The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Joan Cochran (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

an interesting piece about movie studios blacklisting Dorothy Parker for her left-leaning politics, then realize I’m nearing the end of my final microfilm roll. I’m disappointed at finding nothing, but relieved to be ending my search. Then a familiar name flashes across the screen. I back up the roll until I find it again. Abe Kravitz. I smile. Abe was one of my father’s best friends, but I haven’t heard his name in decades. He was a skinny guy, always in motion, with too much energy to stay seated for long. He and his wife, Betsy, were regulars at our home. The two never had children but were among the close family friends who attended my sister’s and my birthday parties. I knew Abe did business with my dad, but never knew what it was. At some point, I realize as I fiddle with the microfilm machine, he stopped coming to the house. I can’t remember why.

The article is three paragraphs long but it takes a few minutes to enlarge the type and focus well enough to read. The article reports that Abe was convicted for selling stolen goods to restaurants and bars on Miami Beach. He was sentenced to five years. I do the math. He was out of prison by the time I was born. I glance around, wishing there was someone I could tell. Abe a thief? It sounds crazy. But so did my father’s story about Fat Louie. I press a button to copy the article and stuff it in my purse to show my father. If I confront him with it, he may be willing to tell me about his past. I return the microfilm to the book cart.

On my way out of the library, I swing by the free computers and log in to my email account. Nothing important. I decide to do a search on Abe Kravitz. The odds are good he’s long gone and the best I can hope for is an obit. After a bit of surfing, I learn Betsy passed away two years earlier. But Abe is still around. In fact, he lives in Harbour Villas in Boca Raton, fifteen minutes from my house. A short click to anywho.com and I’ve got his phone number. It’s only three, so I decide to call from the car and ask to stop by. Maybe he’ll tell me something about my father’s past.

Abe sounds delighted to hear from me and says come over. I don’t mention how I came across his name. Or bother him with my father’s cockamamie gangster tale. I don’t need another alter cocker angry with me.

An hour later, I’m idling in line behind the Harbor Villas guardhouse, a rickety white shack inside of which sits an elderly man in a burgundy toupee. When it’s my turn to enter, he scrutinizes me, letting his gaze run up and down my face and peering into the car before he asks for identification. I suppress a laugh as he squints at the front, then back, of my driver’s license. Satisfied I’m not a middle-aged suburban terrorist hell-bent on taking out elderly Jews, he returns it to me. The arm of the gate rises and I enter a maze of low-slung, two-story buildings painted the same mind-numbing white as the guardhouse.

Harbour Villas is a concrete Mecca where retired northerners move to spend their golden years in the land of sunshine, palm trees, and early bird specials. I’d never been inside but heard its residents love it. Always something to do. Singing, dancing, bingo, canasta, mahjong. And bus service to the mall, the grocery store, and the doctor’s office. Including Daniel’s oncology practice.

It takes fifteen minutes to find Abe’s apartment and park my car. Each building is an identical two-story cement structure with glass-jalousied windows and doors that open to a narrow walkway. When I make it up the exterior steps to his apartment, it’s almost six. Although the apartments open to an outdoor corridor, the walkway smells of cat urine. I hear the faded roar of a television behind Abe’s door and hope I’m not interrupting dinner.

I knock and wait a minute. When Abe opens the door, he holds a cane in his left hand but greets me with a powerful handshake. “What’s it been? Twenty, thirty years?” he says, appraising my appearance like a butcher examining a side of beef. I half expect him to guess my weight.

“At least thirty,” I answer as he steps back to let me in. “You’re looking well. It’s nice to see you in good health.”

The apartment’s larger than I expect. The kitchen is no more than a single wall of appliances and cabinets with a dinette, but the living area is as big as my family room. A white leather couch occupies one wall. To its left sits a matching recliner and end table. Opposite the chair is a large-screen television, tuned to a football game with the sound off. The only object that distinguishes the apartment as Abe’s is an eight-by-ten studio shot of Abe and Betsy in their fifties on the end table. Otherwise the apartment feels as cold and impersonal as a budget motel lobby.

Abe hasn’t changed much, though I suppose he always looked old to me. His hair is completely silver, but he still has a full mane that he’s brushed back and left long at his nape. He flashes a familiar crooked grin when he sees me studying the photo. “Love of my life,” he says, easing himself into the recliner. “Passed away two years ago next month.”

I settle into the couch, offer my condolences.

We make small talk. “How’s your dad? Any kids? What’re you up to these days?” I tell him I’ve got two sons in college and that I write for a newspaper.

“I heard your Uncle Moe died young, what was he, thirty-five? A damn shame. You see your cousin much?” He watches me closely as he asks these questions and I assume he’s being tactful.

My uncle had a