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

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25

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Tootsie

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Winchell says as I let myself into the Schmuel Bernstein’s card room after leaving Becks. He motions me to the table where he and his poker buddies are clearing a hand. “You want to fill in? I’m not doing so good.”

Ira, a retired cardiologist, purses his lips into a smug grin and squares off the pile of bills in front of him. The other men—Friday night regulars Bill and Jack—eye me like a piece of steak they’re ready to tear into. Each has a lousy little pile of bills on the table.

“Why not?” I say. A few hands of poker may take my mind off Becks. I drop into Winchell’s chair and throw a ten on the table. But it’s no good. Three hands in, I’m down fifty bucks. I can’t concentrate. Becks’ forced smile at the restaurant and halfhearted attempt at reassurance keep returning. I make my apologies and go upstairs.

I’m not a big drinker but tonight I need one. After letting myself into the apartment, I go straight for the fifth of Dewar’s under the kitchen sink. I take a swig from the bottle, then pour two fingers into a glass and bring it into the living room.

Damn that Becks. Sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

When she dropped me off tonight, she seemed anxious to assure me she loves me, but her words rang false. My heart was beating so hard when she told me about Landauer’s break-in I thought I’d pass out. It’s bad enough he threatened me. But to threaten my daughter? Bastard. Of course she’s scared. The man’s a monster. And no one wants to believe their father is a murderer. I’m sick about burdening her with this.

There must be some way to earn back Becks’ respect, to persuade her I’m not a callous murderer. Maybe if she knew what my life was like back then, why my involvement in the syndicate, even Louie’s death, were inevitable. Who the hell knows if she’ll understand—or walk away? I sure as hell didn’t expect Esther to write me off.

I take another sip. The heat from the Dewar’s travels down my gullet and sends a comforting glow through my body, but it doesn’t calm me. Losing Becks may be the least of my problems. More important is getting Landauer to back off. It was shocking enough spotting the bastard at Schatzi’s funeral. What the hell does he want from me or Becks? I paid him off years ago. If he wants more money, I’ll give it to him.

My hands tremble. Time has done nothing to ease my fear of the mobster. The bastard would smash a man’s face in at the slightest provocation. A joke about his thinning hair. A comment about his wife. I don’t want to come up against that animal. But this is my daughter. My Becks. I need to get in touch with Landauer and find out what he wants.

I take the last sip of Dewar’s and set my glass on the cocktail table. Then I reach under the sofa for my white pages. It’s a long shot. A delaying tactic. I leaf through the Ls. Of course Murray Landauer isn’t listed. The old bastard’s still wanted by the police.

There’s just one way to reach the man: Abe Kravitz. He was Landauer’s lieutenant when the mobster was sent up and everyone knew he masterminded the old man’s escape. Abe’s got to know where he is.

My palms are damp when I dial Abe’s number.

“Abe, it’s Tootsie,” I say when he answers.

“So what.”

“I hear Landauer’s back in town. He paid a visit to my daughter.”

“No kidding.”

“You knew?”

Abe is silent.

“Can you put me in touch with him? Maybe you got a phone number where I can reach him?”

“I’ll tell you, Tootsie, I don’t know if I can help you.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Why should I? You screwed me. I got no reason to put you in touch with anyone.”

“Abe, I’m begging you. This is my daughter. Do you know how to reach him?”

Abe hesitates. “I might.”

A sigh of relief escapes my lips. “Then tell him this. I’m not a rich man but I’ve got a little stashed away. It’s his. Just leave Becks alone.”

Abe, again, says nothing.

“You got that?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Listen Abe . . .”

I hear a click at the other end of the line.

All I have now is hope. And prayer. And a desperate need to make Becks understand how my life took such an ugly turn before she learns the worst of it.

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26

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The next Monday night, I arrive home late, having wasted an evening at the opening of a new Mexican restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale. I would love to tell my editor that there’s no point in running a review of the greasy spoon. But he left a six-inch slot in Wednesday’s newspaper for the article and I have to give him something, even a negative review. That’s one reason I prefer writing about food, rather than critiquing restaurants. I feel guilty about panning a business—worse when it’s starting out. But I owe it to readers to be honest.

I let myself in the front door and cringe when I notice a light in the kitchen —then remember Esther’s back in town. She was supposed to rent a car from the airport and go to the hospital for blood work and a chest x-ray before letting herself into my house. Tomorrow morning’s her lumpectomy.

I haven’t told Esther about Landauer’s break-in. Why worry her? It can wait until after her surgery.

I went to the Boca Raton police station the Saturday after the break-in despite my dread of getting the second degree from Detective Cole. I was relieved he wasn’t around when I met with the sketch artist, who created remarkably accurate drawings of Pinky and Landauer. Shortly after I returned home, my dad called to tell me he got a phone call from the detective. Tootsie sounded angry but wouldn’t tell me what they discussed.

Esther