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

love your Dad but he hurt me and I need time to forgive him.” I don’t add if I ever do. “Try to see things my way. I trusted your father and his actions stung.”

It seems that every conversation we have ends with him shutting down and finding an excuse to get off the phone. Birthday or not, this is no different. A friend, he says, is waiting downstairs to leave for the library. He has to go.

On a more positive note, Joshua called this morning and sang happy birthday, after which we chatted for fifteen minutes. He has a new girlfriend, a freshman from Atlanta, and sounds happy. I’m lucky to have him in my life. He has the sensitivity, or maybe it’s maturity, to understand what I’m going through. If he thinks I’m being stubborn, he has the insight not to say so. Both boys talk to their father every week. I’m relieved they have a good relationship.

Five minutes after Josh hung up, Daniel phoned. He wanted to take me out for my birthday. I declined, explaining I was meeting Tootsie. Daniel’s called twice since returning home from New York last week. Milt’s making a remarkably fast recovery and should be going home in a day or two. Daniel seems as hesitant as I am about discussing the connection—I don’t know what to call it—we made while visiting Milt. It’s like a bubble that’ll burst if we prod it too closely. Better to let it float and see where it lands.

I’m still not sure I can trust him the way I used to and I enjoy my independence. No waiting for a phone call to start dinner. In fact, no making dinner. I spend almost every night testing recipes for my cookbook and, last week, got a letter from an editor who wants the first fifty pages.

At any rate, my father and I have worked our way down the diner’s narrow aisle, squeezing between the chrome-topped bar and the row of symmetrically-spaced, linen-draped tables. It’s just after five on a Sunday and the two white-aproned waiters behind the bar are caught up in a game of soccer on the overhead screen. Neither glances up when my father and I enter so we seat ourselves.

My father looks every bit his eighty-six years. He spruced up a bit in new khakis and a crisply-pressed, button-down shirt. But his eyes are redder and rheumier than when I ran into him during our warehouse “break-in” and he shuffles slowly down the aisle. I’m dying to ask about running across his picture in the newspaper this morning but decide to hold off.

I rose early this morning, leaving plenty of time to get through the headlines, circulars, and advice columns before testing recipes. I don’t usually read the society section, but today it caught my eye. In fact, I almost dropped my coffee. Smiling out from the front page was an eight-by-ten inch photograph of Tootsie. He sat at a table at what was obviously a formal affair with a middle-aged man wearing a goatee and a tuxedo, a slim blonde in a red silk gown, and a rather mousy teenage girl. My father’s arm draped the shoulder of a small boy, who looked at him adoringly.

The caption on the inside front cover offered little, just that Ira Nudelman, the man in the photo, was being honored at an Israel Bonds dinner. The story that ran inside mentioned he was a financial advisor who’d made a long list of contributions to the Jewish community.

I searched my memory for the name. Nudelman? It meant nothing. It was too early to phone Tootsie, so I rang Esther.

“You ever hear of this Nudelman?” I asked after telling her about our father’s star billing on the society page. “Because I haven’t.”

“I can’t recall anyone. What’s in the article?”

“Not much. Nudelman’s an investment advisor, a big shot in the Jewish community. The article says he used to be president of The Jewish Federation. He must be doing okay. You’ve got to give big bucks to get invited to the Israeli Bonds dinner.”

“Tootsie sure as hell didn’t do that.”

I laugh. My father made a nice income, but he never spent it supporting Jewish causes. Or, as far as I can remember, any cause before the Karpowsky Foundation.

“We’re going out for my birthday tonight,” I said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“Do that.”

I waited for her to send her regards, maybe a hello to her father. But she clicked off with just a goodbye.

We order dinner—snapper for me, roast duckling for him—and I wait for the server to bring our iced tea before pulling the article out of my purse.

“What’s this all about?” I slide the circular across to him, orienting the page so he can read it. The newsprint leaves a smear on the white linen tablecloth.

I expect Tootsie to be embarrassed or apologize for not alerting me to his society section coverage. Instead, he seems pleased with himself.

“Oh you saw it,” he says, not missing a beat. “My new family.” He leans back in his heavy walnut chair and flashes the grin he wears in the photo. Then, he places two fingers on the article and draws it closer. “The front page, huh? Bet you didn’t know your old man was such a society big shot.”

“Who are these people?”

He looks at me in mock horror. “I never told you about the Nudelmans? The nice people who adopted me.” He laughs and turns the photo so I can see it clearly. “Those are my new grandchildren.” He taps the image of the girl. “Mindy.” Then the boy. “Bobby.”

I know he’s playing a game and he knows I know. But we keep it going.

“Adorable,” I say.

“And smart,” he adds. “They’re both on the honor roll.”

“You should be proud.”

“I’m kvelling.” He uses the Yiddish term for pride.

“Okay,” I concede. “How’d you meet the Nudelmans and what were you doing at the Israel Bonds dinner?”

He smiles and picks up his napkin, setting the