The Last Collection (2 page)

Hankleman watched intently as the slight, hawk-faced man demonstrated how he had been grabbed.

“What do I know. . . . If someone grabs me from behine, I hit, right?”

There was a chorus of affirmation and a series of nods.

“So I turn fast, an I hit. I give em like what my mudder used to call a ‘frosk in pisk.'”

Everyone laughed appreciatively.

“A zetz wid de back of my hand . . . he goes down fast like a skittle and twice as stiff.”

Solly the Hawk paused and looked around slowly.

“So go on, Solly,” someone said. “What happened?”

Solly the Hawk raised a hand as though simultaneously demanding patience and promising satisfaction. He took a drag on his cigarette and slowly exhaled. Hankleman watched the smoke drift away.

“So it was a fuzzer,” Solly said nonchalantly.

“A cop?”

“Fuck me!”

“Oh shit, no.”

“Tabernac!”

“Yeah,” Solly said. “I laid him out flat on his kisser. He was out like a light. Before I know it, his partner comes up to me like wid his piece out. He tells me to get against de car. He's nervous so he's like talking loud. . . . You know me, I don like loud talk, so I say, ‘Ask me nicely, officer.' He says, ‘Please get against de car.' He says, ‘What happened?' I say, ‘Dis mooch assaulted me.' De mooch meanwhile is still yelling from de shots I gave em, an de udder fuzzer is like trying ta pick himself up from de street but everytime he tries ta stand up, he falls down. ‘I dunno from nutting,' I say. ‘I was just pertecting myself from dis mooch.' Meanwhile, de udder fuzzer gets up, walking like funny, like he's drunk.”

Solly stopped, waiting for the laughter to subside.

“He comes over to me like he wants to hit. I say, ‘I'm sorry, officer, I tot it was a friend of de mooch what jumped on me.' He's a sensible kid, de fuzzer, so he don't do nutting, but dey tell me dey gotta take me down to de station. ‘Okay,' I say, ‘but de mooch gotta come too.' Dey agree. Meanwhile de mooch gets up an tries to walk away, but de fuzzers grab em. Dey tell em he's gotta come down to de station. He looks at me an he starts to yell, ‘I ain't going wid him. He's crazy. He's gonna kill me!' He's yelling. He's like afraid to get inta de fuzzers' car wid me. Finally dey tell em dat he can sit in de back wid one fuzzer an I'll sit in de front wid de udder fuzzer. Finally he agrees. So dey take me to de station wid de mooch.

“We get to de station an dey take me alone to see de Chief, who by de way knows me by name. But he pretends like he don know me from a hole in de head. He says, ‘What's your name?' I say, ‘Gimmie a cigarette.' He says, ‘What's your name, estsi?' I say, ‘Gimmie a cigarette, tabernac.'”

Hankleman began to laugh with all the others.

“Finally he gives me de cigarette an den I say my name. Den he says, ‘Where d'you live?' I say, ‘Gimmie a light.' He says, ‘Where d'you live, estsi?' I say, ‘Gimmie a light, tabernac.' He gives me a light an I tell em where I live. Den he says, ‘What happened?' I don say nutting. . . . I just cut de cheese and let go wid a real breezer. Loud like.”

The group was now in hysterics and Hankleman was laughing as heartily as everyone. Perhaps even harder for he realized that he might have found a solution to his problem with Artie Kerner.

“De chief pretends like nutting happened, like he ain't got ears or a nose. . . . He says, ‘What happened?' I say, ‘I jus farted.' He says, ‘I mean before, not now.' I don say nutting. I jus let anudder one go right away.”

The men were still convulsed with laughter. Solly the Hawk waited calmly for it to die down.

“Anyway, finally he stops asking questions an den I explain him how de mooch tried to jump on me and so on an so fort. Anyway, to make a long story short, de fuzzers lemme go an de nex day de mooch shows up at Moishie's office wid de money.”

“Beautiful, Solly,” one of the men offered.

“Dat was de only trouble dat I bin in wid de cops in over ten years' time,” Solly the Hawk said.

There was a round of compliments from the listeners and Hankleman couldn't resist offering his own. It was obvious that everyone liked and respected Solly the Hawk.

Bregman grabbed Hankleman by the arm and pushed him forward. “Solly, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Bregman said.

Solly the Hawk turned. ‘Sure ting, Earl,” he said smiling.

“Solly Weisskopf, this is Morrie Hankleman.” Hankleman extended his hand.

The Hawk shook it gently. Hankleman had expected a bone-crushing grip and was surprised by the gentle, unaggressive shake. “Pleased to meet you,” Solly the Hawk said, staring directly into Hankleman's eyes.

“Same here,” said Hankleman, returning the gaze. “I enjoyed your story. It's a classic.”

Solly the Hawk nodded politely.

Hankleman was thinking of something else to say when the big man called Moishe pulled Solly away to the side. Solly excused himself and walked away. Bregman pulled Hankleman by the sleeve. “That guy is the toughest human being in the city of Montreal. He's almost fifty now, but he could tear this room apart with everyone in it.”

Hankleman shook his head. “It's amazing. He doesn't look it.”

Bregman laughed and nodded knowingly.

“That's a mistake a lot of people made,” Bregman said. “He's an incredible guy. Him and Big Moishe Mandelberg have been partners for over twenty years. They're almost like brothers.”

“They're shylocks?”

“Yeah, that's right. The Hawk does the collecting. It's like an ego thing or something with him. He likes to collect. The fact is he's got a better mind than almost anyone in this room and they all know it. Aside from collecting, he thinks up ideas. Cons. You know?”

Hankleman nodded.

“I could never figure the guy out. Basically he wouldn't hurt a fly and he's probably the least violent person I know, but he always collects . . . one way or the other.”

Hankleman nodded.

“He does free-lance work too,” Bregman continued. “Or at least he used to up until about a year ago.”

Hankleman had a feeling that Bregman was trying to tell him something.

“You know, Morrie, regarding your little problem with this guy Kerner. . . . Well, it's just possible that Solly might be able to . . . you know . . . help you out.”

Hankleman nodded again.

“He might help you out . . . just to sort of keep in shape.”

Hankleman kept on nodding his head.

“Why don't you talk to him, Morrie?” Bregman said, smiling.

Hankleman kept on nodding.

Chapter Two

A
rtie Kerner walked down the corridor until he came to the door marked ‘Harold Lehman, M.D.' He looked around quickly and, seeing no one, darted inside shutting the door behind him. He was nervous. He didn't want anyone to see him going into a psychiatrist's office. He looked around the waiting room and saw it was empty.

He could hear the murmur of voices coming from behind a door marked private. He pressed closer to the door trying to hear what was being said. He could hear a woman's voice.

“Thank you very much, Doctor,” she said.

“It's all right,” a male voice said. “I'll see you back here the same time tomorrow.”

Kerner could hear the sound of footsteps. He moved quickly away from the door towards the far corner of the waiting room.

The door marked private was suddenly opened. Kerner pretended to scratch the side of his face, attempting to hide it. With his hand in that position he stole a glance towards the doorway as a pretty, thirtyish-looking woman came out, followed by a gaunt-faced, bespectacled man.

“Oh hello there,” the doctor said. “You must be Mr. Kerner?”

Kerner tried to acknowledge the greeting and, at the same time, still keep his face hidden. He half-turned and forced a distorted smile, feeling his stomach churning.

“I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Kerner, as soon as I say goodbye to Mrs. Griff,” the doctor said.

Kerner turned so he was looking directly at the wall.

“Anyway,” the doctor said in a loud voice, “don't worry too much about your husband, Mrs. Griff. Maybe he'll come around soon. Don't forget, there are some women whose husbands haven't serviced them in ten years. Yours has only been holding off for a year.”

Kerner heard the sudden slamming of the office door, followed by the sound of a woman's heels clacking quickly away down the outside hallway.

“Now then, Mr. Kerner, step in here, please,” the doctor said.

Kerner turned and followed him into the office. For a moment he felt dazed. He couldn't believe the sight. It was the biggest private office he had ever seen. He estimated its dimensions to be at least 30′ by 40′. In one corner was the doctor's desk; a huge walnut monstrosity shaped like a fat boomerang. It was easily four or five times the size of a normal executive-type desk. It was so large that Kerner estimated a dozen people could have lain on it without any trouble.

The entire left side of the room was given over to a setting that reminded Kerner of the play
South Pacific.
There beside him he observed a reproduction of a South Sea lagoon, complete with real palm trees, a thatched-roof hut and a waterfall with real water coursing down into a pond. Soft lights played on the water.

“I like to have a pleasant atmosphere where I work,” said the doctor, walking towards his desk.

Kerner nodded, still slightly stunned.

The doctor sat himself behind the gigantic desk which at that moment seemed like a piece of lethal war machinery to Kerner.

The doctor reclined his huge leather chair by pressing a button on the desk. Not only did the chair go back, but it went down as well, so that in a moment only the doctor's head and shoulders were visible. To Kerner he looked like a commander in the turret of some strange wooden tank.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Kerner,” the doctor said, pointing at an area about twenty feet in front of his desk.

Kerner observed a small cot and a tiny wooden chair.

“Or lie down if it'll make you more comfortable.”

Kerner had a sudden urge to turn and bolt for the door, but he remained. So far everything seemed a little crazy, but who was he to judge what was crazy, given the problem that he himself was plagued with.

Kerner sat down on the little chair, which wasn't much bigger than the kind he had when he was four or five years old. His knees came up almost to his chin. Maybe he should have chosen the couch, he thought. It might have been a little more dignified.

Suddenly the doctor pushed another button and a spotlight came on directly over Kerner's head. A circle of light surrounded the little chair. Kerner again felt an urge to get up and leave, but again he restrained himself. He had heard about this Dr. Lehman. Many of his ideas were extremely avant-garde, but he had a high reputation and apparently there were people who claimed he had cured them of the most bizarre ills.

Kerner looked up at the doctor nervously, feeling like a fool, exposed, out in the open on his little chair, while the doctor sat half-hidden and protected by his massive fort-like desk. Kerner didn't know what to expect. He had never been to a psychiatrist before and felt embarrassed, even ashamed, about being there.

It was hard having to admit that he had a problem that he couldn't solve by himself. For the first time in his adult life, he needed help and he didn't like the idea at all.

Kerner sat waiting for the psychiatrist to say something, but the doctor just sat quietly in his enormous chair with his head back and his eyes closed as though he were sleeping.

After a few minutes of silence, Kerner said, “Aren't you going to ask me anything?”

The doctor looked up as though he had just been rudely awakened. “Um? What?” he grunted.

“Aren't you going to ask me anything?” Kerner repeated.

“Me ask you? Who's the patient, me or you?”

“Me . . . I mean, I'm not actually a patient,” Kerner said hesitantly.

“So if you're not a patient, Mr. Kerner, do you mind telling me what you're doing here wasting my valuable time?” the doctor said, a note of controlled anger in his voice.

“Uh . . . well, there are a few things . . . no, actually it's just one thing that's bothering me, which I thought I should discuss with a competent person.”

“Like what, for instance?” the doctor said, pressing a button so that his chair suddenly rose a foot higher.

“Like . . . well . . . it's sort of . . .”

“What? What! Get it out already,” the doctor shouted, moving his chair even higher.

Kerner felt very unprotected. “It's this problem I have . . . you see it . . .”

“What? What is it already! Don't be selfish, Mr. Kerner. Share it with me.”

Kerner hesitated. He was finding it very difficult to begin. He was finding it much more difficult than he had thought it would be—in fact, he was finding it almost impossible.

“Well,” said the doctor.

“Well . . . I have this problem,” Kerner said.

“Yes, we've established that. Now just what is this problem, Mr. Kerner?”

“Well, it's nothing much really . . .”

“So if it's nothing much, is it really necessary to pay me $50.00 an hour?”

“I thought you said it was $35.00 an hour,” Kerner said, caught by surprise.

“Before, yes, but now that you've aggravated me, I'm raising it to $50.00 an hour. You got me angry just now, Mr. Kerner, and I believe in giving expression to my anger; ventilating it, as it were. It's a lot healthier than keeping it in.”

“But you told me $35.00!”

“So I lied. Big deal. Sue me.”

Kerner stared at the doctor in disbelief. He could feel a tightness in his chest. He prayed that he wouldn't get an attack of nausea until he could get out of there.