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

“I’m sorry, Doll.” He shakes his head from side to side, deliberately, like a buffalo warding off flies. “It must have been horrible coming home to that. I’ve spent my life trying to forget that bastard and what he forced me and Moe to do. But if we hadn’t cooperated, it might have meant our lives.”

“What are you talking about?”

The couple at the table to my left look over. I’ve raised my voice.

“I told you I discovered Louie double-crossed me and Mr. Landauer.” Tootsie whispers.

“Yes.”

“And that Mr. Landauer found someone to kill Louie.”

I nod.

He leans outside the booth and looks left, then right, before turning back to me. “That someone was Moe.” He hesitates. “And me.”

A knot forms in my gut. I already sensed my father had more to do with Louie’s death than he admitted. And I’m not surprised my uncle was involved. From what Tootsie’s said over the years, Moe had some tough friends. But my dad a murderer? I swallow and fight a building nausea. The threats to my life and Tootsie’s start to make sense.

“When Landauer figured out what Louie did, he yelled at Moe and me. He said we’re the ones who brought in the bad apple, we got to get rid of it. He didn’t come out and say so, but it was clear he expected us to take Louie out.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. Well, I didn’t like it. Neither did Moe. But what choice did we have? Landauer was connected with some characters who’d be glad to do the job. Kill me and Moe too. We figured better Louie than us.” There’s pleading in his voice.

“Moe ran into Louie a few days after Landauer’s outburst and learned Louie’s wife, Florence, was in New Jersey visiting her folks. That’s when he came up with his plan. I’d invite Louie over for Shabbat dinner at your grandmother’s, then get her out of the house. Moe would shoot Louie and dispose of his body before Ma returned. It sounded nuts to me, but it’s all we had. Moe insisted he knew what he was doing.”

My father speaks rapidly. He seems relieved to be talking.

“The next Friday afternoon, I gave Louie a call. Remember, he had no idea I was on to him. I told him my mother was making noodle pudding, his favorite, why didn’t he come to dinner. My father was out of town and Louie could take my old man’s place at the table.

“I guess Louie saw this as an attempt to rekindle our friendship because he agreed. Your Grandma Yentl set the table with her nice white linen and fine china. We hadn’t told her what happened with Louie and my job, but she knew there were problems between us. She was glad we were making up.

“Moe and I sent our wives out to dinner, saying we had to work that night, and went to Grandma Yentl’s with Louie. She’d prepared a regular Shabbat meal. Chicken soup with matzo balls. Brisket she’d simmered all day. The noodle pudding. Once we finished dessert, Moe gave Grandma a couple of bucks and told her to take Mrs. Horowitz from upstairs to see a movie. We’d do the dishes. Mrs. Horowitz agreed and the ladies took off.

“Moe, Louie and I stayed at the table, talking about old times. I found myself chattering, nervous about what lay ahead. Moe knew this so he played older brother, telling me to get my ass in the kitchen and start the dishes. I was in there, with the water running and the dishes clattering, when I heard a pop. It wasn’t loud—Moe used a silencer. But I knew what it meant. I felt sick but returned to the dining room.”

“Uncle Moe shot the man?”

“You’d better believe it. Louie lay on the floor, blood down the front of his shirt. I didn’t know how Moe did it—I didn’t even want to know how he learned to do it—but the only place blood splattered was on Grandma Yentl’s tablecloth.”

“Was he dead?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course he was dead. I had to hand it to Moe, though. He planned everything. Pulled out a bag of rags he’d stashed under Ma’s couch and used them to wipe up the blood. Sent me to drive his car to the alley behind Ma’s apartment building. I was sobbing like a baby as we rolled Louie into the tablecloth and dragged him down the back stairs to Moe’s trunk. Your uncle was a cool character. I don’t think he felt a thing.”

I’ve heard enough, but my father keeps talking. I don’t think he’d stop if I asked.

“Moe arranged everything. He drove to the Miami River and pulled behind a shack where two goons waited in a filthy skiff. They watched with dead eyes—you know, like they’d seen it all—as we dragged Louie’s body across the old dock. I had to stop twice to puke in the river. We got Louie in the boat and took off, driving to Ma’s apartment in record time and changing into clean shirts in the car. When Ma turned up a half hour later, we were doing the dishes. Moe told her he spilled Manichewitz on the tablecloth and would take it to be cleaned. We joined her for a glass of tea and a piece of honey cake and made it home by eleven.”

My father’s face is flushed and the armpits of his blue polo are soaked. He leans back and looks at me, eyebrows raised, as though daring me to respond. I’m not fooled. The pleading I’d seen in his eyes remains.

I’m sickened by what Tootsie told me and don’t know what to do with his confession. I’m shocked and angry—but my anger is tinged with pity. He’s had to live with the knowledge he murdered a friend. It could not have been easy.

I want to believe my father when he says he had no choice. But he’s lied