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

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  Our conversation moves to the past, and Abe tells me stories about excursions to the horse track and jai alai with my father and uncle. About dinner parties when the men were first married, Hanukkah celebrations after my sister and I were born. When we run out of chit chat, Abe cocks his head and flashes his crooked smile. “So what brings you here after all these years?”

  I’ve been anticipating this question but still don’t know how to respond. On the drive over, I considered whether to show him the article or bring up what my father told me about Fat Louie. I know Abe goes back far enough with my father and uncle to tell me about their involvement with the Jewish syndicate. Whether he’s willing to share that information may be another story. I pull the article out of my purse and place it facedown on my lap. I try not to fiddle with it as I talk.

  “A few weeks ago, my father told me a strange story. I don’t know whether he was making it up, but he seemed upset. It was about gangsters he knew in the nineteen forties and a job he got through Uncle Moe.”

  When I look up, Abe’s good-humored smile is gone, replaced by a scowl. He sits back with his arms crossed.

  “I don’t know how much of it is true,” I continue. “Or if any of it is. He’s getting on in years and he likes to test me, to see how I’ll react to the outrageous things he says. I think that’s what he’s doing. But maybe not.”

  Abe’s face darkens and his eyebrows crease to form a single line across his forehead. I’m alarmed by his reaction, but keep going.

  “He told me this story about a friend named Fat Louie who crossed the mob. Dad says the guy ended up in Biscayne Bay.” I don’t know how much my father told Abe, and I don’t want to give anything away that I shouldn’t.

  Abe’s been so still and quiet that I’m surprised when he leans in toward me. He grasps the wooden handle on his recliner and jerks it up, returning his chair to an upright position. Then he rises. His hand, as he reaches for his cane, trembles.

  “So why come to me?” Abe speaks in a deep voice. The warm avuncular man who greeted me ten minutes earlier has turned into a frightening stranger. He sounds deliberate and sinister, and the fierce glare he directs at me makes clear he’ll accept nothing short of the truth.

  I glance at the clipping on my lap, then at Abe. I cover the paper with my purse.

  “What’ve you got there?” he demands, extending his free hand.

  “It’s nothing. I was just—”

  “Give me the damn thing.”

  I debate a second, then hand it over. As Abe reads, the blood drains from his face. He looks up and his eyes narrow into a thunderous glare.

  When he finally speaks, his words come out like a metal rasp drawn across rusted steel. Each word emerges distinct and sharp, repetitive blows to the gut. “Get. Out. Of. My. House,” he says, jabbing a finger in my face. “And. Never. Come. Back.”

  I’m terrified he’ll hit me or have a heart attack. I slink backward toward the door.

  As I pull it open, he steps forward and presses his face into mine. His breath reeks of tobacco and mint.

  “And tell your father to go to hell.”

  I’m so upset I don’t remember leaving Harbour Villas or pulling up to my house. The violence of Abe’s reaction left me stunned and frightened. What did my father do to provoke such hatred? My image of Tootsie, already shaken, is teetering on the brink of disbelief. What is he hiding? Did my mother know? I keep getting hit with these bombshells. First, Daniel cheats on me, which is the last thing I’d expect. Then Tootsie turns out to be a gangster with a past that’s so horrendous he can’t discuss it. It undermines me, makes me fearful about what my friends, even Josh and Gabe, may be hiding. Who else is lying to me?

  I sit in the car, engine off, in the dark garage. What should I do next? My first instinct is to call Tootsie and tell him about my meeting with Abe. But that conversation is better held face-to-face. On the phone, it’ll be easy for him to blow off my questions and claim Abe is demented. He tried that with Mrs. Karpowsky. I need to take him by surprise in a relaxed setting when he’s in the mood to talk. I leave the car and let myself into the kitchen. The answering machine blinks; another call from Daniel. I ignore it. I resolve to question my dad. Really question him.

  And hope he’ll tell me the truth.

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  10

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  My kitchen looks like a farmers’ market, the counters heaped with red bell peppers, carrots, scallions, potatoes, garlic, and mahi-mahi. The water’s just reached a boil and I’m about to throw everything into the stockpot when the phone rings. It’s my father, insisting I drive him to the mall to buy white trousers. It’s the Sunday morning after my meeting with Abe and I’m in no mood to take Tootsie shopping. Especially since he wants to be there when the stores open at noon.

  I try to put him off. “Can’t it wait? I need to test a recipe for my Rosh Hashanah article while everything’s fresh. Let’s go next weekend.”

  “You have all day tomorrow to cook,” he says, generously rearranging my schedule. “I want the pants for a party Tuesday night and I might need to get them altered. If you can’t take me, I’ll drive myself.”

  I take that for what it is—a threat. The last thing I need is Tootsie careening down Dixie Highway in his ancient Lincoln Town Car. The last time he did that, he took the rear fender off a Maserati. I agree to pick him up in an hour and start shoving food into the refrigerator. My stew will have to wait.

  The old man makes no secret about considering me his chauffeur and valet. In the last few years in particular, as his driving has worsened, I’ve put up with it. My sister, Esther, says I’m a doormat for squiring him around. Then again, she won’t even talk to him. She says it’s because he treated my mother badly and made no effort to hide his affairs. I explain to Esther that, sure I resent Dad, but he’s still our father. The only parent we have. He’s not an easy person to love and there are times I’m tempted to cut him off. But he has moments of charm and humor and I treasure those.

  What I haven’t spelled out to Esther is that, more than anything else, I don’t want to live with regret. After he’s gone, I want to know I’ve been the best daughter I could be. Even if that means overlooking his faults.

  I throw on the same jeans and shirt I wore Saturday and head down to Miami to pick up Tootsie. He chatters the entire drive to the mall. The Schmuel Bernstein is having a dinner dance at the Eden Roc Tuesday night, he says, and it’s hosted by the Karpowsky Family Foundation.

  I’d Googled the Karpowsky Foundation a few weeks earlier after noticing the name on at least half the buildings on the Schmuel Bernstein campus. Mrs. Karpowsky’s late husband, Ira, made his fortune manufacturing Sheetrock and set up an endowment to build and maintain housing and medical facilities at the home. He also left a substantial fund for entertaining residents that stipulated a dinner dance be held in his memory every other year. It’s ironic that the family of the woman who accused my father of murder is hosting him for an expensive dinner. I don’t mention that. Tootsie’s revved about the affair and determined to show up in new white trousers.

  “Maybe we should look at rental tuxedos,” I suggest as I pull into a parking spot.

  “When did you become Miss Emily Post?”

  “I’m just saying. People will dress up.”

  “I happen to have good fashion sense,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt. “I bought a beautiful shirt from Costco that’ll be perfect with white pants and the white loafers your mother got me.”

  I don’t know which dismays me more, the fact that he’s hanging on to shoes my mother bought fifteen years earlier, before she left him, or that he’s turning into a caricature of an elderly Florida tourist—white shoes, white pants and, no doubt, a white belt.

  There’s no point arguing so I step out of the car and follow him into Macy’s. The heady scent of expensive perfume puts me in a sp
ending mood as we walk past the glittering glass makeup counters to reach the men’s department. I need a dress for a bar mitzvah in two weeks, but resist the urge to take a side trip to the women’s department.

  Maybe it’s because a cool breeze is replacing the oppressive heat of the past month and everyone wants to be outside, but the men’s department is deserted except for the saleslady folding shirts at the checkout counter. My father pulls five pairs of white pants off the first rack we come to without gazing at the tags. “Size don’t mean nothing no more,” he says when I object. “I’ll try them on until something fits.”

  Daniel does most of his shopping at Costco so I don’t know my way around Macy’s men’s department. My husband’s no clotheshorse, but he looked particularly shabby when he stopped by Wednesday night for more shirts. He still calls every day and I still ignore him. Thursday, he emailed me about seeing a marriage counselor. I wrote back that he’s welcome to consult a therapist about his cheating. As far as I’m concerned, that’s our only problem. I know I’m hiding, avoiding any steps toward moving on in our relationship, but I don’t have the strength yet to deal with the future.

  I follow my father to the men’s dressing room and stand at the entrance so Tootsie can model his pants. This is the first chance I’ve had to mention my visit to Abe’s.

  “I saw an old friend of yours Wednesday,” I yell into the general emptiness of the dressing rooms. “You remember Abe Kravitz?”

  I hear a rustle of clothing, then the jingle of coins.

  “You hear me?” I ask after a few minutes.

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “Do the pants fit?”

  “The first pair’s too big.”

  “So what do you think? Of seeing Abe?”

  “What am I supposed to think?”

  “He seems fine. His wife died a few years back.”

  “Good for her.”

  My father steps out of his dressing room. The pants drape around his ankles and over his shoes and fit too snugly across the stomach. I shake my head and he returns to the room.

  A few minutes later, the saleslady enters the changing area and dashes from room to room snapping up discarded clothing. Once she’s out of earshot, I speak up again. “I came across a newspaper article about Abe while doing research last week. Did you know he went to jail for selling stolen goods?”

  “What about it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. That was before we met.”

  “I decided to pay Abe a visit. I thought it’d be fun after all these years.”

  My father sticks his head out of the dressing room door. “You’re full of crap.” Then he ducks back in. “What’s with you, Doll? I tell you a little story and, before I know it, you’re all over me and everyone in town with these stupid questions. No one cares anymore. Everyone’s dead. Or should be.”

  “Not Abe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He was friendly at first, talking about good times with you and Uncle Moe.” I don’t mention I was pumping Abe for information about Fat Louie. “When I showed him the article, he went ape.”

  “What’d you expect? It’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not. What I don’t get is why he got mad at you. He said to tell you to go to hell.”

  Tootsie doesn’t answer. Instead, he leaves the dressing room in a pair of pants clearly made for a giant. I shake my head yet again and he returns to the room.

  My father is right about the pants. The fifth pair he tries fit. After the saleslady rings us up, we head to the food court for lunch.

  “What happened between you and Abe?” I ask after we’re settled at a table with our trapezoidal orange trays. The seating area is surrounded by delicatessens, Chinese takeout joints, and fast food outlets. I have to lean in so my father can hear me over the chatter and clinking of trays. “He used to come over all the time. Then he disappeared.”

  “You are a pain in the ass, Becks,” my father says, tucking a napkin under his chin. “Do you promise to leave him alone if I tell you?”

  I shrug.

  “You can’t let things drop, can you? Maybe this’ll convince you. Abe was a hoodlum. I knew he had a hand in the rackets and did time, but everyone had something not quite kosher going then. It was no big deal. By the time we met him, Abe was in the electronics business. At least that’s what he called it.”

  “We?”

  “Your Uncle Moe and me. When we first started the restaurant supply business, we bought our refrigerators from Abe. He had the best prices in town. Nobody could compete. Of course, I should have figured it out.”

  “Figured out what?”

  He rubs his thumb against his fingers, making the sign for cash.

  “The stuff was hot?”

  “You bet.” He reaches across the table and taps me on the forehead. “Smart girl. One day, two cops stop by. Tell us someone’s been holding up trucks heading south on U.S. 1 with restaurant equipment. Ovens. Refrigerators. You name it. The police have serial numbers for a few dozen stolen items and leave us a list. If any of it shows up, we should call them.”

  “Did you have any of the stuff?”

  “Sure we did. But we’re not about to report it. We know what refrigerators cost. That’s what we put in our books. The police aren’t going to say ‘thank you very much’ and leave us alone if we turn Abe in. They’re going to check our records. And have the IRS on our asses so fast, our heads will spin.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “Moe, as usual, had all the answers.”

  I wait as he takes a bite of his sandwich, two thick slabs of seeded rye that barely restrain an inch and a half of fatty pink pastrami. Only in Miami do the food courts serve good deli. And café con leche. Tootsie takes a sip of coffee and another bite of pastrami before I realize that he considers the story over.

  “So what did you and Uncle Moe do about the stolen refrigerators?” I ask, louder.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I want to know why Abe’s so angry.”

  My father sets his sandwich in its clear plastic container and wipes each finger, an elaborate operation that involves the use of one flimsy paper napkin per digit. “I’m not sure,” he says once he’s through. “It’s been a long time. As far as I can remember, Moe doesn’t bother to tell Abe the cops stopped by. Instead, he calls Abe’s office manager and tells the girl we’re through doing business with him. We’ve got a new supplier and Abe should find himself another schmuck to buy the refrigerators.”

  The old man’s got a pretty accurate memory of events, considering the decades that have passed and his claims to have forgotten.

  “Abe phones a couple times after that,” he continues. “He wants to know what’s going on. We tell our girl—you remember Mary—to inform Abe we’re not in. A couple weeks later I see an article in the Miami News. Some bums—we figure they’re Abe’s men—get pulled over with a semi full of stolen ovens and refrigerators. Abe gets off. Must have greased the right palms. But his men get sent away. Next we hear, Abe’s selling shoes at Jordan Marsh.”

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  “Not a word.”

  “And he’s still angry?”

  “According to you.”

  “It seems like a long time to hold a grudge,” I say, stuffing the remainder of my tuna sandwich in the polystyrene container.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t turn him in. You could have.”

  “So what?”

  “So why’d he have a fit and throw me out of his apartment after all these years?”

  “You’re so naïve, Doll. You don’t know nothing about human nature.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re a luc
ky girl. Some people forgive and some don’t.” He stands and picks up his tray. “Not everyone’s as warmhearted as your old man.”

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  11

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  Tootsie

  I’m gazing out at the marina, studying the multimillion dollar yachts docked at Bayside Marketplace, when a raspy voice breaks into my musings.

  “Been a long time.”

  My stomach contracts and I rise from my seat at the small outdoor café. Struggle as I might, I can’t hide my shock. It’s been fifty years since I’ve seen Abe Kravitz and the man’s as emaciated and stooped as a holocaust survivor. I’d never have recognized the well-muscled son of a gun I used to hang out with. His face, hard-boned and swarthy as an Italian’s in the old days, is gaunt and sallow.

  I called Abe the night before, after Becks dropped me off, to let him know what my daughter told me about her visit. I asked if we could get together. Turned out the old goat had a doctor’s appointment in Miami this morning and grudgingly agreed to meet for coffee. I am confident this will not be a joyful reunion.

  I drop back in my seat and try not to stare as Abe lowers himself into the rattan chair across the table. I’m surprised that Abe—as sickly as he appears—has the strength to wend his way through the waterfront shopping center’s parking lot and past the colorful cramped kiosks. Most are stocked with trashy souvenirs for passengers from the cruise ships nearby.

  “Long time,” Abe repeats. “Heard about Bernice.”

  I shrug. It’s nice of him to say something. “My condolences on Betsy. She was a good woman.”

  The waiter takes Abe’s order for American coffee and leaves the dregs of my café con leche on the table. Latin dance music wafts toward us, carrying the salsa beat from a band performing along the wharf a hundred feet north.