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

stands at the sink and looks over her shoulder when she hears my footsteps.

A head of romaine lettuce, a tomato, and a cucumber sit on the black granite in front of her.

“So how’d it go with Tootsie?” she says, pulling out a drawer and riffling its contents. “I meant to call about your dinner Sunday.” She denies any interest in our dad but asks about our get-togethers.

I reach under the counter and hand her a knife and cutting board.

“Actually, we had dinner Friday instead of Sunday. And it could have been better.”

“What happened?”

“He knows you’re in town and he’s pissed off you didn’t call.”

“So.”

“So I told him you don’t want to see him.”

“He okay with that?”

“What do you think?”

She shrugs. “Where’d you end up eating?”

“At his favorite pizza joint, a place off Collins.” I hesitate, then decide to dive in. “I asked him what he told you about Fat Louie. He came clean.”

She stops in the middle of slicing the cucumber and stares at me. “He didn’t.”

“I almost wish he hadn’t. I can see why you’re angry with him. I’m still reeling. He told me how his boss forced him and Uncle Moe to . . . to do away with Fat Louie. You know the details?”

“Enough that I don’t want to hear them again.”

She makes precise, even cuts in the cucumber and I wonder if she’s taking her time to consider what I’ve said or if it’s her habitual slowness. I could put an entire salad on the table in the time it takes her to slice a cucumber.

“Did he tell you about Landauer going to prison?” I say.

“The gangster who ordered the killing?”

“Right. He ended up taking the rap while Dad and Uncle Moe got off.”

She stops slicing to look at me. “He never mentioned that.”

“He told me just before I dropped him off. He’s been looking over his shoulder ever since.”

She shakes her head and returns to the salad. “I’m not worried. He always lands on his feet.”

She’s rather cavalier about our father’s safety.

I can’t abide her puttering around with the vegetables and offer to make the salad. She agrees and drops into a chair at the kitchen table.

“You know I’ve been trying to get closer to Dad since Daniel and I separated,” I say.

“Why?”

“I thought it’d make me feel better if I had a relationship with him.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

I turn and give her a dirty look. “He isn’t much help. But with the kids gone and this business with Daniel . . . well, he is family. And he has told me about his past, stories about growing up in New York. I did some research about Jewish gangsters, trying to find out about the people Dad named. You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty interesting about his hanging out on the sidelines of the mob. At least it was until I found out . . .”

“That Dad’s a murderer?”

I put her salad in a glass bowl and slide it in front of her without answering. There’s no point in bringing salad dressing. She watches every calorie. Where I’m tall and substantial with curly hair I’ve abandoned to Florida’s humidity, she’s tiny and thin and would be delicate if not for the sinewy arm and leg muscles she developed training for marathons. My love of cooking extends to a love of eating, so I’m always fighting my weight. She has little interest in food.

“What is it with you? Why are you digging into Dad’s past?” she says after picking at her salad.

I hesitate. I’ve been asking myself the same question. “I’m not sure. It’s like one day Dad’s this fairly normal person, a man I know and understand. Then he turns out to be a gangster. Remember when we were growing up and Dad would return from a trip with these great presents, all excited about watching us open them? I thought he was the best father in the world. We didn’t know until later he was cheating on Mom.”

She nods.

“Now I find out he’s not the great dad who brought us gifts and he’s not the horrible man who cheated on Mom. At least, he isn’t just those people. He’s an aging gangster, a criminal. I don’t know when he’s telling the truth anymore. I think he was straight with me Friday night. But who the hell knows?”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

I laugh.

“Anything else I should know?”

I bite my lip, wondering how much to tell her. She handled the news about Abe’s break-in pretty well. I owe her the truth if she’s going to stay with me. “I told you Dad suspected his old friend, Abe, of breaking into my house?”

“Yeah.”

“I started digging around and learned he did time for dealing in stolen goods.”

“No way.”

“And Dad and Uncle Moe did business with Jewish gangsters who owned hotels and restaurants.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

I root around in the refrigerator to give myself a moment, then grab a diet soda and sit in the chair opposite her. “I need to tell you something else. You may decide not to stay with me after you hear it.”

She looks up from the salad, fork poised in the air. “You’re a gangster too?”

I laugh. “Not that.” Then more soberly. “I should have told you. But I didn’t want to worry you. It was selfish, but I . . .”

“Just tell me.”

“Word reached Dad’s old mob boss, Murray Landauer, that I’ve been poking around in the past. I think Abe told him. Landauer showed up here a week ago. Broke in with his bodyguard while I was in the shower. When I came downstairs and found him, I freaked. He threatened to come back, to kill me and Dad if Tootsie didn’t tell me the truth. He also knew about the boys. That’s why Dad finally told me the whole story.”

“My God. Did you call the police?”

“Yes. But I didn’t mention the gangster business or Fat Louie’s murder. All we need is Dad in prison.”

“I have no problem with it.”