The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Read online

  As Abe checks the menu, I eye him. The old bastard hasn’t aged well. There’s nothing left of the tough guy I knew in the late forties, when we had full heads of dark hair, flat guts, and our pick of the dames. Abe had just moved to Florida from Bayonne, New Jersey, same home town as Louie, and Louie helped Abe get a job with Landauer. Abe proved himself smart and aggressive and became one of Landauer’s top lieutenants in less than six months. The three of us—Abe, me, and Louie—spent many a Saturday night hitting the nightclubs on Miami Beach, picking up broads. It seems like another lifetime.

  “So what am I doing here?” Abe says, tilting his head and studying me. His lips are pursed and his eyes squint in the manner of a scientist examining a rare and repellant insect. It occurs to me I haven’t aged so well either. “What do you want?”

  “Like I said last night, Becks told me you threw her out. I want to find out what you told her.”

  “I had to come here for that?” Abe snorts. “I told her more than you did.” His eyes narrow. “Does she know anything about your past? What happened with Landauer and Moe?”

  “Of course not,” I say, waving away the possibility with a flick of my wrist. I’m trying to play it cool but my palms are damp and perspiration drips down my back. “My daughter’s nosy and she’ll dig around until she finds what she’s looking for, or what she thinks she’s looking for. She found out about Moe going before the Kefauver committee and came across an article on you.” I glance at Abe, then down at the flashy cigarette boats docked at the seawall. “If she finds out—I’m begging you not to say anything. For old time’s sake.”

  Abe laughs, an ugly rasp that draws the attention of the obese pink-skinned couple at the adjacent table. “You want me to keep quiet for you? Let your daughter think you’re a sweetheart? After what you did to me?”

  “What are your talking about?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m supposed to protect the reputation of a rat? The creep who closed down my business.”

  “Wait a minute now. I didn’t turn you in.”

  “What do you take me for?”

  “I swear it. Some of Moe’s friends, cops, showed up at the store and told us you were selling hot merchandise. They asked us to let them know if we came across stolen goods. But we never ratted.”

  I’m breathing hard and stop talking as a leggy blonde glides by on Rollerblades. Her short, skintight black dress punctuates every curve of her derriere and her thigh and calf muscles ripple with each stride. “Girls today dress like whores,” I say, then add, “nothing wrong with that.”

  “So how’d my men get caught if you didn’t rat?” Abe persists.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Come on. Do I look stupid? Who else knew they were heading down U.S. 1 with a shipment of refrigerators?”

  I shrug. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t us. You never told us where the merchandise came from or when it was coming in. We couldn’t have snitched if we’d wanted to.”

  Abe jumps up, knocking his chair backward, then braces himself on the table with both hands. He leans in until his nose almost touches mine. “Bullshit. I don’t know what you and Moe got out of it, but there’s no doubt in my mind you ratted.” He takes a step back. Perspiration glazes his forehead. “It was stupid of me to come here. I thought you were ready to apologize. To admit you’d turned my men in and wanted forgiveness. But you haven’t changed a bit. Still out for yourself.”

  “Hold on. I took care of Landauer’s family. And I did what he—” I start, but Abe interrupts.

  “Did you know Betsy left me?”

  Stunned by the man’s sudden flare up, I shake my head.

  “That’s right. She was working in lady’s undergarments while I sold shoes. She couldn’t handle it. Went home to her parents.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Abe waves away the sympathy. “We got back together again. No thanks to you.”

  “Abe, I swear we didn’t—”

  “Just leave me the hell alone, will you? And keep your daughter out of my hair. I’m not promising anything.”

  He releases his grip on the table and stands back. “So if you need anything, like silence about your past, don’t call me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a load of horseshit.” He turns his back on me and leaves, moving slowly. His shoulders are stooped and his right leg drags.

  I rise from my seat and drop a ten on the table, then wait so Abe can reach his car before I head to the parking lot.

  Once I get to my car, I reach for the jar of antacids in my glove compartment. Damned heartburn’s acting up again. I don’t know whether to curse Becks. Or that bastard, Abe. Either way, I need to come up with a plan for stopping my daughter. If she finds out about my past—well, I can’t let it happen.

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  12

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  Two nights after my father and I visit the mall, the phone rings. I’m scouring a pan of burned noodle pudding but rip off my gloves and grab the receiver. I’m expecting—well, hoping for—a call from Gabe. When we spoke earlier in the day, he sounded nasal, a sure sign he’s coming down with a cold. He was in the middle of exams so I offered to drive to Miami to bring him cold medicine, soup and Vitamin C. He told me his health was fine but if I wanted to make him feel better, I could let his dad move back in. That threw me. After a second during which I didn’t know how to respond, I tried to explain how devastated I was by his father’s affair. Gabe didn’t seem to care. I should know better. The Asperger’s prevents him from having any idea how I feel.

  The caller is Tootsie.

  “You remember Ari Plotnik? Uncle Moe’s grandson,” he says, jumping into conversation without a hello. “I just got an email. Kid says he’s a kosher butcher in some ferschtunkena Iowa town, I can’t remember which. He wants to know if our family has any Kohanim blood. I’ll email it to you.” Then he clicks off.

  I finish the dishes and read the email. Ari’s wife has traced her family back to Rabbi Gamaliel or some other Hebraic bigwig and Ari is hot to enhance his own pedigree. You get more face time at the bima, the podium at the front of the sanctuary, if you can prove you’re a member of the Kohanim, the priestly tribe.

  I email my father that I don’t know anything about our tribal history. Then Tootsie copies me the email he sends Ari claiming that the only relation he can find is a Plotnik in Lodz who served as the synagogue’s shamus. I suspect Tootsie’s lying. Either way, the old man gets a huge kick out of telling the kid that his treasured ancestor was the guy who cleaned toilets for the rabbi.

  It turns out to be family reunion week because the next day my cousin Sella—Ari’s sister—emails that she’d like to get together. I’m thrilled to hear from her. No one in my family has seen Sella since fifteen years earlier, when her father, Zvi—Uncle Moe’s son—demanded we depart his synagogue. We were there for Sella’s bat mitzvah, or the nominal recognition that passes for one in an orthodox synagogue where women can’t read from the Torah.

  Zvi’s wife, Leah, hadn’t bothered to tell her husband she’d invited us in what turned out to be a botched attempt at family reunification. My father has refused to tell me the cause of his rift with Zvi, but that day my cousin announced we weren’t Jewish enough to set foot in his precious orthodox synagogue. As he saw it, we were practically gentiles, Reform Jews who’d committed the grievous sin of abandoning the ritual he considered critical to claiming one’s rightful place as a descendant of Abraham, Isaac, and Sandy Koufax.

  Sella writes that she hasn’t seen her father in six years and her mother’s moved to New Jersey. Sella still lives in South Florida, though, and wants to meet us. I’m delighted and figure this is an opportunity to reunite with Zvi’s family, if not Zvi himself. She accepts my invitation to lunch the next Sunday. Of course, I invite Tootsie.

  Sella and her husband, Craig, show up
just after noon with a two- and a three-year-old who fall asleep in their stroller minutes after arriving. I try to be subtle about studying Sella, seeking traces of the little girl I last saw in her pale purple bat mitzvah dress, all freckles and curls. She has red hair like Aunt Irene, my father’s sister, but missed out on the Plotnik eyes, which tend to be a little close-set. Hers are beautiful, green and almond shaped. I can’t remember what her mother looks like but figure the eyes came from that side of Sella’s family. My father keeps elbowing me and trying to whisper in my ear. I refuse to listen.

  “So what happened between your father and mother?” Tootsie asks once everyone’s settled in my family room. “We heard she got smart and left the bastard.”

  I glare at my father. “What kind of question is that?”

  “That’s okay,” Sella says. “You’re right. She couldn’t take Dad anymore. When her mother, Grandma Nan, died, mom inherited some money and moved up north.”

  “Smart girl,” my father says.

  “Is your father still in the house?”

  She shrugs, which I take as a yes.

  It’s a pleasant enough visit. Sella’s bubbly and garrulous, though her husband and kids are quiet. My father tells her about family in the area, distant cousins and the like, which is big of him given that he refuses to talk to any of them.

  “You remember your Aunt Irene?” he asks. “Your grandfather’s sister? You always looked so much like her. That’s why she left you our mother’s cameo brooch. You still have that?”

  Sella looks confused. “No. But I left home in a hurry. My father threw me out. My mom may have it.”

  We wait for an explanation. It doesn’t come.

  Sella tells us she rarely speaks to her brothers and acts surprised when Tootsie says he’s in touch with Ari. She seems ill at ease, hesitant talking about family. I’m curious about her estrangement from my cousin, Zvi, but don’t want to make her uncomfortable so let it be.

  By the time we sit down to lunch, it’s apparent Sella and Craig are beset by bad luck. Craig’s having a hard time finding work so they’ve moved into his father’s apartment, where they share a room with their children. The jobs Sella’s been offered don’t pay enough to cover childcare. I offer to look at her resume, to help her find something that pays better. She turns me down.

  We have lunch in the dining room—I’ve set out bagels and bowls of tuna and egg salad—and after Sella and Craig pack their kids and stroller into their van and take off, I walk my father to his car.

  “There’s something wrong here,” he says. “But I’m not sure what. I’ve got a funny feeling.” He hands me a slip of paper with a series of numbers and letters.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Their license plate number.”

  He waits for me to read his mind but only adds “Just in case.”

  Two weeks later, I’m in the kitchen loading the dishwasher and the phone rings. It’s Sella. Her father-in-law is driving her nuts.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate. He despises me, hates that Craig married a Jew. I’m afraid we’re going to end up on the street.” She waits a beat. “I know I have a lot of nerve asking and I’ll understand if you turn me down. But all we need is four or five thousand for a deposit and last month’s rent on our own apartment. We’d pay you back as soon as we could.”

  I consider it. She is family. I can afford it. But something holds me back. I feel awful, but the answer is no.

  “I understand,” she says, “I had to ask.”

  Two weeks later, I’m in Tootsie’s living room working on the New York Times crossword puzzle when my father slams his hand on the kitchen counter.

  “The little pisher’s a liar,” he says, drawing my mind away from a four-letter-word for “bites like a horse.” I’ve gotten halfway through the puzzle in the time it’s taken Tootsie to decide between Chinese and Italian. I usually place the order but this Sunday he complains that I never get what he wants so, after a brief argument, I give in. He calls for Chinese takeout and, after rooting around in the kitchen for paper plates, plops into the swivel chair across from me. A sneer works its way over his face, his pink rubbery upper lip curling to reveal a neat row of yellowing teeth. He wears a faded green polo that fit twelve years ago when I bought it for him as a birthday present. Now his turkey waddle of a neck looks lost in the voluminous folds of the collar.

  I set the newspaper down and lean back, resting my feet on his cocktail table. I can tell from the way he glares at me that he’s aching for an argument. I’ve got nothing better to do until the food comes, so I bite.

  Okay,” I say, “who’s lying?”

  “Sella. Your precious cousin.”

  He gives me this twisted smile, his version of a “gotcha.” I wonder what line of logic has led from an argument over my historical failure to send out for what he wants for dinner to this crazy conclusion about Sella. He probably couldn’t tell me himself.

  “What’s Sella lying about?” I ask, hoping to get the argument over with before the food arrives.

  “The husband. He’s not a Jew. And those aren’t her kids.”

  “How’d you reach that brilliant conclusion?”

  “Craig, Greg, whatever he calls himself. He’s a shaygetz, and so are the boys. You ever see a blond in the Plotnik family?”

  “Dad.” I draw out the word, putting a couple of bucks worth of annoyance into it. “Sella said Craig converted. He became a Jew long before they met.”

  “And you believe her? Come on, Becks, you’re smarter than that.”

  I look at my father and shake my head in disbelief. But he has a point. The husband and boys don’t look—somehow don’t feel—Jewish. Even so, what difference does it make? Anyone born to a Jewess gets to wear the Mogen David, the Jewish star. So she’s got the boys covered.

  The food arrives and my father plunks the cartons of General Tso’s chicken and pork fried rice on the table. It’s only six o’clock, but the sky is growing dark as thunderclouds roll in from the east. We eat facing the sliding glass doors. There isn’t much to look at from the third-story apartment, just a tar-paved walkway that leads between concrete block buildings and small groupings of palm trees and scruffy red hibiscus. What we mostly see is our own reflection, an old man and a middle-aged woman sitting at a tiny kitchen table.

  “Have you talked to Sella?” I ask, steering him away from the subject of her sons and husband.

  “I called a few days ago. Told her I’d drive up to Broward, take her out for a nice dinner. She says she can’t afford a sitter. So I say, let your husband sit.” He dumps the remaining General Tso’s on his plate. “She was not interested.”

  “Is that why you think she’s lying?”

  Tootsie compresses his lips and sits back in his chair. “It’s more than that. It’s the kids, the husband. I don’t know. Maybe there’s something to this blood thing. She doesn’t even feel like mishpachah.” He uses the Yiddish term for family. “I’d call her father but—”

  “He’s a gonif,” I finish for him. A crook. My father paid for Zvi’s education, including law school, and is as upset over my cousin’s lack of gratitude as he is by Zvi’s reputation as an ambulance chaser.

  “I haven’t heard much from Sella either,” I continue. “She sent a card after Rosh Hashanah, apologized for cancelling dinner.”

  I’d invited Sella’s family and my father for Rosh Hashanah along with my friends Aviva and Noah. It was nice but the holiday felt incomplete without Daniel and the boys. I couldn’t ask Josh to travel so far and Gabe had a hundred excuses for not coming home.

  “Sella emailed me some jokes, but I haven’t been all that good about contacting her,” I tell my father. “I emailed her about a month ago, suggested we get together now that I’m not so busy. She never replied.”

  “You going to try again?”
/>
  “Why not?”

  One hears a good deal about blood being thicker than water. That’s how I feel about Sella. I hadn’t seen her in years. But she is my cousin, one of the few in Miami, and I want her in my life. She’s intelligent and attractive, the kind of daughter I’d have liked for myself. Her life hasn’t taken the course I’d want for my children and I feel bad about that, wondering if there’s anything I could have done.

  These thoughts run through my mind Monday as I dress for a meeting with my editor. After the morning appointment to go over ideas for my article and discuss new assignments, I’m free for the day. I call Sella from the car.

  She picks up on the third ring. I hear a man’s voice in the background, but can’t tell if it’s Craig or the television.

  “Honey, it’s me,” I tell her, “Becks Ruchinsky. I’m going to be in your area this afternoon and wonder if you’re free.”

  She’s silent.

  “Your cousin. Tootsie’s daughter. I thought we could get together for lunch.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. Things are so hectic here. Can you hold a sec?”

  I wait. When she comes back on, the noise is gone. “I’d love to see you but we have one car and Craig uses it to look for work.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll stop by and pick you and the kids up. Maybe we can run over to the mall since you’re so near.”

  “That’s a plan,” she says, sounding less than enthusiastic.

  The line goes dead. I say her name three times and wait a few seconds. I’m about to hang up when she comes back on the line.

  “Becks, you know I’d love to see you. But things aren’t going well. I don’t think it’s a good idea to take off just now.”

  She sounds worried.

  “Is everything okay? You want me to stop by?”

  “No.” The word comes out in a rush of air. “I want to get together. Honestly. But today’s not good. Another time, okay?”