The Last Collection

by Seymour Blicker

  “Without any questions,” Kerner replied.

  “How d’ya know dis, Kerner?”

  “Well, I ran into him by accident a few years ago when they were building phase two of the extension. We were both spending a week skiing up north at Gray Rocks Inn. I met him on the hill. Later we had a few drinks in the bar. We got friendly. One thing led to another. Before I knew it, he started suggesting that he could sell me some information on the extension. A week later I met him in the city. I paid him $4,000.00. He gave me what he called one zone. The new route passed right through the middle of it. I bought the land involved for $100.00 an acre. Three months later the government paid me $325.00 an acre. I made a profit of $22,000.00. I paid him ten percent.

  “Now there’s been talk of a new eighteen-mile extension. I know for a fact that it’s true. In a few months the government will start buying up the land. This guy is still in charge.”

  “What’s his name?” Big Moishie asked.

  “Guy Gervais.”

  “An dis guy is like de big cheese?” Solly asked.

  “Yes, he’s the head man.”

  “How do you know he can still be gotten to?” Moishie asked.

  “He called me a few weeks ago to ask if I wanted a piece of the new action. Since then I’ve been trying to get the money together. That’s why I couldn’t pay what I owe Hankleman.”

  “How did he come to you?” Big Moishie asked.

  “I told you. I met him at Gray Rocks and we got friendly and then he made me his proposal.”

  “Yes, I know that. What I mean is why he should have chosen to give this information to you.”

  “That’s very simple. He’s from a very old fancy-type family. Okay? But they haven’t got a cent to their name. And he likes money. But because of his name and who he is, everyone figures he doesn’t need the dough and can’t be bought. So no one ever approaches him. Right? And actually if anyone from his society, you know, the people he socializes with, did approach him, he wouldn’t deal with them anyways. That’s because he wants to keep his clean fancy image. You know what I mean? Among the high-class Québecois society. So what he does then is make his deals with a few guys like me, who have no real contact with his milieu. That way he figures he’ll keep his clean image with the people that he mixes with socially.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Big Moishie said. “So how does someone like me get to this guy? Do we have to go through you?”

  “No, not really. He’ll deal with anyone who identifies himself to him in the right way.”

  “What do you mean, the right way?”

  Kerner hesitated for a moment.

  “So c’mon, we’re waiting!” the Hawk snapped.

  “There’s a certain word . . . like a code word . . . that he gave me, and I guess to whoever else he deals with. If someone calls him and uses that word, then he knows what they want and so then he sets up a meeting with them.”

  “So what’s de code word?” the Hawk asked quietly.

  Kerner remained silent.

  “What’s the word?” Big Moishie asked.

  “If you use this information, could you cut me in?” Kerner asked.

  “Cut you in? I’ll cut yer troat!” the Hawk yelled and began slamming his palms together while Big Moishie began kicking his desk.

  Kerner screamed. “I’ll give you the word. I’ll give you the word. You’re breaking my arm! Okay! Leave me! I’ll tell you the word!”

  “All right, Solly. Leave him.”

  “Fucking mooch,” the Hawk muttered viciously.

  “Now what’s the word; or should I say, what’s the good word?” Big Moishie said with a chuckle.

  The Hawk laughed. “Yeah, give us de good word already.”

  “You almost broke my arm,” Kerner moaned.

  “Too bad!” the Hawk replied. “In anudder minute I’ll break boat of dem in tree places.”

  “So what’s the word, Kerner?” Big Moishie asked.

  “It’s not a word; it’s actually an expression.”

  “Okay, so give it.”

  “Québec sait faire.”

  “Quebec knows how?” Big Moishie asked.

  “Yes, but in French,” Kerner replied.

  “And then he sets up a meeting with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure we don’t need you to front for us?”

  “Yes. As long as you have the code word and the cash, he’ll be ready to deal with you direct.”

  “How come you didn’t tell dis ta Hankleman?”

  “Him! If he had given me half a chance I would have offered to pay him back double what I owed him; but he never gave me a chance to even open my mouth.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, for our sake we’re very glad he never gave you a chance to make that offer,” Big Moishie laughed.

  “It’s much better dis way, Kerner,” the Hawk said with a little cackle.

  “Yes, much better,” Big Moishie said. “We’re not anxious for Mr. Morrie Hankleman to make any extra money. It’s much better if we make it.”

  “Do you think I could get something out of this, if you use my information?” Kerner asked again, trying to inject a slight degree of hopefulness into his voice.

  “What do you think, Solly?”

  “I tink I don wanna discuss dat now. If we get in touch wid dis guy and everyting works out, den we’ll see. Not now. Now I don make no promises about nutting . . . except I’ll promise you if dis isn’t legit, you’ll wish you were never born. Right now, jus be satisfied dat you’re still in one piece. You got it?”

  “Yes,” Kerner said dejectedly.

  “Okay. Now give me all the information so I can take it down on paper,” Big Moishie said. “The guy’s name is Guy Gervais?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s the head of . . .?”

  “Of the Quebec Roads Planning Department,” Kerner answered.

  “Okay. Now where’s his office?”

  “In the Confederation Building on Bleury Street. Forty ten Bleury. The entire Roads Planning Department is in there on the second floor.”

  “And we reach him at the office?”

  “Yes, but only by phone.”

  “What’s the number there?”

  “Eight, four, nine, three, six, two, four.”

  “And where does he like to meet?”

  “He won’t meet you in his office. He lives up in Ste-Adèle. That’s where he has all his plans and everything. That’s where I dealt with him the last time around.”

  “What’s the address of his place there?”

  “It’s a hundred and eighty St. Hilaire Street in Ste-Adèle.”

  “So if we call him at de office like tomorrow, he’ll be ready ta talk business right away?” the Hawk asked.

  “Yes,” Kerner replied.

  “Is there anything else we should know about this deal?” Big Moishie asked.

  “No, you know all there is.”

  “Okay. Very good. This sounds very interesting.”

  “Maybe you could at least let me off for part of what I owe?”

  “Don push, Kerner. Don push,” the Hawk said. “So far we got nutting from you excep talk.”

  “Well, you will. This is legitimate.”

  “It better be or like I said before, you’re gonna be very sorry.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” the Hawk replied. “It’s you what gotta be worried if dis don werk out right.”

  “It’ll work out. . . . I just think it would be fair to let me off for something.”

  “Jus be tankful you’re still in one piece, my friend,” the Hawk sneered. “Now take a walk!”

  Kerner turned and headed for the door.

  “Don’t talk to anyone,” Big Moishie shouted. “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll be in touch with you soon, so be where you can be reached easily. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “That m
eans in town. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, here, the door’s unlocked, now goodbye,” Big Moishie said.

  “Yeah,” Kerner said disgustedly and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Big Moishie began to chuckle. Solly joined him. In a moment they were both laughing hard. They continued on this way for a short while. Finally Big Moishie said, “I think we have something very good here, Solly.”

  “It sounds very good to me.”

  “If this is legit, we can make a bundle.”

  “It’s legit. Did you see how scared he was? He was shaking like a leaf.”

  “Yeah, you gave him some good shots, Solly.”

  “I shoulda broken his arm,” the Hawk said angrily.

  “What for? He talked. If this isn’t legit, then you can put him in the hospital for a year. Now let’s go downstairs and have a coffee.”

  “Good idea,” the Hawk said.

  They walked out of the office and went downstairs where they could talk normally again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  As the tape ended, Morrie Hankleman began to laugh wildly.

  “I got them!” he yelled out loud. He slammed the side of his fist down hard on the arm of his chair. He jumped up and started pacing around the room.

  “I got them!” he shouted again. “I got them! I got them! I got them!”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Dr. Lehman leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips.

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. Kerner,” he said. “Quite a clever plan . . . this telephone gaff, as you call it . . . if it works.”

  “Well, it seems to be working so far,” Artie Kerner replied off-handedly.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. This morning Mr. Weisskopf phoned me to tell me that Hankleman had already called our . . . his man, Claude Lemay . . . the man he thinks is Mr. Guy Gervais, the head of the Roads Planning Department. They’ve already set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon at which time Hankleman will pay four thousand dollars for the plan of Weisskopf and Mandelberg’s land. So you can see that Hankleman has obviously fallen for the whole thing hook, line and sinker. It’s obvious he’s not wasting any time.”

  “No, he certainly isn’t,” Dr. Lehman agreed.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ll be personally delivering the plan of Mr. Weisskopf’s land to the phony Gervais tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh really?” Dr. Lehman said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “How is that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how is it that you’re delivering this plan?”

  “Oh. Well . . . I volunteered. As I told you, the meeting is up north, near Ste-Adèle. While I was talking to Weisskopf on the phone, he suddenly remembered that both he and his partner had a very important business appointment tomorrow morning. He realized that it could be a long, involved meeting. So I volunteered to do them a favour and deliver it up north for them. Why not? They’re both busy tomorrow and I had nothing to do. So why not do that little favour for them? It’s the least I can do after all they’ve done for me.”

  Dr. Lehman nodded thoughtfully, his chin resting in his hand.

  “Well . . . I’m not going to make any judgements about this whole thing . . . but . . . how do you personally feel about it?”

  “Me?” Kerner said.

  “No, me!” Dr. Lehman said sarcastically.

  Kerner smiled sheepishly. “Well . . . it’s certainly helping me out,” he said.

  “It’s helping you out?”

  “Yes,” Kerner replied.

  Dr. Lehman scratched his nose. “The other day you told me you were going to pay this Hankleman fellow back whatever you owed him. . . . Is that still the case?”

  “Of course. Certainly. This new development doesn’t change a thing for me. I’m going to pay back Hankleman every cent I owe him.”

  “That’s good. . . . Of course, it seems like Hankleman will end up getting screwed,” Dr. Lehman said.

  “Yes, I guess he will.”

  “And you have no thoughts on that?”

  “Well, no. I mean, I’m just repaying Weisskopf and Mandelberg for their favour to me.”

  “Their favour to you was to let you off for several thousand dollars. If I recall, they were to get about five and Hankleman eight. Right?”

  Kerner nodded.

  “So then, with that in mind, isn’t it possible that it might make more sense to simply give Weisskopf and his partner the five thousand dollars that they were prepared to forego and pay back Hankleman the eight that he was prepared to accept after he contracted Weisskopf? That way you wouldn’t owe anyone anything and you wouldn’t have to be a part of screwing this Hankleman. . . . Unless of course you want to screw him.”

  “No! I’m not interested in screwing him,” Kerner protested.

  “You’re not?”

  “No, definitely not. I told you. I’m just repaying their favour. How could I not?”

  “I don’t know. Did my suggestion seem that unreasonable?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Not really? . . . You mean, you’re not sure?”

  “No, I’m sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “I’m sure that your suggestion was reasonable.”

  “So?” Dr. Lehman asked.

  “So what?” Kerner replied.

  “So what do you think?”

  “What do you mean? About what?”

  “You know about what. About what I just suggested.”

  “You mean about Weisskopf and Hankleman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “So then to repeat my question: What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “A moment ago you said you were sure.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Are you sure about that, Doctor?”

  “I’m positive about that.”

  “I forgot what you said exactly. Could you repeat it, please?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because?”

  “Yes . . . because.”

  “Because what?”

  “Just because,” Dr. Lehman said angrily.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the office door.

  “Yes? Who is it?” Dr. Lehman said.

  “It’s me—Mrs. Griff. . . . Will my hour start on time today?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Griff,” Dr. Lehman shouted back with his hands cupped around his mouth.

  “Last time it started a half-hour late. Do you remember, Doctor?”

  Dr. Lehman didn’t reply at once. Instead he sat up in his seat and reaching into his desk drawer he withdrew a microphone. He pressed a switch on the control panel in front of him.

  “What are the chances of getting under way on time today, Doctor?” Mrs. Griff shouted through the door.

  Dr. Lehman held the mike up to his mouth and spoke into it. “I don’t know, Mrs. Griff. Let’s just play it by ear, shall we?”

  The sound of Dr. Lehman’s voice burst out of the dozen or so speakers concealed about the room with such startling intensity that Kerner almost yelled from the pain and shock. His hands flew to his ears.

  “We may end on time or we may go well over our hour, Mrs. Griff,” Dr. Lehman continued.

  “But that’s not exactly fair, Doctor, is it?” Mrs. Griff shouted back.

  Dr. Lehman grimaced angrily and fiddled with a knob on the control panel. “No, not exactly, Mrs. Griff,” he replied.

  The sound of his voice was now so overpowering that Kerner could feel his eardrums popping despite the fact that his hands were pressed tightly against his ears.

  “But that’s the way it is,” he added, and then fiddled with the dial once again.

  “I’ll do my best to finish on time with Mr. Kerner here, but if we have
to, we may go over the hour. Is that all right, Mrs. Griff?”

  Kerner could feel the floor shaking under him.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes, Doctor! That’s fine!” Mrs. Griff shouted back hysterically.

  Dr. Lehman played with the volume knob again. “So you don’t mind then?” he screamed into the microphone.

  Kerner was sure that the office walls were about to collapse. It was as though there was an earthquake all around him.

  “No! No! I don’t mind! Take all day! I don’t mind at all! Take a whole hour! It’s all right! I can wait! Take the whole day! Don’t worry about me!” Mrs. Griff screamed back.

  Dr. Lehman grunted, whistled and hissed into the mike several times. Then pressing the control switch, he put the microphone back into the desk drawer. He turned back to Artie Kerner, who now removed his hands from his ears.

  “I can’t stand so many questions,” Dr. Lehman said sourly.

  “No?” Kerner replied.

  “Mr. Kerner, control yourself,” Dr. Lehman said, his eyes narrowing.

  “What did I do?” Kerner exclaimed.

  “Enough questions, Mr. Kerner.”

  “What questions? Who’s asking questions?”

  “Let’s get back to what we were discussing, please,” Dr. Lehman said, rubbing his eyes and sighing wearily.

  “What was that?”

  Dr. Lehman reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white rectangular-shaped object. “Mr. Kerner, do you know what this is?”

  “No. Should I?”

  Dr. Lehman grimaced and clicked the gadget in his hand. “Four hundred and twenty-seven, “he muttered to himself.

  Kerner looked at the doctor quizzically.

  “This, Mr. Kerner, is an apparatus similar in concept to those used by baseball umpires for recording balls and strikes. . . . I use it for recording the number of questions asked by certain patients.”

  “Why?” Kerner responded.

  “Four hundred and twenty-eight,” Dr. Lehman muttered, clicking the device again. “You, Mr. Kerner, up to this moment in five sessions with me have asked a total of four hundred and twenty-eight questions. That means four hundred and twenty-eight questions in a period of five hours. That means approximately one question every four seconds.”

  “That much?”

  “Four hundred and twenty-nine,” Dr. Lehman said, ignoring Kerner and clicking the white plate. “I have had people committed for far less than that,” he continued. “It is a theory of mine that certain relationships can be made between the number of questions asked by certain people within a given period of time and the degree of their sickness. I won’t go into it now, but for the sake of fairness let me say that if, by the time you leave here today, this little meter registers . . . say . . . five hundred . . . I may begin to have serious doubts about you. So with that in mind, let’s get back to what we were involved with.”