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

my head. I wonder if Milt should be expending so much energy but reason Daniel will end the conversation if it becomes too fatiguing. I can’t imagine why he wants to discuss Tootsie, but he’s the patient and I defer to him.

“Your dad led a gang of kids I wanted to hang out with. The big boys. He let me once. I went with him and his pals to Hester Street where your father stole an apple from a pushcart.” He stops a minute and catches his breath. “When the vendor chased him, the rest of us grabbed our own apples. It was a con every kid in the neighborhood pulled at one time or another. Your Uncle Moe taught it to him.”

I smile. Stealing apples is the least of my father’s transgressions.

“How about the time your uncle beat up Reb Mottke?” Milt’s voice seems weaker. “Your father tell you about our religious school teacher?”

As he’s talking, a young doctor in a white coat enters the room and announces that visiting hours are over. He needs to examine his patient. Aunt Vivian and I exchange glances and retire to the hallway, but Daniel insists on remaining.

In the hall, she takes my hand in both of hers. “Don’t listen to his old stories,” she tells me. “Your father was a good boy. Your Uncle Moe.” She presses her lips together. “A real hoodlum, that one.”

I ask what she means, but she waves her hand in a vague circle as though dusting a stray cobweb from midair. “We all have family skeletons.”

When Daniel and the doctor emerge, Daniel joins us in the corner of the hallway where Aunt Vivian has commandeered an abandoned wheelchair. “Dad’s sleeping. I think we’d better get a bite before he wakes again,” he says.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost nine and I’m exhausted. Aunt Vivian demurs. She’s too tired to join us, but recommends an Italian restaurant two blocks away. She suggests we leave our luggage in Milt’s room and retrieve it when we return to say good night. Daniel and I kiss her and go downstairs.

I step through St. Luke’s sliding glass doors into the dark of night and gasp. Living in Florida, I’ve forgotten the visceral shock of stepping from a warm building into frigid air. Noting my discomfort, Daniel runs into the street and hails a cab. We’re going two blocks but I have no desire to fight the wind. It lashes my cheeks and stings my eyes.

Five minutes later, the cab stops in front of a small brick-fronted restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue. I run inside to get a table while Daniel pays the driver. The air is aromatic with the scent of roasting garlic and fresh-baked rolls and I fall gratefully into the cozy booth the host finds me. When Daniel enters, I wave to catch his attention. He towers over the other men in the room and carries himself with a dignity that belies the fear I know he’s feeling. Without thinking, I stand and kiss his cheek. He pretends not to be as shocked as I feel.

Neither of us bother with the menu. Spaghetti and meatballs are fine. A house salad. We’re alone with our thoughts until the food arrives, when we both lean forward and say “thanks.”

I laugh and motion for him to speak.

“Dad seemed so grateful you came. He never told me those stories. It’s almost as if he was saving them up for you.”

“I’m glad I got to see him. He’s a special man. A love.”

Daniel nods and returns to his pasta.

After a few minutes, he lifts his head from the plate. “While my father was talking, I thought about what you said on the plane. About your dad.”

He absentmindedly twists spaghetti onto his fork.

“I don’t know that what your dad did was so unusual. Don’t get me wrong. Running numbers and ratting on a friend are pretty lousy. But think about how our fathers grew up. My dad told me his mother was so desperate at one point that she rented a corner of their living room to a prostitute. The lady hung a blanket and serviced her customers behind it. Can you imagine living like that?”

I shake my head recalling similar stories told by my father.

“It’s no wonder people who grew up in that neighborhood looked up to gangsters,” Daniel continues. “Those were the guys who made it. No one hired Jews back then. It was the Depression and everyone was miserable. Who wouldn’t want what the gangsters had?”

“Are you saying that what my father did was okay?” My voice rises.

“Not at all. I’m just suggesting that, given his background, there was some justification for hooking up with the syndicate. When your dad saw the kind of money gangsters made, of course he was tempted.”

The waiter removes our plates and takes our order for tiramisu. When it comes, I take a bite of the creamy espresso dessert, then watch as Daniel devours the rest. What he says makes sense. My father had no idea Louie would cheat him and his boss or that Landauer would force the brothers to kill their friend. And he couldn’t go to the police if what he said about Miami law enforcement being on the take then is true. He had to follow Landauer’s orders.

Daniel’s always been good at stepping back and analyzing a situation. He doesn’t see things in black and white, as I often do. He knows how to confront the gray areas where compromise and understanding lie. He’s made some good points. But I’m not buying his argument. At least not completely. If Milt could break out of the neighborhood and make an honest living, so could Tootsie.

I’m starting to yawn and, when I check my watch, realize we’ve been talking for two hours. We take a taxi back to St. Luke’s, but Milt’s asleep so we pick up our luggage without saying good night. Back outside, the sleet’s turned into a soft, steady snowfall and