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

“Aren’t you worried about getting hurt? Or getting Daniel hurt?”

“Landauer could’ve killed me when he broke into my house. Why do it now?”

We argue for a few minutes before she realizes I’ve got to do this. When she stomps into the kitchen, I do an internet search on the Mad Grouper Grill. There’s no website but I find an article from the Sun-Sentinel that describes it as a small fish restaurant that’s become a popular late night hangout for young professionals. How bad could it be?

Then I call Daniel. I’m prepared for the worst. That he’ll try to dissuade me or turn me down.

“You’re meeting the man?” he says after I tell him my plan. He sounds incredulous. I repeat what I told Esther about putting this behind me. When I ask if he’ll come, he’s silent for thirty seconds. I understand his reluctance. It is my father who set this in motion. Why should Daniel jeopardize himself? Not that I think we’re in danger. But he may not see it that way. Landauer is a gangster and a killer, but without his acknowledgment I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain— learned the truth about my father—I won’t feel safe.

When Daniel gets back on the phone, his voice is deep and determined. “All right. Let’s do it. I emailed Mary to cancel my late-afternoon appointments. I’ll pick you up at five thirty tomorrow. Maybe we can settle this once and for all.”

I’m so relieved that I’m near tears. “Daniel,” is all I can choke out, “I . . . thanks.”

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41

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Tootsie

I can barely muster the energy to pull myself out of the armchair and walk into the kitchen. It’s dark outside and there’s no telling how long I’ve been asleep. I catch my reflection in the sliding glass doors and freeze at the dark rings around my eyes. My jaw’s swollen. I look like I’ve gone five rounds in the ring.

When I woke up a half hour ago, it took a few minutes to figure out why I felt so foggy. My stomach sank as I remembered. I’d taken a succession of sleeping pills over the past two days, downing another each time I awakened. It seemed the only way to cope with the mind-numbing despair that overwhelmed me after Becks left.

In a small way, I am relieved. No more hiding the truth from Becks or Esther. The worst has happened. They know. Neither will speak to me again. I tried to prevent them from learning about my past. And I succeeded—for fifty years. But the game’s over. Which leaves me with what? Bowling on Tuesday nights. Poker with Winchell and his pals. It’s something. But they’re not family. There’s nothing like family.

I rummage beneath the sink for the bottle of Scotch. Shuddering with impatience and frustration, I remember finishing it after Becks left. I’m hungry but the fetid odor of sour milk assaults me when I open the fridge. Two shriveled apples at the back of the produce bin will have to suffice for dinner.

When I finish eating, I return to the living room and pick up the remote control. I toss it on the cocktail table. Watching television doesn’t help. Nothing does. I have to face the raw ugly truth. All those decades of hiding my past have come to nothing. I had a few good years. But now I’m alone. I struggle through my fog to figure out how I reached this point. I was a good father and I still don’t understand why Becks felt she had to prod into my past. Now I’m paying for mistakes made long before she was born. I don’t deserve that.

And that bastard Abe. Telling Becks stories she didn’t need to hear. I’m not proud of my past. I’ve been too weak, too ready to take orders from schmucks like Moe and Schatzi and Landauer. Maybe if I’d refused to kill Louie? Tried harder to get Moe the money Landauer demanded? And the broads. Who the hell knows? After Moe’s death, I fell into a depression and sought comfort in the arms of strange women. Even that didn’t help.

I walk to the sliding glass doors, open them, and stumble out to the concrete patio. Across the open lawn, three old men slump in wheelchairs on the red brick porch of the nursing home. Two stare blankly ahead, their hands folded on their lap robes. A third sleeps with his head tilted and his mouth agape. A ribbon of saliva drips from his lips to his shoulder. Nursing assistants in white uniforms sit on the lawn chairs behind them, chatting.

My intestines knot up like a snake, constricting my bowel and forcing acid into my throat. I turn away from the old men. Sobbing, I go back inside my apartment.

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42

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I’m so grateful when Daniel pulls in front of the house at five thirty Thursday night that I almost cry. I couldn’t sleep the night before, envisioning Landauer shooting Daniel and me and dumping our bodies into the Miami River. In the dark of the night, I let my imagination run wild and picture Josh and Gabriel getting a call from the police informing them their parents’ bodies were found floating in the bay. As I lay in bed, I tried to remember if I told them where I keep my will and good jewelry. When the sun rises, the fears that assailed me in the night subside. Even so, exhaustion and tension have left me foggy and confused.

“You have no idea what this means to me,” I say as I slip into the passenger seat of Daniel’s Volkswagen. “I was too frightened to go alone.”

“I’d be hurt if you hadn’t asked me.”

I’m touched by his response, but feel guilty. “This . . . it’s dangerous. And Tootsie’s not your father. If anything were to happen to you, I’d kill myself.”

He laughs. “I’m flattered.” Then, more seriously, “It’ll be fine. We’ll wrap things up tonight and