“So what’s going on?” I hand Esther a cup and pour myself one. Zvi doesn’t say a word as I serve the coffee. Instead, he glowers at me from beneath thick black brows.
“I got off the phone,” he says, “and headed straight over. The old bastard was sobbing. Told me how he’d double-crossed my father. And how that may have led to his death. I told him I already knew and that he was lucky I hadn’t gone to the police.”
“You knew?”
“My father was thirty-five when he died. He never had heart trouble. I was young, but I wasn’t stupid. I wanted to believe my mother when she said it was a heart attack. But I went with her to identify my dad’s body. His arms were bruised. And I knew there was trouble between him and your dad.”
“What kind of trouble?” This from Esther.
“My father said your dad didn’t trust him, that Tootsie treated him like a criminal and tried to steal the business from him.”
“I never heard that,” I lie.
“Why would you? My father claimed he was the one with the connections that brought in business. And that your father wanted to cut him out.”
“If they were having so much trouble, why didn’t they split up the business?”
“Your father wouldn’t have it. Didn’t want to share the profits. I guess that’s why he sent my father to meet those mobsters.”
Zvi was a teenager when his father died and may have known more than I did about our fathers’ business affairs. But I find it hard to believe Uncle Moe told Zvi about his connections with the Jewish syndicate. I consider sharing what I learned about my father and Uncle Moe, but decide to leave well enough alone. Why sully memories of his father? And who knows if my father was telling the truth? It’s just as likely he brought Uncle Moe into the syndicate.
“After the funeral, your father didn’t visit for more than a month.” He glowers at us across the table. “And I knew the story about having life insurance on my father was a crock because the checks he sent to my mother came from your dad’s personal account. There’s no way he’d have done that unless he was guilty.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“I should. But what’s the point? The old bastard only has a few years left.”
Despite my determination to cut my father out of my life, I’m relieved.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell Zvi, then turn to Esther to see if she has anything to add. She doesn’t. “I’m sorry. It’s been horrible for us, but I guess it’s worse for you.”
“No kidding.” He rises. “I just wanted to warn you. When the old bastard kicks the bucket, I’ll be there in my tap shoes.”
Between the cowboy cop, the appointment with Daniel, and Zvi’s visit, my day is off to a terrible start. I get Esther upstairs, where she takes a nap, and go to my study. As I’m organizing the papers that threaten to engulf my desk, I consider what Zvi said. I picture my father in his apartment, alone and miserable. Pity wells up in my chest but I swallow and suppress it. My father killed his own brother. It’s become a mantra. A wave of exhaustion washes over me. Then fear hits. I still have to call the scum who set this whole thing in motion.
I punch in Abe’s number. He answers right away. “Mr. Kravitz? It’s Becks Ruchinsky.”
“What now?”
“You said you’d give me Mr. Landauer’s number. I forgot to get it yesterday.”
Abe grunts. “I’m not surprised. You tell your father what you learned?”
“Yes.” I barely whisper the word.
“What happened?”
“He admitted it.” My voice is stronger.
“All right, then, here’s what you do. I told Mr. Landauer about our meeting. He wants to talk to you, but it’s got to be on his terms. He’ll meet you at the Mad Grouper Grill Thursday night at seven. It’s on the Miami River.”
I hesitate. The invitation sounds forbidding. The Miami River’s a polluted watercourse used mainly by cargo ships. Who would open a restaurant on its banks? The idea of meeting Landauer frightens me.
“Can I bring my husband?” The words come out on impulse.
Abe hesitates. “Sure.”
I hang up the phone and release my breath.
When Esther wakes up and comes downstairs, I tell her my plan. She’s furious. “You can’t meet that man. He’ll kill you. And Daniel too. Why are you doing this?”
“To put it behind me—get his reassurance he’ll leave me alone.”
“Can’t you call the police?”
“And tell them what? That I’m meeting the octogenarian gangster who knocked off my uncle fifty years ago? Even if they buy it, it’ll raise all sorts of questions, maybe lead to Dad’s arrest.”
“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.”
----
41
----
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 th
is 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.
----
42
----
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 get on with our lives.”
I look at him, then back at the road. He seems so calm. My stomach aches and my palms are clammy. We’re silent for most of the drive and I find myself mulling over his choice of the words—our lives. Daniel’s right. We need to get on with our life together. My father may have been a serial cheater, but Daniel’s not. I know he loves me and regrets what he did. And who else but Daniel would endanger his life for me. Though he may joke and act unconcerned, he’s too smart not to realize what we’re up against. A warm rush of affection washes over me. I reach over and touch his shoulder. He glances over and returns my smile.
The traffic to Miami is heavy and when we pull off I-95 onto Biscayne Boulevard it’s six forty-five. Only fifteen minutes to locate the Mad Grouper. We speed up along Biscayne Boulevard as it merges into Brickell Avenue, then make a right into a neighborhood of narrow streets and industrial buildings. Block after block of abandoned warehouses lead to a stretch of wooden shacks that back up to the Miami River. It’s starting to get dark and the cargo ships docked behind the ramshackle structures look like haunted galleons against the night sky. When I spot a bungalow that’s in nominally better shape than the others, I tell Daniel to pull over. A single exposed bulb throws harsh white light across the front porch. I get out of the car to read a handwritten sign taped to the front door. “Mad Grouper Grill.” I wave at Daniel to join me.
No one responds when I knock, so I try the knob—figuring most restaurants are open at this hour. But the door is locked. I’m ready to give up and retrace my steps to the car when I spot a handwritten sign propped against a rickety wooden chair at the far end of the front porch. It reads “Around Side to Mad Grouper.”
“This is starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland,” I whisper to Daniel.
We cross the sparse lawn to the side of the house, where a narrow gravel path leads past four beat-up metal garbage cans to the rear of the shack. I hold my breath, expecting to find Landauer and Pinky waiting. Instead, we step out to a waterfront restaurant that on any other night would be charming. Six rough-hewn picnic tables rest atop an unfinished wooden deck that extends from the shack to the river. Fishnets and colorful glass floats hang on the rear wall. The minute we seat ourselves, a stooped, elderly black man emerges from the back of the house. He nods then disappears inside.
“You think they’re open tonight?” I ask Daniel. He stares across the muddy brown water of the Miami River.
“I doubt it.”
I follow his gaze and strain to see in the deepening twilight. Three men in kayaks paddle to the rocky shore a hundred feet across the river. They lodge themselves onto the landing, slip out of their kayaks, then pull the narrow boats ashore. A bungalow, no doubt built before the neighborhood became a warehouse district, sits thirty feet back from the water. The kayakers look like college kids, scraggly and unkempt with long hair, but I find comfort in knowing people are near. The only sound is the rasp of the boats being dragged across the graveled backyard up to the house.
I glance at my watch—it’s seven thirty—then check my cell phone. No messages. I wonder if Landauer’s deliberately making us wait—playing a power game. Daniel and I don’t speak. Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting with my back to the house, watching the river, when I sense movement. I look to my right and almost jump.
Old as he is, Landauer has managed to creep up to our table in silence. His jowls hang lower than I remember and his face has the mournful, hangdog mien I noticed when I encountered him in my kitchen. I nudge Daniel, who looks up quickly, then stands.
“Daniel Ruchinsky,” he says, offering a hand. His voice sounds formal, as though introducing himself to a business associate. “Becks asked me to come.”
“That’s fine,” Landauer says, his voice expressionless. He eases himself on to the bench, sitting with his side against the table, half facing Daniel and me. He yells toward the house for three glasses of red wine, which the black waiter brings in less than two minutes. I glance around for Pinky. If he’s here, he must be inside.
“So you know about your father now.” Landauer speaks slowly and lugubriously, meeting my eyes.
“Abe told me.”
He shakes his head. “It must be hard to admit to your own kid that you’re a rat and a murderer. I was no angel. But your father. My God. His own brother!”
I’m tempted to point out he’s the one who beat Uncle Moe. But this isn’t the time or place to argue semantics.
“It’s taken a long time but the truth is out.”
I realize I should let him have his say and take off. But curiosity gets the better of me. I want to know why he’s gone to all this trouble just so I’ll know about my father’s past. If he were the monster Tootsie painted him to be, it seems he’d have done something more brutal—though ransacking my home and showing up in my kitchen uninvited felt violent enough. He’s too old to do much damage, but he’s got Pinky to do the dirty work. Maybe the cruelty and barbarism my father spoke of have aged out of Landauer, and his years on the lam have taken their toll.
“Why” I ask, “is it so important to you that I know about my father’s past?”
He looks at me and the edges of his lips rise, drawing up the loose folds of skin beneath his chin. He’s even more terrifying with the smile.
“That’s the most intelligent thing you’ve asked since we met.”
I shrug and set my wineglass on the table. Neither Daniel nor I have taken a sip.
“I don’t know what Abe told you about me. Your father knows what happened. When I went away, I lost everything. My wife left me. She took our kids and let
another man raise them as his own. When I got out, I couldn’t contact them. The police could track me down through family. Can you imagine what that was like?”
I nod. Maybe I should feel sympathy, but it’s hard to picture him a husband or a father, let alone a man who’d let his wife betray him with impunity. He’s too forbidding, too cold and distant.
“Years later, I found out where my son and daughter lived and drove by. But I never knocked on their door. I didn’t want to complicate their lives. I hoped that at some point, the little ingrates would track me down. They never did.”
His jowls sway as he shakes his head.
“Your father was lucky, though. He had it all. A legitimate business. A wife who stuck by him. Daughters who knew their dad. It wasn’t right, not after he betrayed me. I tried to leave the bastard alone, let bygones be bygones. But I kept an eye on him. On you girls, too. I knew when each of you got married, had kids.”
Daniel and I exchange glances. If Landauer notices, he doesn’t let on.
“When Abe told me you were snooping around, I took it as my opening. I’m not getting any younger. I waited a long time for your family to catch on to what your father did. I heard through one of my sources that your sister abandoned him a couple of years ago. That left you.”
Landauer’s eyes gleam in the dim light that escapes through the shack’s screen door. The sclera is mapped with veins and the lids are red.
“I thought about killing you or your sister,” he says. “Taking from Tootsie what he took from me. And I came close to murdering him years ago. But the bastard wasn’t worth it. I’d done enough time.”
Hearing him speak so casually about murdering my family jolts me. What kind of brute is so indifferent to taking another human being’s life? My spasm of fear becomes repulsion and I ball my hands into fists. Who does this bully think he is, acting as though our lives have no value beyond the time he’d have to spend in jail. I beat a fist against my thigh. But I keep my mouth shut.
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 27