The Last Collection

by Seymour Blicker

  “I think you’re getting a little high, Morrie, aren’t you?” the young woman named Linda said.

  “No, no, I never get drunk,” Hankleman replied seriously. “I can drink all day and all night and nothing happens.”

  “Do you ever get a hangover?” Linda asked.

  Hankleman shook his head. “Never. . . . I don’t know what a hangover is.”

  “God, are you lucky,” the other woman named Fran said.

  Hankleman shrugged. “It’s just one of those things, right, Eugene?” he said with a sly smile.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Carlin replied.

  “I had such a bad hangover last Saturday, I thought I was going to die,” Fran said.

  “Did you ever try those new anti-hangover pills?” Carlin asked.

  “Yes, they don’t work at all,” she replied.

  “All they do is make you want to throw up,” Linda added.

  “Fluids are the best thing,” Fran said.

  “Fluids?” Carlin asked.

  “Yes. If you’ve had a lot to drink, then just before going to sleep, you force yourself to drink as much water or juice as possible. That way you don’t get dehydrated during the night. It’s the dehydration that gives you the hangover.”

  “Where did you learn that?” Carlin asked.

  “From my ex-husband. He had a lot of experience since he spent most of his time drinking and throwing up.”

  “He sounds like he’d go well with my wife,” Morrie Hankleman said. “She’s very good at eating and retching.”

  “You sound somewhat bitter, Morrie,” Linda said.

  “Bitter? Not at all. I’m not the slightest bit bitter. I’m just speaking factually. . . . If she wasn’t eating and retching, she was sleeping and retching. If she wasn’t sleeping and retching, she was playing golf and retching. If she wasn’t playing golf and retching, she was playing bridge and retching. If she wasn’t playing bridge and retching, she was doing something else and retching. But don’t think I’m bitter. I’m just stating a fact,” Hankleman said.

  Everyone just stared at Hankleman without saying anything.

  “And if she wasn’t retching, she was kvetching,” Hankleman added.

  “Kvetching?” Linda asked.

  “It’s just a different way of retching,” Carlin offered.

  Linda nodded understandingly.

  “It’s retching with words,” Hankleman said.

  “Or you could say that retching is non-verbal kvetching,” Carlin offered.

  “That’s good,” Hankleman said. “That’s very good, Eugene. I like that.”

  He downed the last of the Scotch in his glass and signalled the waiter.

  “I always say it takes two to tangle,” Linda offered. “There’s always two sides to every story . . . at least most of the time. Ninety-nine percent of the time. Oh, I guess it’s possible that there’s that one percent situation where one person is mostly at fault, but I would think that generally for every bad thing a husband says about his wife, his wife can add something to match about her husband. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Is that a question or a lecture, Linda?” Hankleman asked.

  “It’s just a theory of mine,” she replied.

  “Well . . . you could be right . . . but in my case I happen to fall into that one percent category.”

  Linda and Fran exchanged a quick glance across the table. The look wasn’t lost on Hankleman. He raised his hand and snapped his finger at the waiter who was passing by. The waiter turned and Hankleman lifted his empty glass, signalling that he wanted another. He put the glass down and looked at Linda who was engaged in a conversation with her friend.

  Hankleman’s thoughts went back to the altercation with his wife earlier in the day. He couldn’t get over the fight she had put up. If he hadn’t been able to get his foot behind her and trip her, she might have beaten him. She was obviously in much better condition than he was. He shuddered as he thought of the humiliation he would have felt had she been able to pin him. It was definitely not a good idea for a man to be involved with any woman who was perhaps physically stronger than him, he thought.

  Hankleman glanced over at Linda who was still conversing with her friend.

  The waiter approached and put another Scotch down in front of Hankleman. He picked up the glass and took a large gulp. He cleared his throat and looked over at Linda. “Tell me something, Linda,” he said.

  She turned and leaned towards him. “Yes, Morrie?”

  “How good are you at arm wrestling?” Morrie Hankleman asked.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Artie Kerner was aware that he was dreaming but he felt that he could wake himself at any moment.

  He was in a room which seemed to be his bedroom. Then he found himself standing in the same position in an area that he recognized as the foyer of his parents’ house. He was staring at a large steamer trunk which rested near the front door directly ahead of him. Suddenly he heard his mother’s voice coming from somewhere beside him.

  “All right, Arthur, we’re ready to go now.”

  He turned and saw his mother and father standing next to him. He spied a strange, almost malicious look in their eyes and for a moment thought of waking himself and ending the dream, but for some reason he did not.

  “Are you ready, Arthur?” his father asked.

  “No,” Kerner heard himself replying. “No, I’m not ready.”

  “Well, we are, young man,” they said in unison, almost as though singing. “So let’s get a move on, shall we? Get in the trunk now like a good little boy.”

  Kerner looked at the trunk. He dreaded getting into it but somehow he knew it would be futile to protest.

  He stepped inside and the top came down over him. Just before it closed all the way, he caught one last glimpse of his parents leering at him.

  Then he was in darkness. He had the feeling that he was going to be driven somewhere but he wasn’t sure where.

  Suddenly he found himself in a room at the Prescott boarding school in southern Ontario. He had been going there since he was very young. He looked up and saw the school principal, Dr. Forest, standing in front of a large desk. Dr. Forest stared back at him saying nothing.

  Suddenly Dr. Lehman was standing next to him. “So there you are! I was wondering where you had gone to!” he said in a booming voice.

  “Do we know you?” Kerner’s mother asked, having suddenly materialized with his father.

  “I ask the questions,” Dr. Lehman said.

  “You do, do you?” Mr. Kerner said.

  “Yes, that’s right. I do,” Dr. Lehman replied.

  “Well, ask away then,” Kerner’s father said.

  “All right then, Mr. Kerner. What is the length of your tool?”

  “Which one!”

  “You have more than one?”

  “Well, yes. Certainly. I have several.”

  “On you at this moment?”

  “No, I didn’t bring them. They’re all at home in my workshop. There’s the hoe, the shears . . . and of course my trusty old rape.”

  “You mean the rake.”

  “Yes, that’s right, the rake. I can give you the length of all of them if you’d like.”

  “Shut up, Louis. Don’t tell him anything,” Mrs. Kerner shouted.

  “You shut up or I’ll cut off your nose to spite your face,” Mr. Kerner replied with what Artie Kerner saw was a venomous sneer.

  He suddenly felt obliged to speak. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Shut up, Arthur,” his parents sang in perfect unison.

  “Let’s go home,” Kerner said.

  “Are you a doctor, Doctor?” Kerner’s mother said, turning to Dr. Lehman.

  “Yes.”

  “Arthur, this man is a doctor,” his parents said together. “If you don’t shut up, he’s going to bandage up your face . . . aren’t you, Doctor?”

  “Too many questions,” Dr. Lehman said. “I ask the questions.”

&n
bsp; “Well, ask them,” Mr. Kerner said.

  “Let me rephrase my question, Mr. Kerner. What is the length of your prick?”

  “I can best answer that,” Mrs. Kerner said, opening her purse. “I think I have it right in here.”

  “Okay, put it on de table.” Kerner recognized the voice of Solly Weisskopf and realized that he had been somewhere in the room all along.

  “I think it’s around seventy-eight inches long,” Kerner’s father said.

  “Not bad,” Dr. Lehman replied with an approving nod.

  “Well, you know, Doc, to tell you the truth, confidentially, it wouldn’t be so bad if it were a little longer.”

  “Oh, really. Like how much longer, for instance?”

  “Oh, perhaps another five or six feet.”

  Dr. Lehman shrugged pensively.

  Kerner’s mother continued to rifle through her purse. “No, it doesn’t seem to be in here. Looks like I forgot it at home.”

  “And my balls!” Mr. Kerner shouted angrily. “What about my balls?”

  “Nine hundred and ninety-two,” Dr. Lehman said.

  “Are my balls in there, at least? Or did you somehow manage to forget them as well?”

  “Nine hundred and ninety-three,” Dr. Lehman murmured.

  Kerner suddenly began to feel frightened.

  “I think I must have left them at home too,” Mrs. Kerner said. “Where exactly, I don’t know, Louis, but we’ll look for them when we get home.”

  “Where could they be?” Mr. Kerner shouted.

  “I think I left them in a drawer.”

  “C’mon, get dem on de table already,” Solly Weisskopf said.

  “Don’t you think I have enough on my plate already?” the principal, Dr. Forest, said.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-four,” Dr. Lehman muttered.

  “Isn’t it enough?” Dr. Forest said.

  “Nine, ninety-five,” Dr. Lehman said.

  “What is all this counting, Doctor?” Mrs. Kerner asked.

  “Nine, ninety-six,” Dr. Lehman replied, raising a cautioning finger.

  “She never brings my balls, Doc,” Mr. Kerner said. “She always leaves them at home in her drawers. They’re my balls but they’re in her drawers.”

  “Did you bring your drawers, Mrs. Kerner?” Dr. Forest asked.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Put dem on de table,” Solly Weisskopf said.

  Mrs. Kerner hitched up her dress and pulled down her underpants.

  Kerner now found himself wishing desperately that the dream would end. He decided to stop it but he couldn’t.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see his mother getting up on Dr. Forest’s desk. He tried to figure out why she was doing that. He could feel his stomach sinking and falling away from his body. Behind her he could make out the figure of a large man smoking a cigar. He had seen the man somewhere but he couldn’t recall where.

  “You wanna buy a nice gold watch, lady?” he asked and then disappeared.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-seven,” Dr. Lehman said from somewhere in the room.

  Suddenly Morrie Hankleman burst through the door. Kerner could see that his fly was undone and a large red cylinder was projecting out of it. He rushed over towards Kerner, screaming and frothing at the mouth.

  “You’re the biggest motherfucker of them all!”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Dr. Forest said with a sly leer and he began unbuckling his belt.

  “Dats right . . . don bet on it,” Solly Weisskopf said and began doing the same.

  “I have a plan,” Morrie Hankleman screamed.

  “I’d like to leave,” Artie Kerner said in a quiet voice.

  “Why?” Dr. Lehman asked.

  “I just do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “Just because,” Kerner said and realized that everyone had disappeared and he was now alone with Dr. Lehman in what appeared to be a different room.

  Kerner looked down and saw that the red cylindrical object which he had seen a moment before sticking out of Hankleman’s fly was now in his hand.

  “Why do you want to leave?” Dr. Lehman asked.

  “Because I have the plan,” he said.

  “Really. Tell me about it.”

  Kerner laughed slyly. “Uh, uh,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Why not?”

  “Just because,” Kerner said and suddenly became suspicious. He turned and looked warily at the door behind him.

  Suddenly it opened and Mrs. Griff toppled into the room.

  “What’s she doing here!” Kerner yelled.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-eight,” Dr. Lehman said with a sour smile.

  Behind Mrs. Griff, framed in the doorway, Kerner could see Mrs. Braun crouched on all fours in what appeared to be a large sink.

  “What do you all want from me!” Kerner screamed.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-nine,” Dr. Lehman said, and Kerner woke up in a cold sweat.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Hawk was lying on his back staring up at the ceiling.

  He could see light coming through the opening between the window sill and the bottom of the blind. He could hear the robins singing in the back yard. He knew it was early morning. He could hear his wife moving about in the bathroom. He felt depressed but he didn’t know exactly why. He knew he had been dreaming and that it had upset him but he couldn’t recall the dream at all.

  “Is something the matter, Solly?” his wife asked, coming out of the bathroom.

  “No. Should someting be de matter?” he replied testily, without turning his head.

  “No,” she replied.

  “So why ask?”

  “Why? Because you’ve been lying like that for the last hour without moving a muscle.”

  “I was sleeping. I just woke up a minute ago.”

  “But your eyes were wide open for the last hour.”

  “So? Sometimes I sleep wid my eyes open.”

  “And you were also sucking your thumb.”

  “Whadda you do, stay up all night an spy on me?”

  “I just happened to wake up early and noticed. That’s all,” she replied.

  “I wasn’t sucking my tumb. I have a habit of picking my teet sometimes when I’m sleeping,” the Hawk said.

  Helen Weisskopf nodded understandingly. “I just thought something was bothering you, Solly.”

  “No, nutting’s boddering me,” the Hawk replied.

  He suddenly thought of Artie Kerner and felt an embarrassment that made him blush. He wondered why he had acted so understandingly towards Artie Kerner. That had been a new experience for Solly Weisskopf.

  “Do you feel all right, Solly?” Helen Weisskopf asked from the walk-in closet.

  “Of course! What’s wid you? Leamie alone already. I feel fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you alone, but I know something’s on your mind.”

  “Oh, leamie alone already. You’re gonna gimme a headache.”

  “Okay, I’m not saying another word,” Helen Weisskopf replied, coming out of the closet.

  “Good. Make me a coffee.”

  “Okay, Solly,” she said and left the bedroom.

  The Hawk continued to lie motionless. The sound of the robins was grinding on his nerves. Usually he liked their song but at that moment he knew that had his thirty-eight revolver been in his hand rather than locked in the basement safe, he would have found it very easy to blast them into silence.

  The Hawk raised his lower body slightly off the mattress and farted. Then he sank back down and continued to stare at the ceiling.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Artie Kerner was driving along route 15 heading north.

  The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day.

  Kerner looked down at the red cylinder lying beside him on the seat.

  He smiled as a wave of euphoria swept over him.

  Chapter Fo
rty-Four

  Solly the Hawk and Big Moishie Mandelberg were sitting at a table in the rear of Dankoff’s Delicatessen. Big Moishie took a bite of his corned beef sandwich.

  The Hawk plunked a slice of dill pickle into his mouth and looked at his watch. “By dis time if everything went off okay, our friend Hankleman has already laid out his money.”

  Big Moishie raised a hand with his fingers crossed. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said, gulping down his corned beef and glancing at the pay phone on the wall beside them.

  The Hawk nodded in agreement. “I figger Lemay should call widdin two minutes,” he said.

  “That’s if Hankleman was on time for the appointment.” Big Moishie put his head back and downed a large glass of coke in one long swill.

  “I have a feeling he was dere on de button.”

  Big Moishie nodded and bit into his third corned beef sandwich. He raised his fingers again in a good-luck gesture.

  “You ever get de feeling dat like dis whole ting already happened?”

  Big Moishie shrugged and chewed on his food.

  “Sometimes I get de feeling like it all happened before. It’s funny.”

  Big Moishie finished the last of his corned beef. “Bring another medium!” he bellowed towards the front of the restaurant.

  “I even had a dream about it las night,” the Hawk said. “I jus remembered it about an hour ago.”

  “Yes?”

  The Hawk nodded.

  “Do you tink dere’s any meaning in dreams, Moish?”

  Big Moishie shrugged and made an open-handed gesture. “They say a dream is half a prophet.”

  “Yeah . . . it might be so,” the Hawk replied. “I dreamed about Hankleman. Kerner too. . . . I saw Kerner wid our plan . . . you know, in de red package dat we gave him. He was holding it and giving it to Hankleman.”

  “That sounds good,” Big Moishie said.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” the Hawk replied and then looked at his watch.

  Suddenly the phone on the wall rang.

  The Hawk jumped in his seat, momentarily surprised. “That must be Lemay.”

  He stood up and walked over to the phone. He grinned and picked up the receiver.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Morrie Hankleman was driving along route 15 heading south. He took a deep, luxurious breath of air and exhaled it with a whoosh. He could feel the tension rolling off him. He looked down at the red cylinder lying beside him on the seat.