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

what to do. I’ve yelled and screamed at him and all I’ve gotten is reassurance he’ll take care of it. Like, I ask, he took care of Fat Louie? He gives me a dirty look, but says nothing. It’s hard to imagine the old man killing Landauer. But Tootsie had no problem carrying out his vindictive plan of revenge against Nudelman.

As I slice the eggplant and sprinkle it with salt, I find myself growing angrier and more disgusted with my father and Landauer. I replay the gangster’s visit and become incensed at the memory of the old bloodhound planting himself at my kitchen table and threatening me. When I toss a knife too forcefully in the sink and break a glass, I realize I’ve got to act. It’s been nearly five months since Landauer threatened me and I’m still edgy when I enter my home. It does no good to tell myself he’s lost interest, as my father claims. He could show up at any time.

This is no way to live. As I slide the breaded eggplant into the oven, I resolve to settle things and get on with my life. There’s no choice. I’m going to meet Landauer and tell him what I’ve learned about my father. I decide to do it that afternoon.

There’s one snag. The road to Landauer passes through Abe, the last person I want to contact. I’m sure he won’t talk to me over the phone or, if I give him warning, answer the door. I need to surprise him. I call my friend Aviva, who assures me her mother will tell the Harbour Villas guard to admit me that afternoon. Then I take a quick shower and steel myself for the meeting.

I idle fifteen minutes in line behind five cars waiting to get through Harbour Villas’ gated entrance. The same elderly commando who let me in before mans the guardhouse. Today he wears a sparse red toupee that’s slipped forward and perched above his eyes. He looks like a demented swimmer in a burgundy bathing cap. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he asks who I’m going to visit and if I’m making a social call. As if it’s any of his business. I feel like an alien life form going through customs in a Woody Allen film.

This time, I find Abe’s building right away and, after parking, rehearse what I’ll say. The parking lot and sidewalk are deserted even though a light breeze blows from the east. It’s a perfect afternoon for a walk. But Mother Nature and a gentle wind aren’t much competition for the canasta tournament or water aerobics class Harbour Villas recreational mavens have, no doubt, scheduled that afternoon.

I drag my feet climbing the stairs and shift my shoulders to release the knot in my back. I don’t know if he’ll talk to me. And if he does, if he’ll give me Landauer’s phone number. But I am certain of another angry outburst when the door opens.

When I reach his door, I knock, wait a minute, then knock harder. A muscle in my back twitches. It takes Abe a few minutes to open up. His eyes narrow and his face reddens.

“What do you want?” He spits out the words.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help. I’m not sure what you know about this.” I realize I’m blathering but can’t stop. “After I met with you, I got a . . .”

The door to the neighboring apartment flies open and a woman in a red house robe splashed with black-and-yellow ladybugs sticks out her head. She looks me over, curiosity stamped across her leathery features. “Everything okay, Abe? I heard banging and voices.”

“Not to worry, Millie,” he says, then takes my elbow and draws me inside. He pulls the door closed behind him. “What’s this about?”

I don’t know how much time he’s willing to give me, so I talk fast. I tell him about finding my house ransacked and a warning slashed across my mirror. About Landauer showing up in my kitchen and threatening me. I tell him I’ve complied with Landauer’s demand that I learn the truth from my father.

“So what’s this got to do with me?” he says when I’m through.

“I think you know where I can reach him.”

Abe looks at me, shakes his head. “You and your father. What am I? Fucking directory assistance?”

“Will you give me his phone number so I can tell him what I’ve learned.”

Abe considers a moment, then motions with his cane toward the sofa. “Here’s the deal. Tell me what you want Mr. Landauer to know. I’ll pass your message along.”

I follow him into the living room, where he settles into the recliner. Sitting opposite him on the sofa, ready to sprint, I tell him about my father’s confession. He listens to the story with a bland expression, nodding now and then. I tell him what I know about Tootsie and Uncle Moe luring Fat Louie to their mother’s home and disposing of the body near the Miami River. I also mention my father’s admission that Landauer took the rap. My voice breaks and I stop every few minutes to swallow my fear. I could be reciting Japanese haiku for all the emotion Abe shows.

When I’m through, he raises his eyebrows and looks at me expectantly. We seem to be at an impasse. “And that’s it?” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s all he told you?” He sounds incredulous.

“That’s all there is.”

At that he seizes the lever of his recliner and propels himself upright. He grabs his cane and hunkers over the stick, hands clasped on its wooden grip. “The old bastard.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Even lied to his kid. I’ll tell you the truth.”

I perch on the edge of the sofa. Adrenaline courses through my veins and my hands tingle. I’m stunned. Not so much by the news that my father lied. He’s done that often enough. But it’s hard to take in the