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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  “Louie, the hustler, doubled our income in three months, which was great by me. He kept the tote sheet. The guys who took the bets—the restaurant and bar and grocery store owners—would turn their receipts in to Louie, and we’d run them over to the counting house on Saturdays before the lottery number was announced. I let Louie handle the money. He was better at keeping track of it than I was. Plus he had a good memory. Always knew which counting house we were using that week.”

  My father, who’s not exactly gifted in the manners department, leans across me to stare at Florence Karpowsky. “A great big wing of the nursing home named for her husband the big shot and she sits there like a bump on a log. Damn shame.” He settles back in his seat. Mrs. Karpowsky hasn’t moved a muscle. The expectation’s gone from her face, leaving only a slash of smeared lipstick.

  “I got to hit the sack,” he says. “I’m beat.”

  My father’s cheeks are flushed and I realize how much this story has upset him. But if I let him go, I’ll never hear the story.

  “Come on, Dad. You can’t stop now. You still haven’t told me why Mrs. Karpowsky got so worked up.”

  “She wasn’t so worked up.”

  “She called you a murderer, for God’s sake.”

  “She’s in la-la land.”

  “All right.” I rise. “Call me when you’re ready to finish your story. I’ll see you then.”

  “You are something else.” He glares at me, then nods. “All right, I’ll finish.”

  I return to my seat.

  “It had to be December because I was wearing one of those bomber jackets the air corps guys were coming home with. It was a Saturday afternoon. Fat Louie and I’d just gotten out of the car and were heading toward the counting house to turn in our dough when the boss, Mr. Landauer, comes at us with this gigantic Yid.

  “ ‘Youse guys, give your tote sheets and money to Hymie here,’ he says, ‘and come with me.’ ”

  I have to laugh. My father sounds like a gangster in a forties movie.

  “You think that’s funny? I almost shit my pants.”

  “Sorry.” I’m shocked. He never used that expression before.

  He shakes his head. “Landauer’s so furious he’s turning red but I don’t know why or what he’s going to do about it. Usually we enter through the front door of this rundown wooden house and hand the money off to two broads at the kitchen table. That day, we hand our envelopes to the big Yid and follow Landauer around the side of the house, past a slimed out pool, and onto the back porch.

  “The minute I step inside the house, POW, a fist slams into my nose. Blood drips down my face and onto my jacket. Before I can figure out what’s going on, another bastard delivers a blow to my gut. Turns out Mr. Landauer’s got two goons waiting. The whole time they’re pummeling us and bouncing us off the furniture, Landauer’s screaming about how we double-crossed him and he’s going to kill us. The rest I don’t know. I must have passed out. When I wake up at home, your mother’s crying and Moe’s standing over me, muttering about what an asshole I am.”

  The anger and fear on his face frighten me and his hands, which grasp the arms of his chair, tremble. My head starts to throb as I realize how upset I am at the idea of my father being beaten, even decades ago. I’m not sure I want to hear more, but curiosity gets the better of me. “What’d you do?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do. Once I can breathe and sit up, I call Fat Louie. He’s as messed up as I am, says he has a busted lip, maybe a broken nose. Tells me it’s the Christmas season and people are spending on their kids, not the numbers. But he’s already got a plan to pay back the two thousand bucks Landauer claims we owe. He wants to confess to the protection racket, which Landauer doesn’t know about, and pay Landauer off with our earnings. I don’t like it. But I don’t have any better ideas so tell him to go ahead.”

  I’m so wrapped up in the story that my stomach contracts at the thought of his meeting Landauer again.

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  “You bet. But Landauer wasn’t the type of man you could hide from. He’d find out sooner or later. So the next day, Louie and me show up at the Sands and find Landauer at his cabana. He’s there with his wife and kids, doing the family shtick, and motions us to the bar. It’s a gorgeous day. Everyone’s in bathing suits except us two schmucks. Landauer’s in this cabana outfit, polka-dot shorts and matching shirt, and we’re in black suits, sitting at a tiki bar, shvitzing like pigs and begging Landauer’s forgiveness.”

  “Was he surprised to see you?”

  “Didn’t seem like it. Though I think he’s going to punch Louie one when Louie tells him about our protection racket. But he agrees to the payoff. We work three more months, deliver the protection money to Landauer. A week after we’re square, Landauer gives us the boot.”

  By this time, it’s dark out. Yellow bug lights in black metal fixtures throw urine-tinted rays over the building’s front porch. The bulbs are supposed to keep bugs away but mosquitoes circle my ankles and I reach down to scratch. Steam condensing in the night air forms a tar-scented fog that hovers over the parking lot. Two residents rise from their lawn chairs and shuffle inside. Tootsie’s quiet and, when I turn to him, his shoulders are shaking. At first I think he’s laughing. Then he brings the handkerchief to his face.

  “Dad, are you okay?” I put a hand on his shoulder. I’ve never felt this mixture of tenderness and contempt for him before and it frightens me. It’s unsettling to realize the man I envisioned as a tower of strength was so vulnerable.

  He takes a few deep breaths and lets them out in long sighs. “Becks, darling, I swear to God, I didn’t know. Louie saved my life, he was my best friend. I loved him like a brother.” He’s pleading but I don’t understand why.

  “What happened?”

  He hangs his head and stares down at his lap, studying it like a chessboard. “A few months after Landauer fires us, Florence shows up at the house.” He nods toward Mrs. Karpowsky. “She was a fireball then, a real redhead. She’s banging at the door, screaming like a crazy person. You never heard a lady use such language. When I open the door, she beats my chest with her fists. Finally, I grab her hands and force her into a chair. Your mother makes her a cup of tea. When she settles down, she tells us what happened.”

  He shakes his head. “I should have known.” He sobs suddenly, loudly. It’s a high-pitched gasp that cuts through the humid night air and draws the attention of a nurse who leans against the porch’s wrought iron railing, having a smoke. I motion that everything’s fine.

  “Dad, it’s okay,” I whisper and put my arm around his shoulders. I wait for him to collect himself. I don’t how to respond. Can this be my father, the gentle man who refused to spank my sister and me no matter how badly we behaved? He never mentioned any of this—his friend Louie or gangster connections—before. I can see where his story’s going and fight the urge to cut him off. It’s like easing on the brakes as I approach a fatal highway collision. I don’t want to look but I can’t tear my eyes from the dreadful scene.

  “Florence says that the night before, when Louie doesn’t come home, she calls the police. The cops tell her it’s too early to file a missing person’s report so nothing happens. The next afternoon, same day she comes to us, she says a fisherman found Louie’s body floating in Biscayne Bay. He’d been shot through the chest. When she tells me this, I run into the bathroom and throw up. This is my best buddy. The guy saved my life and survived the allied invasion. To end up like that?”

  My father takes a deep breath and holds his fist to his chest. I reach for his hand but he pushes it away.

  “Florence thought I ratted on Louie. She’d never look at me after that. I don’t blame her.” He raises his head, then drops it in his hands. “Later, I heard Landauer found out Louie had double-crossed him. He’d held on to the cash and receipts he’d collected fr
om our customers. Landauer ordered Louie’s murder.” He takes a deep breath. “Thank God Florence was a good-looking dame. She didn’t stay single long. Married Karpowsky a year later, had kids with him. He did well, spread his money around town. She was okay.”

  “Did you get another job?”

  “I was fine.”

  “So you left the mob?”

  My father shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it that. But yes. More or less.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You stuck around after your partner was killed?”

  “None of your business.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means what it means. I stuck around a little longer. Got out. And started my own business with your Uncle Moe.”

  “Did Uncle Mo . . . ?”

  “Enough already with the questions,” my father interrupts. “I’m beat.”

  “But Dad, you can’t just drop that on me.”

  “I said enough.” He gets a familiar set to his jaw, the lines on either side of his chin etching out a square of resolution, and I know he’s through talking. He raises himself from the chair, an arduous task that involves leaning forward with his hands braced on the arms, pushing off and waiting for gravity to propel him forward. On other nights, I’d give him a hand. Tonight I don’t. I’m too appalled at what he’s told me.

  My father a hoodlum? A numbers runner? It’s an outrageous concept. I knew he’d gone into the restaurant supply business with Uncle Moe after my sister was born. I never considered what he did for a living before that.

  I rise and glance to my left. An aide is helping Mrs. Karpowsky stand and position herself in front of the walker. We wait as she approaches, each step an agony of effort. A fine dusting of powder covers her pink-skinned cheeks and, as she nears us, I catch a hint of past beauty in the curve of her chin. I feel a pang of pity for the elderly woman. How horrible it must have been to learn her husband was murdered? Yet she moved on with her life. My problems with Daniel pale in comparison. Tootsie grips my elbow as she passes. Mrs. Karpowsky ignores us.

  Once she’s inside, we follow her into the air conditioned lobby. I tell my father I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to start research for a Rosh Hashanah food article that’s due in three weeks. It’s a pain because it means a return trip to Miami to visit the historical museum. After accepting his offer to make me dinner the following Sunday, I kiss him good night.

  I return to my car and sit with the engine idling and the air conditioner blowing full blast. I consider what my father told me. It’s hard to imagine him a hoodlum, an errand boy for that gangster Landauer.

  I try out the image of my dad in a striped suit and fedora hanging out with tough-looking men with heavy New York accents. He loved those characters in the gangster movies he took me to as a child. But the image is too absurd, too Hollywood to fit Tootsie. It reminds me of when I was a kid and studied the silver-framed photo my father gave my mother when they were dating. Tootsie had a full head of thick black hair and his lips curved into the dreamy smile of a forties movie idol. I wondered how that good-looking man could be my dad.

  Now I’m stuck with this new image. A numbers runner. A criminal who made a living preying on poor people’s dreams. It doesn’t jive. That isn’t the dad I knew. The father who brought me pretty dolls whenever he traveled. The cantankerous alter cocker with the dumb jokes.

  As I pull out of my parking space and leave the grounds of the Schmuel Bernstein, I try to figure out why he decided to tell me now. Sure, I pressed him for information about Mrs. Karpowsky. But maybe he feels the need to confess before he grows too old to remember. On the other hand, he could be lying, trying to impress me. It wouldn’t be the first time. Over the past few months, he’s mentioned old girlfriends and bragged about business deals. Some of the stories are preposterous, involving huge sums of money. His story about Fat Louie sounds just as over the top.

  I’m not sure if I believe my father. And if what he says is true, I have a feeling he hasn’t told me the whole story. I resolve to check it out for myself.

  The road’s pitch dark and I can barely read the clock in my old Mercedes. It’s almost nine and I’m exhausted. I head up I-95 to Boca Raton. The highway’s empty so the drive goes quickly. I’m in Boca Raton in less than forty five minutes. But I’m so lost in thought I miss my exit and have to backtrack.

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  4

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  Tootsie

  Becks’ shoulders slump as she walks to her car and I realize I should have kept my mouth shut. My throat tightens as I realize how hard she’s taking this. But running into Florence after all these years threw me for a loop. I should have known the old broad would show up at the Schmuel Bernstein. Her big shot husband’s name is plastered on practically every building on campus. Even so, I thought I’d have a heart attack when she accused me of murder.

  Watching Becks get in her car, I realize that I’ve been waiting for the shit to hit the fan. I shouldn’t have told her sister about my past. I can’t imagine where I got the stupid idea that telling Esther what I’d done would make her feel better about the embezzling charges against Bruce. Which, I might add, turned out to be bullshit. Esther’s like her mother—always judging and letting me know when I don’t live up to her standards. I never thought she’d stop talking to me.

  Becks is different—more realistic and understanding. At least since we started talking again. Esther promised not to tell Becks, but who knows what’ll happen. I don’t want to lose my youngest daughter too.

  There’s nothing I can do about it tonight so I head upstairs to the card room, figuring a couple hands of poker will take my mind off my problems. All that’s left of the regular Sunday night game, though, is a lousy folding table and a deck of cards. Damn shame. I could use the company. The television’s still on and I try to catch the last few minutes of the Marlins against the Reds. The Marlins are losing.

  I drop into a chair and shuffle the cards, but my mind keeps returning to the anger on Florence’s face. I wonder how much she knows. Or remembers. Growing old had to be tough for a beauty like Flo. I wouldn’t have recognized her if she hadn’t come up to me. I haven’t seen her since Bernice was pregnant with Esther.

  A familiar pain—the doctor tells me it’s heartburn—constricts my chest at the memory. A few weeks after Landauer canned me, Bernice announced she was expecting. I should have been thrilled. We’d been trying to have a baby. But I wasn’t making enough to support a family. Fortunately, Moe used his connections to land me a job as a bouncer at the Deauville. It didn’t pay much, but what choice did I have? I hated it when Bernice returned to her job at Woolworths. She said she didn’t mind but I didn’t believe her—especially knowing her friends were gossiping about how she had to go back to work.

  To top it all off, a month after I started at the Deauville, Fat Louie and Florence came sauntering into the restaurant where I worked, Louie looking like a big shot millionaire in his tux and Florence flashing a diamond bracelet. I wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the customers. But once Louie and Florence had settled in and were waving their martinis around, I strolled over, casual-like.

  Louie’s eyes narrowed but he kept his cool. We hadn’t seen each other since Landauer canned us. We’d been through enough bad times, I figured, why go looking for more?

  “Louie,” I said, “you’re looking good. I guess things turned out okay for you after all, huh?” I made no secret of eyeing Florence’s bracelet.

  She had the decency to blush but Louie smiled and nodded his head like one of them Hawaiian bobble dolls. He must have thought I was a schmuck.

  “You got a job right away.” I said. “That’s great. How about giving me a piece of that action?”

  Louie laughed like I’d made a big joke, which I clearly hadn’t. “Got lucky,” he said. “Got a great deal on a restaurant. It’s turning into one of t
he hottest joints in town. You know it, the Blue Smoke.”

  I scratched my head like I was stumped. I knew the Blue Smoke all right. Me and Louie shook the owners down for protection. The joint went out of business a month before Landauer let us go. No way Louie was buying diamond bracelets with what he took in at that shit hole.

  “Well, good to see you,” I said when I saw the boss moving in my direction.

  “Keep in touch,” Florence said. “My love to Bernice.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. Some friend you are.

  It killed me, that son of a bitch showing up at the club where I’m busting my ass. And Florence wearing diamonds while my Bernice is on her feet all day. I don’t have to be a genius to figure something doesn’t add up.

  The next day I called Moe and told him about running into Louie and my suspicions over his newfound wealth. Moe offered to set up a meeting with Landauer to go through the receipts from the period before Louie and I were given the boot. By this time, I figured Landauer had some doubts about whether the two of us were cheating. If he knew we were, we’d have ended up in the hospital with busted knee caps.

  For once God was smiling on me. Moe convinced Landauer to let me go through some old records. Turned out the old gangster had held on to the receipts from the six weeks before he sacked us and was willing to let me check them out.

  I was plenty nervous going to Landauer’s office, a crappy storefront on Collins Avenue where he kept a metal desk and a wall of file cabinets—I guess to look legit. Who knew what he’d have waiting for me? But after running into Louie at the restaurant, I had to find out what he was up to. One of the girls who handled the money met me at the office and went over the receipts with me. And sure enough, Louie hadn’t bothered to hand in five thousand bucks we’d collected before getting the sack. That son of a bitch, Louie, held on to the money, screwing me and Landauer.