families with small children crowd into high-backed red leather booths while couples of all ages share the small wooden tables that fill the center of the room. The waitress takes our order. We decide to go with the early bird special.

“Something happened this morning,” I ease into the subject. “It has to do with Fat Louie.”

He gives me a quick glance. “What? Did Esther say something?”

“She didn’t say a word. But I think there’s more to the story than you’re telling me.”

He grimaces.

“Come on, Dad. How bad could it be? I’m not Esther. I’d never cut you off.”

It’s dim in the booth, but enough light flickers off the candle to reflect the fear in my father’s eyes. And I realize that’s exactly what he’s afraid of. Why he’s withholding the truth. He thinks I’ll abandon him. The thought saddens and empowers me and I realize that if I don’t force him to tell the truth now, he never will. I need to know. Ever since my house was ransacked, I’ve been afraid to enter my home. Landauer’s break-in has terrified me. I can’t live like this. Josh and Gabriel are due home for Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of telling them to remain at school.

Pino’s bustles with the clatter of china and cutlery and the slap of pizza pans on metal stands. A child in the booth behind us whines and a man two tables away laughs. But our heavily-padded booth creates a cozy, cushioned space. It’s safe and private in here and, though we can hear each other, our conversation is absorbed in the clatter and hum of restaurant noise.

“Mr. Landauer broke into my house today,” I say. My father’s head shoots up from the menu. “I found him and his bodyguard in my kitchen.”

Tootsie jumps up, but his thighs hit the table and he drops back into his seat.

“When?” The word comes out in a whisper. He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mops his brow.

“This morning. When I returned from taking Esther to the airport.”

He stares at me a second, eyes wide. “Jeeze. I thought I recognized him at Schatzi’s funeral. But I wasn’t sure. I heard he was dead. What did he want?”

I tell him about my encounter with Landauer. He cringes when I mention Pinky’s gun. “He said to tell you he hasn’t seen his family in sixty years. And that, if you don’t tell me the truth, he’ll come back and . . . he didn’t say. Just that you’d know.” A chill like iced water ascends my spine. My father, who’s chewing the edge of his thumbnail, turns pale.

He’s about to speak when the soup and pizza arrive. I want to push for his response, but I can see from the way he dives into the minestrone that he’s grateful for the break. I pick at my food in silence, interrupted only when the waitress appears with soft drink refills. When she leaves