The Last Collection (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

M
orrie Hankleman sat at his desk trying to work his way through the pile of papers in front of him. To his left were letters, leases and other documents pertaining to his apartment buildings. To his right was a large, black loose-leaf folder with the word ‘Proposals' taped across the front cover. This binder contained an outline of the various ideas and inventions that Hankleman had been actively soliciting for possible financing over a period of several months. Some of the presentations in the book were quite good. A few were potentially real moneymakers, in Morrie Hankleman's opinion; and before his problem with Artie Kerner had arisen, he had been close to deciding which proposal to back. After having studied several hundred submissions, he had managed to narrow the field down to three.

Hankleman pushed the folder away, swivelled his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. He was almost ready to roll again. For the first time in weeks, he was able to concentrate on something other than his problem with Artie Kerner. Since that difficulty had developed, he had ignored everything else.

Now, however, as he sat at his desk, he realized that although the anger that had been fuming inside him was still there, it had settled and he was on top of it. He felt calm, almost relaxed, yet at the same time very sharp and lucid.

He suspected that this unusual state was partly due to the fact that his wife had left. He had known she would leave. He had almost planned it that way. He hadn't planned to get her pregnant, but he knew that his insistence on her having an abortion would force her into leaving. He felt free—in a way, more free than he had felt after his coup on the stock market. He knew this was it. This time she wouldn't be back. He was sure a letter or call would soon arrive from her lawyer informing him that divorce proceedings had been initiated.

For a moment he tried to estimate what he'd have to shell out in the way of alimony. Hopefully, if his accountant and his lawyer were worth their salt, he might get away with five or six hundred a month.

Yes, his wife's departure was one very good reason why he was now so relaxed. The other reason was that he knew he would soon have the upper hand with Weisskopf and Mandelberg and Kerner. Another twenty-four hours and he'd be laughing. After he'd finished with them, he would shoot down to Vegas for a week and then perhaps take a little cruise or head for some resort where there were a lot of unattached women. After that he would get back on track again. He had to keep his money working for him. He had to keep things rolling. Just a little bit longer and he'd finish with them. Then he could start moving again. He'd decide on an idea to back and go on to something new. Another twenty-four hours and he'd have the upper hand. He just knew it.

He sat up in his seat. He didn't want to work anymore that day. He would go home early and relax. He wouldn't have to hear the kid squawking. There was no one there to bug him. What a pleasure, he thought. Maybe he'd go out for supper with someone and then check out the action on Crescent Street. He wondered who he would call. At one time he'd had a few friends, but after scoring on the market he had gradually broken off contact with them. The only person he had socialized with since that time was Eugene Carlin, the man who had originally given him the tip on the market. Not that he particularly enjoyed Carlin's company, but at least they thought along the same lines.

He tried to think of someone else whose company pleased him but he could come up with no one; and suddenly for the first time it occurred to Morrie Hankleman that there was no one in the entire world that he cared for in the slightest. This thought gave him comfort.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A
rtie Kerner could feel a tension building up inside him. He had called each of his creditors and informed them that he was going to clear his debt within a few days. From the way they had all sounded, he realized that his decision to sell everything and pay them off had been well timed. They all had given the impression that they were about to jump on him with both feet.

Kerner sighed despondently and stood up. He left his desk and walked into the warehouse area. It's too bad, he thought, that the business was a total write-off, but then, so what? He had made his decision, and it didn't really matter. He was going to pay up and get out. That's what mattered. He was going to get himself together. If he didn't have a nickel left when it was all over, that wasn't important, he told himself.

He was starting to feel sick. He looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. The time was passing so slowly, he thought, but at least he was having some success in controlling himself. Usually by that time he would have already been downtown for a good hour and have made at least one and maybe two or three buys.

He took a deep breath and walked back into his office. He sat down on the desk top. Yes, he was going to beat his sickness. He was going to make a new start. He didn't need the business, he didn't need money. He knew he would be better off without it. No one needed it. It made most people crazy. He thought about Solly Weisskopf's offer of a few hours earlier. Amazing. Truly amazing. He couldn't figure it out. How many people would offer to give up almost five thousand dollars without a second thought? Why would he do it? Kerner wondered. In a way, there was something almost unreal about it. He couldn't figure it out. It was hard to believe but yet it was true.

It took a superior man to make an offer like that, he thought. It would take a superior man to conquer the sickness that he himself was now struggling with. But he would do it. He dreaded to think of the agony which he would have to go through. But he would do it. He was going to beat it. He would not make a buy today. If only his mind would stop flashing the image of the bronze sculpting he had seen in La Galerie d'Or the other day.

Kerner could feel a headache coming on. He looked down at his hands which were now beginning to shake. Soon the nausea would arrive with full force. He was surprised that it hadn't already overtaken him. Just as he thought this, he felt a light pressure moving from his throat to his stomach and he knew that soon he would not be happy.

Chapter Twenty-Six

B
ig Moishie was more than a little surprised when the phone rang and he found Mendy Garelick on the line. He had not heard from Mendy Garelick in a long time. Several years before, Garelick, also known as Busfare due to the fact that he had once been run over by a provincial bus, had come to Moishie in a desperate state.

He had become involved in a major bankruptcy swindle and had been arrested. Fortunately for Busfare, the presiding judge was found to be broad-minded about monetary persuasion. Busfare was given to understand through his lawyer that ten thousand dollars might help considerably in keeping him out of jail.

He had come to see Big Moishie. Big Moishie had always liked Busfare and considered him a straight type. He had loaned him the ten thousand interest free. Busfare went to trial and was acquitted. Two months later he had repaid Big Moishie in full.

That had been three years ago and since that time, although Big Moishie had heard about Busfare, he had not heard from him.

Now, suddenly, here was Busfare on the phone talking as though the last three years had never happened. Big Moishie hung up the phone and turned slowly towards the Hawk.

“Solly, do you remember Mendy Garelick?”

The name didn't register. Solly shook his head. “No.”

“Sure you know him,” Big Moishie said emphatically. “You know—Mendy! Skinny Mendy Garelick.”

The Hawk thought for another moment and then shook his head again. “I don remember em,” he said.

“Of course you do. You know him as well as I do. You remember, when he was a kid he got run over by a bus near de Bullion Street.”

“Oh! Busfare! Sure I remember Busfare,” the Hawk said, nodding vigorously.

“Right . . . Busfare,” Big Moishie said.

“Was dat him on de phone?”

“Yes. He says he has a favour to repay me. Some important information. He wants to come up here right away.”

“So he's coming?”

“Yes, he'll be here in about twenty minutes.”

“I wonder what he has?”

Big Moishie shrugged. There was no sense in even trying to speculate about what information Busfare might be bringing him.

“I remember him when he was about sixteen or seventeen. He climbed up on de cross on Mount Royal and turned off some lights so it spelled out ‘Fuck.' You remember dat, Moishie?”

“Yes, I remember. It made the third page of the
Star.
”

“He was always doing someting a liddle bit different, eh, Moishie?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder what he's got?”

Big Moishie shrugged indifferently once again. “We'll know soon enough,” he said, and getting up from his seat he began pacing about the room.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A
rtie Kerner stood in front of La Galerie d'Or making a last ditch effort to control himself and hoping that Dr. Lehman would meet him there as he had promised.

Kerner looked at his watch. It was two-fifteen. He had done well, exceeding by far the limit of restraint that he had thought was possible.

He looked up and down Sherbrooke Street for some sign of Dr. Lehman. Then he looked up into the large show window of La Galerie d'Or. He could see one of Verland's bronzes there. Kerner knew he could not hold out anymore. It was too much. Too much for anyone. Perhaps tomorrow he could progress a bit further. Eventually he would beat his addiction, but today he was through.

He scanned the street again for Dr. Lehman. Then he rushed up the stairs into La Galerie d'Or.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“W
here's our six draught?” Teddy Regan shouted at the waiter. He turned back towards the T.V. set.

“We really worked that queer over the other day, eh, Teddy?” Jerry Shmytxcyk said.

“Yeah.”

“You really got em good.”

“Yeah.”

“He was fucking tough for a queer, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he wasn't a queer.”

“He was. Every time I hit em, he kept tryin' to grab me by the balls.”

The waiter placed another six draughts of beer down on the table.

“Pay em for the beer, Jerry,” Teddy Regan said.

“Hey, fuck! I paid for the last three rounds.”

“Will you just pay him!”

“That's my fourth round,” Shmytxcyk protested.

“Tough shit! Just pay em,” Regan said and turned back towards the T.V. set.

Shmytxcyk grudgingly reached into his pocket, extracted a handful of change and threw it onto the waiter's tray. “I'm always fucking paying,” he complained.

“Hey, will you shut up! I'm trying ta watch this program.”

“Who gives a shit?” Shmytxcyk said.

“I do.”

“Yeah! Well, I don't.”

“Too fucking bad!”

“It's too fucking bad for you because I'm gonna change the fucking channel!”

“If you change the channel before I find out if she wins the fucking washing machine, then you're dead, Jerry.”

“Fuck you, I'm changin' it.”

Jerry Shmytxcyk got up and headed for the T.V. set. He placed a chair under the set and got up on it. A patron sitting a few feet away suddenly shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I'm changing the channel,” Shmytxcyk replied.

“Hold on. I wanna see her win the washing machine,” the man called out.

“I don't give a shit about her washing machine!” Jerry Shmytxcyk retorted.

“Don't change that fucking channel, buddy,” the man said threateningly.

“Change the channel!” Teddy Regan suddenly yelled from the back of the room.

Jerry Shmytxcyk changed the channel and got down from the chair. He walked back to his table.

“Who was that prick?” Regan asked.

“I dunno. Just some prick.”

“He's got a fucking big mouth.”

“Yeah.”

“I'd like to punch that prick out.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Shmytxcyk said, looking at his friend.

“Hey, prick!” Regan suddenly shouted.

The man turned hesitantly towards Regan and Shmytxcyk. They began heaving chairs at him.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

W
hatever it was that Mendy Garelick had to tell Big Moishie, he was coming around to it very slowly, leading up to it step by step.

First he inquired about Moishie's and Solly's health, then he moved on to ask about their wives. After that, Busfare talked a bit about his own children and how they were growing up and so on. Then he slipped back three years and explained how, after he had been acquitted due to Big Moishie's generosity, he kicked around aimlessly for almost a year looking for something to get into.

He explained how he finally got a few dollars together and became involved as a partner with a private investigation firm in the East-End of the city. At this point he paused, as though savouring the last remaining moments of his indebtedness to Moishie Mandelberg.

“We handle anything you can think of,” Busfare said.

“I see,” Moishie Mandelberg said.

“It's very rare that we get any work from the English-speaking side of the city. Our clientele is mostly French.”

“I see,” Big Moishie repeated with a little nod.

Solly dragged on his cigarette.

“Just the other day, though, we got a call from a guy who wanted someone tailed.” Busfare paused again.

“Yeah, so?” the Hawk said quietly.

“So that's why I wanted to talk to Moishie. I never forgot what you did for me, Moishie, so now maybe I can do something for you.”

Big Moishie said nothing. He just kept his eyes fixed on Mendy Garelick and puffed on his cigar.