The Last Collection (14 page)

“No, dats Polish,” the Hawk said.

“Oh, I see,” Kerner replied hesitantly.

There was a long silence which was finally broken by the Hawk. “So where do we stand, Mr. Kerner?”

“Stand? Well, to repeat what I first told you, I'm still more or less standing here on one leg.”

“Well, den maybe it would be easier for you an your leg if you put your ass on de table . . . or maybe you tink you have enough on your plate already?”

“I have more than enough on my plate, without putting my ass on it as well,” Kerner replied.

“I'm not asking you to put your ass on your plate, just on de table, Mr. Kerner.”

“I don't know if that will accomplish anything at this point,” Kerner said.

“You never know. . . . Maybe it will give you some food fer tot,” the Hawk replied.

“Food for what?”

“For tot,” the Hawk said.

“Tot?”

“Yeah, tot.”

“What's tot?”

“Tot, tot,” the Hawk said.

“How do you spell that?” Kerner asked, puzzled.

“Tot! T-h-o-u-g-h-t . . . tot!” the Hawk said emphatically.

“Oh! Tot!” Kerner exclaimed, realizing he had made an error.

“Dats right, tot,” the Hawk said.

“That's what I tot you meant,” Kerner replied.

“Just remember dis, Mr. Kerner, as the old Jewish saying goes: As much as you have on your plate, you still can't eat wid someone else's teet.”

Kerner's resolve broke. He knew he had to get it over with one way or the other. He had to get out.

Kerner turned the dead bolt and opened the door. As he did, he was almost afraid to look at what he was certain would be a hard, vicious face. He pulled the door open all the way and forced himself to look up. He was surprised by the appearance of the man standing before him. Instead of a gigantic, wrestler-type goon with a heavily scarred and punched-up face, he saw a thin, well-dressed man of about average height, with a slightly scarred and punched-up face.

Solly the Hawk smiled wryly at Kerner. “I won't keep you long as I know you're a sick man.”

“Well, actually, I may not be as sick as all that. They're not quite sure what it is. They'll have a better idea after they get the results back from the lab.”

The Hawk nodded noncommittally. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, come on in.”

The Hawk entered and was surprised as he observed the apartment's interior. He knew that something was very wrong somewhere. One quick glance into the living room told him that. In an instant he had evaluated the contents of the room and he knew without any doubt that they were worth at least fifty thousand dollars. The Hawk didn't know what to think.

Kerner, meanwhile, was observing the Hawk's face, waiting anxiously to see how he would react to the total effect of that one room.

Solly, however, as taken aback as he was, allowed no emotion to register on his face. After a moment, he turned slowly and looked directly at Kerner. “Is dis your place?” he asked in a soft, matter-of-fact voice.

The thought of saying no flashed through Artie Kerner's mind. But then he thought,
What's the use of lying?
Even if he talked his way out of this situation at that point, he would only succeed in putting things off for a day or two. One way or the other, Morrie Hankleman would find out about his possessions. Then lying wouldn't help him. More importantly, he knew he had to get out of there soon, before he passed out or went mad from his sickness. He might as well get it over with as fast as possible. Maybe he would be really lucky and somehow avoid a physical assault.

Of course, it was more likely that he would be unlucky and have his face bashed in. In that event, Kerner thought, it might be a good idea to repeat a few key Hebrew prayers. This might remind the goon of his rabbi-father and induce the man to go easy on him. Then again, if he only went to synagogue on the High Holy Days, as he had said, it was possible he was anti-religious. Maybe he even disliked his father. Then the prayers would only make things worse. Kerner felt his mind spinning out of control.

“So is dis your place?” the Hawk repeated.

“Yes. Yes, it's my place,” Kerner replied, watching the Hawk's face closely.

The cramps in his stomach were now making it difficult for him to stand erect. He tried to straighten himself out and succeeded only partially.

“You don look so good, Mr. Kerner. Maybe you should sit down,” Solly said, his face impassive.

“No, I'm fine.”

The Hawk nodded his head slowly several times. Then he pursed his lips, stared around the room again and turned back to Artie Kerner. “Anyway, so you know why I'm here, eh?”

“Yes, you said you were representing Mr. Hankleman.”

“Dats a nice way of putting it,” Solly said, smiling broadly. “Usually dey don say it so nice like you jus said it.”

Kerner was happy to see the sudden good-natured grin on the Hawk's face. If he can smile like that, he must have empathy, Kerner thought. Maybe if he limped around the room as though he were crippled, the man would feel sorry for him and not hit him too hard.

He could limp around and, at the same time, perhaps even hold one of his arms in such a way as to give the impression that it was paralyzed. At least that might save an attack on those two limbs. But what about the other arm and the other leg, and his jaw? Maybe he could make his jaw crooked or, better still, start talking funny as though he had a speech impediment. That still left one good arm and one good leg. He could hold both arms funny, as though they were paralyzed or at least semi-paralyzed. That still left one leg available for punishment. The only solution was to walk around on his knees. He could stumble around like that, holding both of his arms crooked and talking funny. That would cover his arms, legs and face, but would leave the stomach as open territory. Maybe he could retch at the same time to show that he had stomach trouble. There was no way he could take a shot in the stomach. The mere thought of it made him break out in a cold sweat.

Again he felt his mind spinning out of control. He felt dizzy. He had to get out and down to the gallery. The Hawk's voice suddenly broke into his thoughts.

“Something doesn exactly figger here, Mr. Kerner,” the Hawk said and paused, waiting for a reply. Kerner remained silent. “Like, fer instance, I see over dere like near dat liddle table what looks to be a piece of sculpting from Hans Klepper . . . which I would estimate is wert maybe two . . . tree gees. Am I right?”

Kerner nodded, more than a little surprised at Solly the Hawk's accurate appraisal of the object.

“Also,” the Hawk continued in a slow, nonchalant voice, “I see next to it on de wall what looks like a limited edition print by Chagall which, at t'day's prices, goes for maybe fifteen, sixteen hunnert. . . . Also, I see anudder sculpting . . . de bronze one dere . . . what looks like it's by Bruno Martinelli, which should not have cost you more den two gees. Also, I see dat small green statuette on de marble table dere which looks like jade, which means by de size alone, if it's good-quality jade which from here is hard to tell, but I tink it is by de deep colour, although I could be wrong which I don tink I am, dat it's wert maybe two gees. Also, I see lots of udder stuff which I won bodder to mention.”

Kerner stared at the Hawk.

“Like I would figger dat you got here in dis room alone fifty tousand wert of stuff . . . which makes me wonder why you're like trying ta stiff my client.”

“I'm not trying to stiff him,” Kerner protested.

“So why don't ya pay em?”

“I can't pay him right at this moment.”

“Why not?” the Hawk asked, cocking his head slightly.

“I just don't have the money right now. But I told him I'd pay him in a few weeks.”

The Hawk's eyebrows went up in whimsical manner. Kerner watched Solly's face.

“Are you going to beat me up?” Kerner asked in a hesitant voice.

“Whaat?” the Hawk replied, blinking with surprise. This was the first time in all his experience that someone had asked him that question.

“I just asked if you were going to . . .” Kerner grinned sheepishly, “. . . you know . . . if you were going to lean on me, as they say.”

“As who says?” the Hawk asked, unable to keep the astonishment from his voice.

“I don't know . . . I just thought, from what Morrie Hankleman said to me in my office the other day, that you were going to . . . you know . . . sort of force me to pay up.”

“Hankleman said dat?” the Hawk asked angrily.

Kerner nodded. “Yes, he said you were going to put me in the hospital.”

The Hawk was suddenly fuming inside. Where did this Hankleman get off? he wondered. Who was he to make threats on Solly Weisskopf's behalf. That was something only he himself had the right to do! No one had ever dared to do that before. Hankleman wasn't even supposed to have had any contact with Artie Kerner. Big Moishie was right about that Hankleman. He was a mooch and he definitely could not be trusted.

“When did Mr. Hankleman tell you dat?” Solly asked, trying to retain an appearance of calmness.

“The day before yesterday.”

The Hawk nodded several times. Kerner watched as the Hawk's eyes narrowed.

“I don lean on nobody . . . unless dey start wid me. You know whad I mean, kid?”

Kerner nodded. “I think so. I'm not exactly sure, but I think so,” he said quickly.

Kerner didn't know what to think. Maybe the man was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn't a ruthless psychopath as Morrie Hankleman had said he was. The man's face, in fact, suggested perhaps the opposite of cruelty. No, he didn't look mean. He had the features of a big angry bird but now, as he observed the two little black eyes that stared out at him from between the thin slitted eyelids, Kerner sensed a certain softness in them.

“Anyway, you can take my word for it. I'm not here ta muscle you. I'm here ta find out why you don wanna pay back Hankleman; so if you got a story, kid, like lemmie hear it already.”

Kerner hesitated. What could he possibly say that would be in any way acceptable.

“I mean, deres no doubt you could come up wid de scratch by hocking a few items from here,” the Hawk said, making a sweeping gesture with an arm.

“Well . . . I wish it were as easy as that,” Kerner replied.

“No? . . . It's not?”

Kerner shook his head and then shrugged. Who but a crazy psychiatrist like Dr. Lehman would possibly believe him. Even if this man did believe him, what good would it do? He didn't care about Artie Kerner and his problems. All he cared about was getting the money he had come for. He must have heard thousands of hard-luck stories, each one more pitiful than the next, and for sure had never been affected by any of them. Men like this Weisskopf couldn't afford to feel empathy or compassion, Kerner thought. It was their business to be hard. Kerner figured that he'd best say nothing. However, he knew that their meeting had to be concluded very quickly, one way or the other, because he couldn't take the pressure very much longer. He was on the verge of losing all control.

“Like I don unnerstan,” the Hawk said. “What's de problem? You don own dis stuff here?” He gestured about the room again.

Kerner nodded reluctantly. “Yes . . . I own it.”

“So what's de big problem?”

“It's not a big problem. I just can't sell it.”

“Why not?”

Kerner felt panic pushing behind him. He had to get out. He couldn't take it anymore. A picture of the blank bedroom-wall space kept flashing through his mind.

“I just can't,” Kerner protested, glancing at the door.

“Look,” the Hawk said quietly. “You got a fortune of stuff in here. You probly got even more in dere. Right?” The Hawk pointed towards the bedroom.

Kerner nodded. Suddenly the events of the preceding night came into his mind again. His stomach started churning wildly.

“So like talk ta me, kid. Tell me why you can't sell some of dis stuff.”

“I just can't,” Kerner said, trying to get a grip on himself. He glanced furtively at the door.

The Hawk noticed Kerner's nervousness and the sickly appearance of his face. That was normal for this kind of situation but there were other signs which were abnormal. Usually he would get a hard-luck story poured out without any encouragement. Kerner was the opposite. He didn't have the usual bullshit patter and he didn't have the face of a mooch. He didn't even seem scared in the normal way. The Hawk couldn't figure it.

“Lissen, kid. You gotta gimmie a reason if you say you can't sell dis stuff.”

“I can't give you a reason.”

“You mean, you jus don wanna sell it, right?”

“I can't! Believe me, I can't!” Kerner half-shouted.

The Hawk watched as Kerner put a hand to his stomach, as though in pain.

“Look, I have to get out of here. If you have to beat me up, could you please do it right away?”

“Whatsa matter wid you, kid? Are you nuts or someting?” the Hawk said in amazement. “I told you I'm not gonna do nutting ta you. I jus wanna know why you can't sell some of dis chazerai here. Level wid me, kid. We'll work someting out. You'll see. I'll get you top dollar fer dis stuff. I got good connections.”

“I've got to make a buy!” Kerner yelled, moving towards the door.

“What? What did ya say?” the Hawk shouted, making no move to stop Kerner.

“I have to go right now. If you want to hit me, hit me, but I have to go. I'll be back. I'm not trying to get away,” Kerner said, the words spilling out of him as he yanked the door open and headed along the corridor.

Solly went out after him, shutting the door. He trotted along the corridor behind Kerner who was moving quickly towards the elevator.

Kerner reached the elevator and pressed the down button. He leaned against the wall for support. The Hawk came up beside him.