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

one nasty bastard and Abe isn’t much better. I’ve called Abe twice, asking if he’s set up a meeting with Landauer, but he refuses to talk. It’s typical. Landauer’s got a cruel streak and probably delights in the knowledge I’m sweating over his next step.

I didn’t tell Becks or Esther, but my problems with Landauer didn’t end when he went to jail. If fact, they just got worse. And Moe, that schmuck, was no help.

It was a Monday morning and I was at my desk, rushing to finish a bid I’d stayed up writing the night before. Profits had been down for a few months because our biggest customer, a resort called Paradise Palms, decided to take its business elsewhere. If I didn’t find more business soon, we’d go under.

I always got to the office by eight but Moe rarely sauntered in before nine. That day he showed his face at ten. “Toots, you got to come outside and see what I got.”

I glanced up to find him standing in the door to our office grinning like a hyena. “Later,” I said and went back to work.

“You can afford five minutes. I’m telling you, you’ve never seen anything like this.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the front of the store.

“What the hell do you . . .” My jaw dropped as he opened the door.

Parked in front of the building was the most beautiful car I’d ever seen. Every angle of the powder-blue Mercedes was as perfectly proportioned as a Broadway actress. Its front fenders had the rounded slopes of a woman’s breasts and the sun sparkled like a diamond necklace across its chrome bumpers. The rear of the Mercedes was a smooth, creamy blue that invited you to run your hand along its curvaceous lines.

I couldn’t believe it. Jews didn’t buy Mercedes. Everyone knew they’d been made by Nazis who exploited concentration camp prisoners. And the expense? I could barely make the payments on my Oldsmobile.

When I asked Moe what he paid, he gave evasive answers that implied the car was hot. I went inside, disgusted.

It was a busy day and I didn’t have time to think about the Mercedes until later, after everyone had left the store. How had my brother paid for it? Moe and I earned the same salaries and lived in similarly-priced homes so I knew he hadn’t saved enough money for the car. Even stolen, the Mercedes was out of his range. Something felt off. And knowing my brother, it wasn’t legit.

There was only one way Moe could have raised enough money to buy the car. As I put down my pen, I realized the idea had been eating at me all day. Moe handled the Paradise Palms account but hadn’t been all that upset when we lost it. I’d written that off as typical of his lazy ass approach to doing business. He told me a competitor was selling equipment to the resort at cost and we couldn’t compete without losing money. Like a moron, I believed him.

But what if Moe had taken the account for himself? I felt sick as I sat in my brother’s chair and searched his desk. It took a while but I found what I was looking for—ten Paradise Palms purchase orders, all marked paid. I was speechless. That son of a bitch sold thousands of dollars’ worth of ovens, grills, and walk-in refrigerators to the resort—and cut me out of the deal.

I had trouble sleeping that night and got into work before sunrise. Hours later, when I heard Moe in the front office flirting with the girls, I stepped outside our office.

“Get your ass in here.”

Moe looked up and smiled, taking my tone of voice for a joke. “What’s the problem?”

“Now. We need to talk.”

Moe’s eyebrows shot up and he followed me into the office.

Once he closed the door, I grabbed the purchase orders off my desk and waved them in the air. “You want to tell me what’s going on here. Where these Paradise Palms orders came from?”

The color drained from Moe’s face. “They’re old. I just happened to—”

“Don’t bullshit me.” It took all my self control not to reach across Moe’s desk and slug him. “You’d undercut your own brother and drive us out of business for a lousy car?” I tossed the orders on his desk, ignoring the handful that slid to the floor. I slammed my hand on his desk. “You owe me five thousand bucks. Show up with the money by Friday or you’re out. And I’ll let Paradise Palms know what you’ve been up to.”

Moe tried to break in, but I jabbed a finger at him. “If I have to, I’ll go to the—”

Before I could finish, the phone rang. It was our direct line to the secretaries. I grabbed the receiver. “Can’t you see we’re busy ?” I listened to her then waited a few seconds as she transferred the call. My breathing grew heavy as I listened. I must have turned white because Moe stared at me with concern in his eyes.

I hung up and turned to my brother. “That was the police.”

“And?”

“Landauer escaped from prison.”

We stared at each other.

“I don’t know what this means for us. It can’t be good. But right now I don’t give a damn. You have the dough here by Friday or you’re out on your ass.”

The next morning Moe walked into the office with five thousand bucks, cash. And I never saw the Mercedes again. But from that point on, I never trusted Moe. It’s a lousy thing to say about your brother—but he was as crooked as they came.

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30

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A week after the Hanukkah dinner with Tootsie, I pull my car behind the block-long warehouse and showroom that used to house his business. He’s been less than forthcoming about contacting Abe and Landauer and I’ve got to do something before the gangster shows up again. Finding the articles Tootsie mentioned at the bowling alley seems my best