The Last Collection (15 page)

“What d'you mean ya hafta make a buy? You're a junkie?”

Kerner shook his head. “No, not with drugs.”

“So what is it?” Solly asked as the elevator doors opened.

Kerner rushed in, followed by the Hawk.

“You won't believe me,” Kerner said, trying to catch his breath.

“I'll believe you, kid. What is it?”

“I have to buy.”

“Buy what?”

“Just buy. Anything. Things. Anything. Jewellery, clothes, artwork, furniture. Anything that looks nice. Anything that won't melt.”

The Hawk looked at the pain on Kerner's face and could see that it was real. He had never heard of anything like this but somehow he knew the man wasn't lying. There was a desperate gleam in his eyes. It was the same look that Solly had seen over the years on the faces of certain gamblers who were at the end of their rope.

“Dats where you're running now? To buy something?” the Hawk asked.

“Yes, I have to make a buy. I swear I'm not conning you. You can come with me. Then you can come back with me to my apartment and beat me up if you still want to.”

“Look, enough already wid de beating up. Okay? Dat fucking Hankleman's got a too-big mout on em.”

The elevator doors opened and Kerner headed quickly across the garage towards his car. The Hawk followed close behind. Kerner reached his car, ripped the door open and jumped inside. Solly got in the other side. Kerner peeled away towards the garage exit, hardly waiting for the Hawk to close his door. They shot out into the daylight.

The Hawk looked over at Kerner who was hunched over the wheel and driving with frantic concentration. He'd had a feeling that the last collection might be a strange one. The way it was developing now, there was no doubt it would be. Who had ever heard of such a thing? It was crazy. Still, anything was possible. Some people were addicted to alcohol, some to gambling, some to eating. So why not to buying? Anything was possible in this crazy world, he thought.

The Hawk buckled on his safety belt and settled back in the seat. The car hurtled along the road towards downtown.

Chapter Fifteen

T
eddy Regan and Jerry Shmytxcyk were driving along Dorchester Boulevard. Regan was behind the wheel. Shmytxcyk was staring at the knuckles of his right hand which were scraped and bleeding.

“I handled that one pretty good, eh, Teddy?”

“Yeah,” Regan muttered morosely.

“I did that one all by myself. You didn't fucking help me at all.”

Regan said nothing.

“And I set it up, too. . . . Fuck! That's four in a row that I got us.”

Regan said nothing.

“Christ. I oughta get more than half. I oughta get sixty percent.”

Regan made no reply. His eyes remained fixed on the road.

“Christ! You ain't lined up a job in months. . . . When are you gonna get us some work? Eh?”

“Don't you fucking worry about it. Any one of these days I'll get us something big. Not one of your fifty-dollar jobs.”

“Yeah. I'll believe that when I see it.”

“You'll fucking see it.”

“Well, don't take all year about it, eh,” Jerry Shmytxcyk said snidely.

“Just fuck off, eh, Jerry.”

Jerry Shmytxcyk rubbed his bleeding knuckles and smiled.

Chapter Sixteen

A
rtie Kerner sat in Dr. Lehman's waiting room, feeling as though he were split in two. When he thought about his encounter with Solly Weisskopf, he felt happy. He had really expected to be beaten to a pulp by that Mr. Weisskopf. In fact, the exact opposite had happened. The man hadn't even threatened him, let alone beaten him. He had been very understanding. He had really believed him! And it was possible that he may have even felt sorry for him.

Solly Weisskopf had left him on an up note. For some reason, Kerner now felt hopeful. Before parting, Weisskopf had suggested . . . no, more than that . . . he had almost promised that something would be worked out. Yes, he was hopeful, something he had not been for many months. Maybe with a bit of luck he'd be able to beat his sickness, pay off Hankleman, and get his business back on its feet. He needed some luck. He prayed that his creditors wouldn't pressure him into bankruptcy. If only he could make one substantial sale to keep going for another few weeks.

While he was thinking these things, another part of his mind was grinding dully on the events of the evening which had preceded Solly Weisskopf's visit. He didn't want to think about that but he couldn't help it. He kept seeing flashes of the evening and the girl, and although he angled these thoughts off to a corner, he couldn't avoid their effects. A chill passed through him and he shuddered.

He looked at his watch. The doctor should be through in a few minutes. Kerner got up and tiptoed to the office door. He eased himself forward and placed his ear against the door panel.

“Kerner, get away from the fucking door!” the doctor screamed from inside the office.

Kerner raced back to his seat.

Chapter Seventeen

“A
n even more . . . dis is really amazing . . . if he tries to sell anyting, he right away has ta run out an buy twice as much as what he sold.”

Big Moishie sat hunched in his seat listening to Solly the Hawk with a look of disbelief on his face. “It sounds too crazy to be a lie,” the big man said, shaking his head.

The Hawk nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I say to him at one point dat he could save himself like a lotta scratch if he bought wholesale. So whad does he tell me? He tells me, ‘No! Wholesale is no good and a store sale is no good.' Like dere not for him. Why? Because he found out dat whenever he bought someting wholesale or if he got like a bargain somewhere, den de effect didn las long. He had to pay top dollar to get de maximum effect. Also, de more wertless an item is, de better de effect. Like a two-hunnert-dollar piece of decorative glass which stands an does nutting is like wert more den a five-hundred-dollar coat.”

“Incredible . . . incredible,” Big Moishie said, shaking his head.

The Hawk gestured with his hands as though reluctantly having to agree with his partner.

“Anyway, so I go wid de kid to where he's running. We come ta Walton's Art Gallery. On de way he picks up a nice speeding ticket. We go inta de gallry. He's running ta get a special litagraph which he saw dere like de day before. So, anyway, we go inside. He's running. I'm walking. Right away he rushes to de manager. He's like shaking, he's so nervous. ‘Where's de picture?' he asks him. He says, ‘I'm jus now showing it to Mrs. Jerkoff.' De kid goes like apeshit. He runs over ta dis liddle ole lady dats looking at de picture what he wants. ‘I'm buying dat picture, lady,' he tells her. She says, ‘I wanna buy it.' She's a liddle ole dame, maybe seventy years old. He says, ‘I saw it de udder day an it's mine.' She says, ‘I saw it first an it's mine.'

“Now dis perticler picture isn wert a piece a shit but dey boat wan it like it's gold. It sells fer a hundred an eighty-five an it's not wert a double sawbuck. But dey wan it. So dey argue back an fort, back an fort. ‘I'm buying it!' ‘No, I'm buying it!' ‘No, I'm buying it!' Back an fort, back an fort. Meanwhile, de owner is watching wid a big smile on his face, like he jus farted in a crowded subway. Finely he tells dem, ‘Look, why don't you bid fer it.' Dey boat right away agree. De kid puts in a bid of two bills. She says two an a half. He goes ta tree. She comes back wid tree twenny-five. De kid doesn fuck aroun. Right away he goes ta four bills. De ole dame is starting ta fold. She tinks fer a minute an den makes a counter of four twenny-five. He goes ta four an a half. De ole dame folds. She trows a few anti-Semitic insults an fucks off. De kid peels off four an a half yards, dey wrap de picture which I lug out fer him because he's so excited he can hardly stand up, an we fuck off.”

Big Moishie dragged on his cigar and stared out across the office, shaking his head slowly and deliberately. “He's a strange kid,” he said, exhaling a thin stream of cigar smoke.

“Yeah, he's a strange kid, Moishie, but he's like a nice kid. Very nice manners. Polite. You know whad I mean?”

Big Moishie nodded. “So how did you leave it?”

“I left it like . . . open,” the Hawk replied.

“So then, what do you intend to do?”

The Hawk shrugged. “I dunno.”

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I dunno. . . . Like . . . wid reference to what we talked about yesterday, maybe I . . . Ah! I dunno. Like I jus don have de heart ta pressure dis kid. It bodders me ta tell you but like I feel sorry fer him.”

Big Moishie nodded again. “Look, Solly, I don't have to tell you that I don't like this Hankleman. I mean, I can't stand his guts. You know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So if you want to call this deal off, it's okay with me. We can tell Hankleman that we don't want his business and let him go fuck himself.”

The Hawk shrugged.

“What? What is it?”

“Ah, I dunno . . .” the Hawk replied, pursing his lips.

“What?” Big Moishie asked again.

“Like I had de idea ta make one last collection,” the Hawk said.

“Yeah, so?”

“So nutting.”

“What d'you mean, so nothing? What is it?”

“It's nutting. I told you. I feel sorry for dis Kerner kid, especially when I tink what a putz dis Hankleman is. . . . D'ya know dat after he came here an agreed to our conditions about de job, he went right away ta see Kerner an told em dat I was coming ta put em in de hospital?”

“A lousy mooch!” Big Moishie exploded, slamming a huge fist down on the desk top. “Kerner told you that?”

“Yeah.”

“A fucking mooch!” Moishie muttered. “I told you he couldn't be trusted, eh?”

“You did.”

“I told you! I smelled that mooch out the minute I laid eyes on him. He's a sniffer,” Moishie Mandelberg said.

“You were right as usual,” the Hawk replied.

“I'd like to shaft that prick. I'd like to shaft him good.”

“I was tinking . . .” Solly began, and then stopped.

“What?”

“I was tinking dat maybe . . . you know . . . wid reference to what we discussed yesterday . . . maybe we should let de kid off de hook for our end. Dat means he only has ta come up wid about eight gees for Hankleman. It's crazy, I know!” The Hawk raised a hand as though to protest in advance against an imminent criticism from his partner; but Big Moishie said nothing. “I wanted ta make one last collection, but now I don give a shit. I'd radder give dis kid a break. I tink he could use a break de same way like I needed one when I was pissing away my life at de track. . . . You remember, Moishie?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Dis kid's not a stiff. He's like legit. I can tell. I know it. Can you imagine, he tells me, ‘Hit me already. I gotta get outa here an make a buy.'”

“Look, Solly, you want to let him off for our end, it's all right with me. I'm getting sick and tired of that Hankleman. Would you believe that he called the office three times since this morning to find out if you collected yet. Do you believe it?”

The Hawk shook his head. “I wish
he
owed somebody. I would pay dem ta let me collect on him.”

“If he owed, I would take over the collection,” Big Moishie said.

The Hawk chuckled. “So, it's okay wid you den?”

“It's fine with me.”

“Okay, I'll call de kid an tell em what we decided. We're doing someting good here, Moishie. We're doing someting very good.”

Big Moishie nodded whimsically.

“You'll see. He'll come up wid Hankleman's end. He'll come troo.”

Solly reached for the phone and dialed Artie Kerner's number.

Chapter Eighteen

“W
ell, Mr. Kerner, to tell you the truth, I'm very surprised that the goon believed you,” Dr. Lehman said.

“He's not a goon,” Kerner replied quickly.

“Well, you call him what you want but I'm still surprised.”

“I was surprised too.”

“Yes, I'm sure you were,” the doctor said. “It's possible that you might have met a decent person, eh, Kerner?”

“Yes, he's a nice man.”

“And that makes you feel better?”

“Yes. He could have bashed my face in, which was what I expected him to do. But he didn't. He really believed me.”

“Maybe he was just conning you, Mr. Kerner. Maybe he showed you some sympathy, figuring it would make you more inclined to sell some of your possessions and pay him the money you owe.”

“No,” Kerner said emphatically. “I explained my situation to him. He knows that if I sell anything I immediately have to go out and buy three times as much. He understood that very well.”

“Of course he understands that. But that doesn't mean he isn't conning you.”

“There's no reason for him to con me when he could just as easily put me in the hospital.”

“Putting you in the hospital wouldn't get him his money, would it?” Dr. Lehman said with a smirk.

“He's not a con man!” Kerner said angrily. “He came across as an exceptionally nice person to me.”

“Okay. Relax, Mr. Kerner. Don't get excited. You seem to have some strange attraction for this man but don't let it get out of control. Another outburst like that and I may have to calm you down with a good rainstorm,” Dr. Lehman said, pointing at the control panel on his desk.

“Look, I don't have any strange attraction, as you put it, for this Mr. Weisskopf. I just think he's a nice man.”

“Well, I just think you may be trusting him a bit too much. Don't misunderstand me; I believe in trusting, but one has to use discretion. In any case, I'm glad it made you feel better . . . however . . . you don't really look better. In fact, you seem somewhat depressed . . . and you're holding your nuts again.”