The Last Collection

by Seymour Blicker

“You never heard of him? Eh! You’re full of shit. You heard of him plenty! You probably heard of him so much that he’s coming out of your ears. Right?!”

  “I don’t know who he is,” Artie Kerner said mournfully.

  “Well, if you don’t know, believe me you’re going to know. . . . He’s a collector, you know? You know what I mean? A strong-arm man. A goon. He’s a killer. A ruthless psychopath who would just as soon kill you as say hello to you. For fifty bucks he’ll put you in the hospital for a year. And I’ll tell you, I’m paying him a lot more than fifty bucks. He’s going to come and see you. He’s going to come and have a little talk with you. And, believe me, if you don’t come across, you can kiss your ass goodbye. That’s all I want to tell you. I give you twenty-four hours more and after that, goodbye!”

  Artie Kerner felt his heart quicken. He wanted to say something further to Morrie Hankleman, to make him believe that he wasn’t a dishonest man, that he would repay him in full if given a chance; but in an instant, Morrie Hankleman was gone.

  Artie Kerner felt a wave of depression and nausea sweep over him. He was frightened. Then suddenly his foot knocked against the package on the floor. He reached down and picked it up. He quickly began to unwrap it. He removed all the paper and lifted the cover of the exposed box. He looked inside and a smile broke across his face.

  Chapter Ten

  Morrie Hankleman spied a pay phone just around the corner from Artie Kerner’s office. He stopped his car, got out and went into the booth. He dialed the number of Ogilvy’s. Identifying himself as Mr. Arthur Kerner, he explained that he had recently ordered an item for $400.00 which was to have been delivered to his office that day but hadn’t come as yet. Would they be kind enough to tell him when it would arrive. He waited as the sales clerk went to check. A moment later he was informed that the crystal statuette which he had ordered had gone out that morning. It should be arriving momentarily. Morrie Hankleman hung up the phone and walked back to his car. He smiled viciously to himself. Artie Kerner’s new calculator for the office turns out to be a crystal statuette.

  Morrie Hankleman felt much better. Artie Kerner was trying to burn him. There was no longer any doubt about that. When a man who owed close to $13,000.00 claimed he was broke and then went out and spent $400.00 on a crystal statuette, there was no doubt he was a cheat.

  Morrie Hankleman gritted his teeth and depressed the accelerator of his big Mercedes. He peeled around the corner of Park Avenue, heading for the Mountain Road. Ahead of him an old man was hobbling across the street against the red light. Hankleman accelerated and veered the car towards the man, blasting on the horn. The old man made a stumbling, panicky dash for the curb.

  Hankleman slowed the car and stuck his head out the window. “Get off the road, you fucking old arsehole!” he cursed.

  The old man reached the safety of the sidewalk, turned and shook a feeble fist at Hankleman. “Netzi!” he shouted.

  “Up your ass, you alte cocker!” Hankleman screamed. He floored the car and roared up the Mountain Road, laughing.

  Fucking old people, he thought. They should all be kept out of sight or put to sleep. He couldn’t stand the sight of them. They were all ugly, weak, senile. He could feel his ulcer pain beginning to gnaw at him again.

  A sneer formed on his face as his thoughts went back to Kerner. That fucking Kerner! He was probably laughing at him at that very moment. Laughing at how he was shafting Morrie Hankleman. Solly Weisskopf and his fat partner were probably laughing at him too. Laughing at how they were going to collect almost five thousand dollars because Morrie Hankleman was a stupid shmuck who couldn’t control his own business affairs. Why had he gone to those hoodlums? he cursed himself. He knew why he had gone to them. He had first thought of simply hiring a goon off the streets for a hundred dollars but he had been afraid. He had been afraid because of the very reasons mentioned by Moishie Mandelberg. An amateur couldn’t be trusted. He had known that before Mandelberg had mentioned it to him. There was always the chance that an amateur could run into trouble and under a little pressure from the police he would spill his guts about who had hired him. Then he, Morrie Hankleman, would be in big trouble.

  But now he realized that had he not made a deal for collection with Solly Weisskopf, he would hire a couple of goons and take his chances. Now that the collection had been arranged and he knew that he would only get back sixty-five percent of what was owed, he knew what he should have done and what he would do if he could do it over again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. He had made a deal and for the next month he was bound by it. There was always the chance that his talk with Kerner would yield some positive results but it was highly unlikely. He knew for certain that Kerner was trying to burn him. He had the feeling that Kerner was doing it just for the sake of doing it—because it probably gave him pleasure.

  The sneer stayed on Morrie Hankleman’s face. He ripped the big Mercedes up the Mountain Road, his hands clenched on the wheel.

  He pictured Solly Weisskopf and Moishie Mandelberg convulsed with laughter as they talked about him. He was sure from the ache in his gut that his ulcers were now bleeding. He didn’t like the way Mandelberg had spoken to him. Who did he think he was? He was a hood, a criminal, a con man.

  Hankleman suddenly became aware of a hitchhiker standing up ahead on the roadside. He smiled grimly to himself as he noticed that the hiker was a fat girl with a big camper’s knapsack strapped on her back. Hankleman began to chuckle as he drove by the girl.

  When he was about a hundred feet or so past her, Hankleman jammed on his brakes and let out a sharp blast on the car horn, then turned to watch the girl who was now looking up the road towards him. Hankleman opened his car door and got out. He began motioning for the hiker to hurry along. As the girl began to run up the slope, Hankleman got back into the car and watched as she trundled towards him, panting under the load of her knapsack.

  Hankleman watched as she approached, wheezing with exhaustion but smiling. When she was within fifty feet of the car, Hankleman began to drive away very slowly, watching the girl through his rear-view mirror. She continued to follow the car, which Hankleman kept just twenty feet or so ahead of her.

  Maybe he would be able to break his record with this girl, he thought. He had once kept a fat girl hitchhiker, fully loaded with camping gear, chasing his car over hilly terrain for three-quarters of a mile before she collapsed from exhaustion. He was sure at that time that if she hadn’t run out of steam he could have kept her going for two or three miles.

  For Hankleman that incident had proved that people will go to incredible lengths to deny that they have been fooled. He would never allow himself to be so stupid. Now he grinned as he watched the girl struggling up the hill after his car. He looked at his mileage indicator. So far he had kept her running only about one-tenth of a mile. Suddenly the girl drew up and began waving a heavy fist in the air. Hankleman turned to watch as she collapsed wearily in a heap by the road’s shoulder and rolled over on her side.

  Hankleman accelerated and drove quickly away, laughing crazily. After a minute his laughter subsided and his thoughts went back to Solly Weisskopf and Moishie Mandelberg. They were probably still laughing at him, he thought. Five thousand dollars down the drain! There was nothing he could do about it. Unless of course, for some reason, they were unable to collect within the thirty days. That thought gave Hankleman a sudden lift, but it lasted only for a moment because he immediately realized that if a pro like Solly the Hawk failed to collect in thirty days, then certainly no one else would succeed, especially not an amateur goon off the streets.

  In any case, there was no sense in even thinking about it because the man they called Solly the Hawk would collect and Hankleman was sure he would manage it long before the end of the thirty-day period. He was a professional strong-arm man and he would use every trick in the book, including violence, to get what he was after. No matter that Mandelberg had said that they never resorted to violence. He didn’t expect them to
admit to laying on muscle but he knew they would and with very little urging. No, they would collect all right, unless Artie Kerner died or went into hiding. . . .

  What if he, Morrie Hankleman, forced Kerner into hiding or into leaving town until the expiry of the thirty days!

  For another instant, Hankleman’s spirits were raised, but again they quickly fell as he realized the implications of this idea. Since he had already threatened Kerner without success, threats would obviously not be sufficient to make him leave town; and even if the threats were successful and Kerner did leave town, who was to say he would return in thirty days, if he returned at all. The only way he could be assured of keeping Kerner out of Solly Weisskopf’s reach for the thirty-day period and still retain some control over the situation would be if he were to have Kerner abducted and kept on ice somewhere. No! That would leave him open to a charge of kidnapping. That could mean life in prison if anything went wrong and, besides, the price of such an operation would probably cost him just as much as Solly Weisskopf’s commission. It was all getting too involved and Hankleman put a hand to his stomach to ease the pain.

  What if Kerner decided to blow town on his own? Hankleman thought suddenly. A chill passed through his body. Kerner obviously had other creditors after him. He had no family ties in Montreal. The chances were he was already planning to get out. It would be his luck that Kerner would blow town just before Solly Weisskopf came calling. Then he’d spend the next twenty-five years in some other country laughing and talking about how he had burned this dumb shmuck Morrie Hankleman back in Montreal.

  Hankleman could feel his teeth grinding again. He had to make sure that Kerner didn’t leave town. Somehow he had to keep tabs on him. Yes, he had to know where he was at any given moment.

  Hankleman slammed his palm down hard on the steering wheel. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

  Chapter Eleven

  Teddy Regan was staring up at the T.V. set on the far wall of the Ace Tavern. He tilted his glass of draught beer and downed the contents in one long swallow. He placed the empty glass down with the two dozen others that filled the entire centre of the table. He shifted his two-hundred-pound bulk in his chair.

  “That’s twenty-five candles, Jerry,” he said to the smaller man seated opposite him.

  Jerry Shmytxcyk just scowled.

  “What the fuck’s buggin’ you?” Teddy Regan asked.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothin’, eh? You’ve been pissed off all night.”

  Jerry Shmytxcyk hunched forward over the table. “Yeah, okay,” he said, nodding his head. “I’m pissed off. Yeah. You know why?”

  “No, why?”

  “I’m gettin’ pissed off because I been gettin’ us all the work. I got us the last three jobs.”

  “So what?”

  “So I oughta get more than half of what we get paid.”

  “Hey, fuck off, eh!” Regan snarled. “You’re just fucking lucky you got me ta do these guys with you. You couldn’t handle any of em by yourself.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, prickface. What happened last week with that frog that we did in Pointe-aux-Trembles? Eh? . . . He would have fucking killed you if I hadn’t been there.”

  “I was handling him pretty good.”

  “Fuck you, ya were. . . . He was kickin’ the shit outa you.”

  Shmytxcyk grimaced and made no reply.

  “You couldn’t even break his arm like you were supposed to,” Regan continued, pointing a thick finger in his friend’s face. “I had ta bust it for you. Christ! Three fucking whacks with the big bat and you didn’t even make a dent in him.”

  “I was tired that day. Fuck! I’d been up drinkin’ all night. I had a bad hangover.”

  “So did I. I was tired as shit but I bust his arm without even tryin’. We wouldn’ta got paid if I hadn’t bust it. Okay? So don’t gimmie that shit about gettin’ more money.”

  Teddy Regan turned away from his friend and signalled for the waiter. “Six more draught over here!” he shouted, holding up five fingers.

  “Why don’t you get us a fucking job, eh?” Jerry Shmytxcyk asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. I got the word out we’re available. I got the word out with the big boys. Not those small-time fuckers that you know. Fifty bucks for bustin’ up a guy,” Regan said, spitting disgustedly on the floor. “That’s bird shit! . . . Don’t you worry about it. I got the word out to the right people and when they start callin’ we’ll be gettin’ big bucks. . . . Maybe two, three hundred for a job. . . . You fucking wait and see.”

  “Well, I ain’t fucking seen nothin’ yet,” Shmytxcyk countered glumly.

  The waiter appeared and put the six draughts on the table. He then began removing some of the empty glasses.

  “Leave the fucking candles alone, eh,” Regan said.

  “Sorry,” the waiter replied and put the glasses back.

  “Pay em for the beer, Jerry.”

  “Hey, fuck! I paid for the last round,” Shmytxcyk complained.

  “I don’t give a shit. Just pay em.”

  “I’m always payin’.”

  “Will ya just fucking pay em.”

  “Okay, okay,” Shmytxcyk said. He pulled some change out of his pocket, counted it and threw it on the waiter’s tray. The waiter walked away.

  “That’s six fucking rounds I paid for. . . . You only took two.”

  Teddy Regan ignored his friend’s remark. He turned away and looked around the tavern.

  “I’m always payin’ double,” Shmytxcyk said.

  Regan turned back towards Shmytxcyk. “Look at that prick there.”

  “Where?” Shmytxcyk asked, looking around.

  “There,” he said, pointing at a young man seated a few tables away.

  “Oh yeah . . . I see him. So what?”

  “He looks like a fucking queer,” Regan said.

  “Yeah, he does,” Shmytxcyk replied.

  “What the fuck’s he doin’ in here? Why don’t they stay in their own bars.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re all over the place.”

  “Yeah.”

  Teddy Regan drained another glass of beer and slammed it down on the table. “They oughta stay in their own fucking bars.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like ta punch him out.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Let’s punch the fucking shit out of em.”

  “Okay.”

  Teddy Regan turned his chair to the side. “Don’t make it too fucking obvious. Let’s try and make it look like he started it.“

  Shmytxcyk nodded in agreement.

  Regan turned in the direction of the man. “Hey, queer!” he shouted.

  The young man looked up.

  Teddy Regan and Jerry Shmytxcyk began throwing glasses at him.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I hope you realize how lucky you are that I’m seeing you after your rude behaviour last time, Mr. Kerner,” Dr. Lehman said, lying back on his big leather chair.

  “Yes, I’m really grateful to you, Doctor,” Artie Kerner replied from where he sat on his little chair in the centre of Dr. Lehman’s gigantic office.

  “You should be grateful,” Dr. Lehman said matter-of-factly as he put his legs up on the desk top and crossed them. “I have people breaking my door down to see me. Serious people who want help.”

  “I realize that and I’m really sorry about the way I left the other day.”

  “I’ll accept your apology and now, just before we begin, let’s establish that my new rate for you is $60.00 an hour. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes. All right,” Kerner replied. He wasn’t going to argue. He had to put his faith in the doctor and hope for the best.

  “Now,” said the doctor, “we were able to establish in our last session that you were a pervert . . .”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not a pervert. I said I was addicted.”

  “Look, Mr. Kerner, don’t start
with me, okay? If I want to think that you’re a pervert, then I’m entitled to think that you’re a pervert. I’m the doctor, not you!”

  Kerner nodded and made a conscious effort to say nothing.

  “So, as I was saying before you opened your big mouth, I was able to establish, despite all your attempts at concealment, that you had a strange perversion which had to do with some form of addiction. I was also able to establish, if you remember, through some sharp Socratic questioning, that your addiction did not involve drug abuse. Am I right so far, Mr. Kerner?”

  “Yes,” Kerner said.

  The doctor suddenly began spinning himself in his chair like a top. After several seconds he stopped and jumped out of his seat. He walked over to the pond area and seated himself at a table located next to the little thatched-roof hut. Motioning to Kerner, he said, “Perhaps you’d like to join me over here, Mr. Kerner.”

  Kerner got up and went over to the table. He stretched his legs and looked up at the large, coloured sun umbrella mounted above the table.

  “Sit down, please.”

  Kerner sat.

  “Now then, let’s begin, shall we?”

  Kerner started to relate his problem. “Well, you see . . . at one time I had quite a bit of money and I didn’t . . .”

  “You had money?” the doctor snapped. “So big deal, you had money,” he said with a sarcastic sneer. “I don’t need you to tell me about money. Do you know how much I make in a year?”

  “No,” Kerner said, beginning to feel strange again and trying to keep calm.

  “No, I didn’t think you would know. You wouldn’t believe it. So I’ll tell you. I made three hundred thousand this year. Three hundred biggees; and that’s from working only ten months. I take off two months to travel each year. Okay? So don’t talk to me about money because I can probably buy and sell you. I’m in everything—real estate, oil, stocks, gold. You name it, I’m into it. I have a finger in every pie. I’m like a bloody financial wizard. I’m like a money-making machine. I’m some kind of genius! Okay, now go on with your problem, Mr. Kerner.”