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

My gaze wanders back to the gun. “Why give it to me?” I ask, picking it up and putting it back in the box. “What am I supposed to do with a gun?”

“Kill Daniel?” He laughs. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I found it last night while cleaning out the closet in my bedroom. I wanted to see how you’d react.”

That’s quite an admission. Pissing me off, then watching me sputter, is one of his favorite pastimes.

“I should’ve dumped it years ago. Your Uncle Moe’s gone. The cops we met that night are six feet under. I guess you could call it a memento of Miami history. A lesson in business one-oh-one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stands and takes our plates to the sink.

“You think you’re doing some good, hiring people, helping the community. But after a while you realize no one gives a damn. We knew we were taking a chance, buying property near Overtown. The cops warned us to be careful. I figured we’d be fine. Treat our neighbors fairly. Be treated fairly in return. It didn’t happen that way. Most people in the neighborhood were fine. But a couple of animals ruined it for everyone. A week after we opened, we hid a prostitute in the store when her pimp came looking for her with a club. She was on the street the next morning. Then this kid falls through the roof.” He shrugs.

I clear away the glasses, then drop the box with the gun in my purse.

“You going to keep that thing?” my father says.

“You gave it to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll get rid of it.” He reaches for my purse, but I pull it away.

“You call Landauer or Abe yet?”

He shrugs. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Did they promise to lay off?”

I wait for more but he sets his jaw.

I pat the side of my purse, where the gun is lodged, and walk to the door. “It’s mine now.”

My purse feels heavy when I sling it on to the Mercedes’ passenger seat. I head out of my father’s neighborhood and turn north on Biscayne Boulevard to mount the ramp on to I-95. As I drive, I consider taking the gun to a shooting range and learning to use it. After all, who knows when or if Landauer will show up again? The idea of carrying a gun—“packing heat”—is appealing and gives me a little shiver of power.

Could I shoot someone? Even if my life was in danger? I might. I consider what I would do with a gun if I found Landauer and Pinky in my kitchen. Or if they came near Josh or Gabe. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I’m smiling. It’s a twisted grin and I don’t like it—or the emotions the gun evokes.

I make a U-turn on Biscayne Boulevard, then cross the Miami River and pass under the towering marble-and-glass behemoths that line the Brickell Avenue financial district. After a few miles, the skyscrapers give way to elegantly landscaped estates and I pull off at a roadside park that faces onto the bay. It’s dusk and I don’t spot a soul as I cross a grassy field to the water’s edge.

More than twenty years have passed since that kid broke into my father’s store. Fifty since the Kefauver hearings on organized crime. Law-abiding citizens have wrested control of Miami from the gangsters of the forties and the cocaine cowboys who put Miami on the map in the eighties. We’re more civilized now. At least that’s what I’d like to believe.

Across the bay, Key Biscayne is a faint grid of lights flickering low on the horizon. The gentle splash of waves against the rocky shore and the distant hum of a skiff motoring to safe harbor create a music of their own. I pull the gun out of my purse and reach back to build leverage in my right arm. Then I release the solid metal projectile into the air. The stainless steel glints in the moonlight as it arcs up, then drops toward Biscayne Bay. It makes a faint splash as it hits the water.

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29

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Tootsie

I slide the frying pan in the sink and return to the living room. I’ve left the balcony doors open and a cool breeze fills the apartment. It’s been miserably hot lately and I hope this signals the end of our heat spell. I go outside and ease myself into the white wicker chair. It creaks under my weight. Across the open lawn, lights flicker off in the nursing home.

I’m surprised Becks agreed to come over tonight. The last time I called, a few days after telling her about Fat Louie, she was too busy to talk but said she’d get back to me. She never did. I considered phoning a week later but put it off to give her time to cool down. I’ve been a nervous wreck waiting to see what she’d do and it took all my willpower not to call until today. Thank God she’s forgiven me. The girl has a lot of sense. Unlike her father. What the hell was I thinking, wrapping that gun and presenting it to her as a Hanukkah gift?

I didn’t expect her to be so shocked. It’s a lousy chunk of metal, for crying out loud. I forgot she’d never seen it. I didn’t keep a gun at the house when she was growing up. Didn’t need one there. But my business was another story. I spent my working hours in Miami’s worst slum surrounded by whores and pimps, then went home to a beautiful house in Coral Gables. Sometimes I didn’t know which of my worlds was real—the big house in the suburbs or the gritty downtown business. What I did know was that I had to protect Bernice and the girls from the world I’d escaped.

And I succeeded. At least until now.

That Landauer is