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

in law enforcement then, but we had enough. Including a medical examiner with a gambling debt that disappeared after your uncle’s death. And if you’re thinking of going to the cops, forget it. The doctor died fifteen years ago.”

I’m panting as though I’ve run a marathon. As I catch my breath, I stare at Abe’s hands, still grasping his cane. His fingers are as crooked as the roots of a banyan tree and the knuckles look painfully swollen. The skin on the back of his hands is crepe paper thin and splotched with purple age spots.

I try to remember what I was told about Uncle Moe’s death. He died of a heart attack. Maybe so. But only after being brutally beaten. Then the implications sink in and my stomach heaves. My father let Moe deliver the money to these animals, knowing how they’d react when he came up short. Tootsie knew his brother would be beaten, maybe killed. Intentionally or not, Tootsie sent Moe to his death. My heart races and the knot between my shoulders spasms. My God. No wonder he didn’t leave his study for two weeks after his brother died. He couldn’t face anyone after what he’d done.

And how can I face him now?

When I look up, Abe’s contempt is tinged with satisfaction. I feel like lashing out at him. I don’t deserve his scorn. My father’s appalling behavior has nothing to do with me. What Tootsie did was the act of a monster, not the father I thought I knew. There’s no point in challenging Abe’s story. It’s too consistent with what I’ve learned about my father. A cold blue flame dances behind Abe’s pupils. He revels in my horror.

I grab my purse and run from the apartment, rattling the glass jalousies as I slam the door. My stomach heaves and my chest grows tight as I descend the concrete stairs. Before I reach the parking lot, I duck behind a hedge and throw up, hunched over, hands on my knees. Once. Twice. A third time. My body feels drained and my blouse is plastered to my back with sweat.

My father sent his brother to his death.

I can’t escape that reality. I crawl inside the car and cry for fifteen minutes before recovering enough to start the engine.

I want to run home and hide, to collapse on the couch with a blanket over my head. But halfway there I change my mind and, instead of taking a left toward my neighborhood, continue east on Glades. My heart races as I mount the I-95 ramp to Miami. Enough already. I’m fed up with my father’s lies. I’ve made too many excuses for his behavior. Why have I forgiven him? Because I’m desperate for his love and companionship. How pathetic does that make me? Esther’s right. The man is evil. I need to cut him out of my life.

I blast down I-95 in a whirlwind of rage. Damp hair plasters my skull and my eyes grow gritty from crying. When I arrive at the Schmuel Bernstein, the front porch is empty and I wave myself past the guard at the entrance. I get off the elevator at my father’s floor and find the long, narrow hallway deserted. The sound of my fist pounding on his door reverberates in the corridor. When Tootsie pulls it open, I collapse into him.

“What’s the big deal?” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me in. “What’s so awful you couldn’t wait?

“You,” I say. “I know the truth.”

His eyebrows rise and he steps back. “Calm down. You look like shit. I’ll get you a glass of water and we’ll talk.”

I sit at the kitchen table and watch him fill a blue plastic tumbler. His hand trembles and my anger flags as pity takes over. But I catch myself. That’s been my problem all along. He’s old. And vulnerable. And he knows how to manipulate me. I’ve been too willing to listen and forgive—and buy into his lies.

When he brings the glass, I take a sip and motion him to sit. He does so, slowly.

“I went to Abe’s today.” I keep my voice even. “He told me about Moe. Everything. Including how he died.”

Tootsie’s eyes narrow. We stare at each other for a few seconds. He leans forward as if to talk.

I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. Let me finish. Then you’ll have your say.”

He sags back in his seat and picks up a napkin.

I repeat what Abe said about Tootsie and Moe using their mob contacts to start a business, then failing to pay Landauer. As I speak, my father tears bits of napkin and rolls them into tiny balls. He looks through the sliding glass doors and at the floor, but never at me. When I tell him about Landauer beating Uncle Moe to death, his eyes redden. I don’t think he’d heard the details before. I feel a morose satisfaction in witnessing my father’s anguish.

When I’m through, I feel drained and empty. My father holds his head in his hands. He looks shrunken and old.

After a few minutes, he shakes his head. “Becks. Darling. There are a lot of things you don’t know. Things you can never understand.”

“So tell me,” I say. “Go ahead. Come up with an excuse for killing your brother. I’m dying to hear it.”

He takes a deep breath. “Your Uncle Moe.” He hesitates before starting again. “What I did was wrong, horribly wrong, but I couldn’t raise the cash and had no idea Landauer’d kill Moe. He was my own brother, for crying out loud. I’d never do anything to harm him.”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. I sit with my arms crossed on my chest.

“Sure I came up a little short but I ran all over town and called everyone I knew. I couldn’t come up with that kind of dough in the three lousy days Landauer gave us. He had to know that. I