The Last Collection

by Seymour Blicker

  “Oh! Busfare! Sure I remember Busfare,” the Hawk said, nodding vigorously.

  “Right . . . Busfare,” Big Moishie said.

  “Was dat him on de phone?”

  “Yes. He says he has a favour to repay me. Some important information. He wants to come up here right away.”

  “So he’s coming?”

  “Yes, he’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

  “I wonder what he has?”

  Big Moishie shrugged. There was no sense in even trying to speculate about what information Busfare might be bringing him.

  “I remember him when he was about sixteen or seventeen. He climbed up on de cross on Mount Royal and turned off some lights so it spelled out ‘Fuck.’ You remember dat, Moishie?”

  “Yes, I remember. It made the third page of the Star.”

  “He was always doing someting a liddle bit different, eh, Moishie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder what he’s got?”

  Big Moishie shrugged indifferently once again. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said, and getting up from his seat he began pacing about the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Artie Kerner stood in front of La Galerie d’Or making a last ditch effort to control himself and hoping that Dr. Lehman would meet him there as he had promised.

  Kerner looked at his watch. It was two-fifteen. He had done well, exceeding by far the limit of restraint that he had thought was possible.

  He looked up and down Sherbrooke Street for some sign of Dr. Lehman. Then he looked up into the large show window of La Galerie d’Or. He could see one of Verland’s bronzes there. Kerner knew he could not hold out anymore. It was too much. Too much for anyone. Perhaps tomorrow he could progress a bit further. Eventually he would beat his addiction, but today he was through.

  He scanned the street again for Dr. Lehman. Then he rushed up the stairs into La Galerie d’Or.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Where’s our six draught?” Teddy Regan shouted at the waiter. He turned back towards the T.V. set.

  “We really worked that queer over the other day, eh, Teddy?” Jerry Shmytxcyk said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You really got em good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was fucking tough for a queer, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t a queer.”

  “He was. Every time I hit em, he kept tryin’ to grab me by the balls.”

  The waiter placed another six draughts of beer down on the table.

  “Pay em for the beer, Jerry,” Teddy Regan said.

  “Hey, fuck! I paid for the last three rounds.”

  “Will you just pay him!”

  “That’s my fourth round,” Shmytxcyk protested.

  “Tough shit! Just pay em,” Regan said and turned back towards the T.V. set.

  Shmytxcyk grudgingly reached into his pocket, extracted a handful of change and threw it onto the waiter’s tray. “I’m always fucking paying,” he complained.

  “Hey, will you shut up! I’m trying ta watch this program.”

  “Who gives a shit?” Shmytxcyk said.

  “I do.”

  “Yeah! Well, I don’t.”

  “Too fucking bad!”

  “It’s too fucking bad for you because I’m gonna change the fucking channel!”

  “If you change the channel before I find out if she wins the fucking washing machine, then you’re dead, Jerry.”

  “Fuck you, I’m changin’ it.”

  Jerry Shmytxcyk got up and headed for the T.V. set. He placed a chair under the set and got up on it. A patron sitting a few feet away suddenly shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m changing the channel,” Shmytxcyk replied.

  “Hold on. I wanna see her win the washing machine,” the man called out.

  “I don’t give a shit about her washing machine!” Jerry Shmytxcyk retorted.

  “Don’t change that fucking channel, buddy,” the man said threateningly.

  “Change the channel!” Teddy Regan suddenly yelled from the back of the room.

  Jerry Shmytxcyk changed the channel and got down from the chair. He walked back to his table.

  “Who was that prick?” Regan asked.

  “I dunno. Just some prick.”

  “He’s got a fucking big mouth.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to punch that prick out.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” Shmytxcyk said, looking at his friend.

  “Hey, prick!” Regan suddenly shouted.

  The man turned hesitantly towards Regan and Shmytxcyk. They began heaving chairs at him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Whatever it was that Mendy Garelick had to tell Big Moishie, he was coming around to it very slowly, leading up to it step by step.

  First he inquired about Moishie’s and Solly’s health, then he moved on to ask about their wives. After that, Busfare talked a bit about his own children and how they were growing up and so on. Then he slipped back three years and explained how, after he had been acquitted due to Big Moishie’s generosity, he kicked around aimlessly for almost a year looking for something to get into.

  He explained how he finally got a few dollars together and became involved as a partner with a private investigation firm in the East-End of the city. At this point he paused, as though savouring the last remaining moments of his indebtedness to Moishie Mandelberg.

  “We handle anything you can think of,” Busfare said.

  “I see,” Moishie Mandelberg said.

  “It’s very rare that we get any work from the English-speaking side of the city. Our clientele is mostly French.”

  “I see,” Big Moishie repeated with a little nod.

  Solly dragged on his cigarette.

  “Just the other day, though, we got a call from a guy who wanted someone tailed.” Busfare paused again.

  “Yeah, so?” the Hawk said quietly.

  “So that’s why I wanted to talk to Moishie. I never forgot what you did for me, Moishie, so now maybe I can do something for you.”

  Big Moishie said nothing. He just kept his eyes fixed on Mendy Garelick and puffed on his cigar.

  “This guy wanted someone tailed. . . . Okay. So we put a tail on the guy and we gave him a report on the guy’s activities the same night. I mean, I wasn’t handling this. It was all arranged by my partner, Armand Lachaine, but I look at all the files on any job we do. Anyway, the morning after we gave him the report, this guy calls back and tells us that now he needs an office bugged. My partner tells him okay and he takes down all the information. Then he gives it over to me because I’m the one who arranges for that kind of thing.

  “Now I study the information. There’s no name of who owns the office that we have to do. Just the address. But I always like to know where I’m going, which I think is a wise policy. So I check out the address in Lovell’s directory and I see that the address is listed as being rented by Mountbatten Holdings Limited, which is you and Solly.”

  Mendy Garelick stopped talking. Big Moishie continued to puff on his cigar and said nothing. The Hawk remained silent as well.

  “I don’t know what this guy’s interest is in you but I figured I had to let you know.”

  “Who is it?” Moishie Mandelberg asked.

  “The guy’s name is Morrie Hankleman.”

  “Jee-sus Christ!” the Hawk said incredulously.

  “And the guy he had tailed the first day was who? Arthur Kerner?” Big Moishie asked.

  “Yes. Right. How did you know?” Busfare asked.

  “I’m starting to see the picture,” Big Moishie said, leaning his chin in his hand and ignoring Busfare’s question.

  “I hope this information will help you,” Busfare said.

  “Yes. This is very good.”

  “I just figured . . . you know . . . forewarned is forearmed, as they say.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s true,” Big Moi
shie muttered, hardly listening. He turned to Solly. “Didn’t I tell you about this Hankleman?”

  “It’s like a joke. Like he’s not fer real, dis Hankleman,” the Hawk replied.

  “Oh, he’s for real all right. He’s a mooch. He didn’t trust us from the minute he left our office when he first came to see us. A guy like that doesn’t trust anyone. He wouldn’t trust his own mother and father. I spotted him for a yentz the minute he walked into our office and opened his mouth. Do you see the picture, Solly?”

  “Yeah, I tink I see it. He musta got it in his head dat we were gonna like do a number on him wid Kerner. Like maybe make de collection and make Kerner disappear, or maybe even make a deal wid Kerner.”

  “Right,” Moishie said. “Something like that.”

  “A fucking mooch,” the Hawk cursed.

  Big Moishie turned to Busfare. “When is your man supposed to plant this bug?”

  “He’s supposed to come in tonight and plant it. He’ll pick up anything that goes on in here on tape. Then, at noontime tomorrow, he’s supposed to bring the first tape to Hankleman’s office. In other words, Hankleman wants to know what’s going on every five or six hours.”

  “De man is a messhug.”

  “Yeah, he is, but he went a little too far,” Big Moishie said, scowling. “He went just a little bit too far.”

  “If you want, I can cancel this job, or you can just stay out of your office while it’s bugged. I can let you know when it’s clean. You just tell me what you want.”

  Moishie Mandelberg gazed down at his desk as though thinking. After a moment, he looked up. “You say your man is going to plant the bug tonight?”

  “Yes. He’ll come in around eleven, twelve. You know, maybe with the cleaning staff.”

  “Okay. Let it ride like nothing happened, and tell your man that if he has any trouble getting into our office, I’ll come down personally and open the door for him. Just let it ride. Okay?”

  “Fair enough,” Busfare said with a grin. “I won’t ask you what you’re going to do but, knowing you, I’m sure it’ll be one for the books.”

  “I’m not sure yet myself what I’m going to do but, between me and Solly here, we’ll think of something.”

  Big Moishie looked over at Solly the Hawk. “What d’you think, Solly?”

  The Hawk stared back at his partner with a sour grin on his face. “Nutting ta worry,” he said. “Nutting ta worry.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Oh, Mr. Kerner. How nice to see you again so soon. Can I help you?” Mrs. Crawford, the owner of La Galerie d’Or, asked.

  “No, it’s all right, thanks. I’m just browsing today,” Kerner replied, struggling to keep a smile on his face in spite of the cramps in his stomach.

  “I remember you mentioning an interest in one of Verland’s bronzes when you were in last week. Mr. Verland is in the gallery today if you’d care to meet him.”

  Kerner nodded. “Sure, I’d love to meet him.”

  “Oh, fine. He’s around somewhere. I’ll just go and track him down. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “Fine,” Kerner grunted.

  Mrs. Crawford walked away towards the back studio.

  Kerner put a hand to his stomach. He knew he would have to make a buy soon. He was trying desperately not to give in but he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. Still, he had put up one hell of a good fight. He never would have believed that he was capable of such self-control. He felt proud even though he knew he was just about finished.

  The nausea was getting worse. Kerner looked around for the bathroom. He wanted to know exactly where it was in case he had to make a sudden dash for it. He was at the breaking point. But still he knew he had done well and was certain he was on his way to conquering the strange addiction which had been his master for so many months now. Even though he would have to make a buy, his expenditures for that particular day would be significantly less than they had been in a long time.

  If only Dr. Lehman would show up. He had promised to do his best to get down there but he was already half an hour late. Why wasn’t he coming? Artie Kerner wondered, starting to feel angry. With the psychiatrist’s assistance, it might be possible to get over the hump and not have to buy anything. If he could just hold on for another ten or fifteen minutes, maybe Dr. Lehman would show up and help him.

  He prayed that he wouldn’t throw up. Suddenly he was aware of Mrs. Crawford approaching. She came up to him.

  “I told Mr. Verland that you were interested in that bronze, Mr. Kerner. He’d very much like to meet you.” She took Kerner by the arm. “He’s in the back studio with some of his pieces.” Mrs. Crawford began leading Kerner towards the back of the gallery.

  It’s all over, Kerner thought. The moment he laid his eyes on the bronze, he would be finished. He could feel his insides constricting. With great effort, he forced himself more-or-less erect and walked along with Mrs. Crawford. She led him into the back studio.

  Where the hell is Dr. Lehman? Kerner wondered. He looked into the room. His eyes immediately centred in on the bronze. It rested on a desk-high pedestal on the left side of the studio. Next to it stood a gangling man of about fifty, dressed in a jean suit. Mrs. Crawford approached the sculptor, dragging Kerner along with her.

  “This is the gentleman I was telling you about, Mr. Verland. Mr. Kerner, Mr. Verland.”

  Kerner’s head was spinning. He had a great urge to scream, Okay, I’ll buy it! I’ll buy it!

  “Yes. How do you do,” the sculptor said, extending a white-gloved hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” Kerner replied, taking Verland’s hand.

  “Well, I’ll just leave you two gentlemen to talk by yourselves,” Mrs. Crawford said with a smile. She turned and walked away.

  “So, I understand you like this piece here,” Verland said, releasing Kerner’s hand and pointing to the sculpting.

  Kerner nodded, afraid to speak. He knew he was going to be sick and the more he thought about it, the sicker he felt. He had to talk, not think. Maybe he should ask the sculptor about his work. Perhaps he’d have some interesting things to say about his techniques. They might be really fascinating and hearing about them might distract him.

  “I’m curious to know how you work with these bronzes,” Kerner said.

  “Oh, yes. Very good,” the sculptor said enthusiastically. “I’ll tell you. It’s very difficult what I do. No one else can do it. You see, it’s my own invention. I thought it up all by myself. I can’t tell you too much about it, you understand. Just the superficial idea. Don’t get me wrong. Don’t misunderstand. But it’s a very valuable idea. I’m getting it patented. But even if I told you, I don’t know if you’d understand it. It’s very complicated. Very tricky. No one else can do it. You follow?”

  Kerner tried to pay attention to the man’s patter but it was just a drone in his head. His eyes were fixed on the sculptor’s mouth, which now seemed like some strange pink squirming tire tube. Kerner put a hand to his head and tried to concentrate on what the man was saying.

  “. . . Don’t get me wrong. But this is something very new. You follow? Never been done. They all want to know. They come to me. Every day they come. They all want to know. From everywhere they come. From England, from France. Every day. From Germany, Sweden, you name it. They all want to know. ‘How do you do it?’ they ask. ‘Tell me what’s the secret,’ they say. ‘Let us in on it. What is it?’ . . . You follow?”

  Kerner rubbed his eyes which were now almost completely out of focus, and the thought occurred to him that this man’s mouth might succeed in hypnotizing him where Dr. Lehman had failed. Again he heard the scream inside his head: I’ll buy it! I’ll buy it! How much? The more this yell banged around in his head, the more nauseous he felt. The yell kept turning one way and the sculptor’s mouth kept spinning the other way. Kerner tried to concentrate on the man’s words.

  “. . . So that’s it, Mr. Kerner. But, anyway, that’s enough of me talking about me and my scu
lpting. Now let’s hear what you think about us,” Verland said, resting a gloved hand on the bronze.

  Kerner was about to reply when he heard a booming shout.

  “Hold everything!” Dr. Lehman called, striding into the room. He came up alongside Kerner. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “Thanks for coming,” Kerner said.

  “Have you bought anything yet?”

  “No, not yet, but I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”

  “Who’s this?” Dr. Lehman said, pointing at Verland.

  “This is Mr. Verland, the sculptor.”

  “How do you do, sir,” Verland said, extending his hand.

  “What the hell is that?” Dr. Lehman asked angrily.

  “Oh. That’s my special glove for touching my works.”

  “Well, you can touch your works with it but don’t try to touch me with it. I don’t shake hands with gloves.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll take it off.”

  “It’s too late. You should have taken it off before. Now I don’t want to shake hands with you,” Dr. Lehman said curtly, turning away to face Kerner. “So how are we doing, Kerner?”

  “I don’t think I can hold out any longer.”

  “Just hang in there.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Well, try harder.”

  “I am. I am. But it’s very difficult.”

  “And just what is so attractive in here that’s making it so difficult to resist?”

  Kerner pointed at the bronze next to him. “That piece of sculpting.”

  “That?!” Dr. Lehman gasped.

  Kerner nodded.

  “You call that a sculpting? That piece of shit?!”

  “Excuse me, sir . . .” Verland began in an angry tone, but Dr. Lehman cut him off.

  “I’ve seen better sculpting done by chimpanzees using balls of elephant crap.”

  Kerner blanched and threw a furtive look at Verland whose eyes were now bulging out of his head.

  “I must interject here, sir,” Verland said.

  Dr. Lehman ignored him and turned away so that his back was completely towards the sculptor.