The Last Collection (25 page)

“If this is legit, we can make a bundle.”

“It's legit. Did you see how scared he was? He was shaking like a leaf.”

“Yeah, you gave him some good shots, Solly.”

“I shoulda broken his arm,” the Hawk said angrily.

“What for? He talked. If this isn't legit, then you can put him in the hospital for a year. Now let's go downstairs and have a coffee.”

“Good idea,” the Hawk said.

They walked out of the office and went downstairs where they could talk normally again.

Chapter Thirty-Six

A
s the tape ended, Morrie Hankleman began to laugh wildly.

“I got them!” he yelled out loud. He slammed the side of his fist down hard on the arm of his chair. He jumped up and started pacing around the room.

“I got them!” he shouted again. “I got them! I got them! I got them!”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

D
r. Lehman leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips.

“That's very interesting, Mr. Kerner,” he said. “Quite a clever plan . . . this telephone gaff, as you call it . . . if it works.”

“Well, it seems to be working so far,” Artie Kerner replied off-handedly.

“Really?”

“Yes. This morning Mr. Weisskopf phoned me to tell me that Hankleman had already called our . . . his man, Claude Lemay . . . the man he thinks is Mr. Guy Gervais, the head of the Roads Planning Department. They've already set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon at which time Hankleman will pay four thousand dollars for the plan of Weisskopf and Mandelberg's land. So you can see that Hankleman has obviously fallen for the whole thing hook, line and sinker. It's obvious he's not wasting any time.”

“No, he certainly isn't,” Dr. Lehman agreed.

“As a matter of fact, I'll be personally delivering the plan of Mr. Weisskopf's land to the phony Gervais tomorrow morning.”

“Oh really?” Dr. Lehman said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Yes.”

“How is that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how is it that you're delivering this plan?”

“Oh. Well . . . I volunteered. As I told you, the meeting is up north, near Ste-Adèle. While I was talking to Weisskopf on the phone, he suddenly remembered that both he and his partner had a very important business appointment tomorrow morning. He realized that it could be a long, involved meeting. So I volunteered to do them a favour and deliver it up north for them. Why not? They're both busy tomorrow and I had nothing to do. So why not do that little favour for them? It's the least I can do after all they've done for me.”

Dr. Lehman nodded thoughtfully, his chin resting in his hand.

“Well . . . I'm not going to make any judgements about this whole thing . . . but . . . how do you personally feel about it?”

“Me?” Kerner said.

“No, me!” Dr. Lehman said sarcastically.

Kerner smiled sheepishly. “Well . . . it's certainly helping me out,” he said.

“It's helping you out?”

“Yes,” Kerner replied.

Dr. Lehman scratched his nose. “The other day you told me you were going to pay this Hankleman fellow back whatever you owed him. . . . Is that still the case?”

“Of course. Certainly. This new development doesn't change a thing for me. I'm going to pay back Hankleman every cent I owe him.”

“That's good. . . . Of course, it seems like Hankleman will end up getting screwed,” Dr. Lehman said.

“Yes, I guess he will.”

“And you have no thoughts on that?”

“Well, no. I mean, I'm just repaying Weisskopf and Mandelberg for their favour to me.”

“Their favour to you was to let you off for several thousand dollars. If I recall, they were to get about five and Hankleman eight. Right?”

Kerner nodded.

“So then, with that in mind, isn't it possible that it might make more sense to simply give Weisskopf and his partner the five thousand dollars that they were prepared to forego and pay back Hankleman the eight that he was prepared to accept after he contracted Weisskopf? That way you wouldn't owe anyone anything and you wouldn't have to be a part of screwing this Hankleman. . . . Unless of course you want to screw him.”

“No! I'm not interested in screwing him,” Kerner protested.

“You're not?”

“No, definitely not. I told you. I'm just repaying their favour. How could I not?”

“I don't know. Did my suggestion seem that unreasonable?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really? . . . You mean, you're not sure?”

“No, I'm sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“I'm sure that your suggestion was reasonable.”

“So?” Dr. Lehman asked.

“So what?” Kerner replied.

“So what do you think?”

“What do you mean? About what?”

“You know about what. About what I just suggested.”

“You mean about Weisskopf and Hankleman?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, right.”

“So then to repeat my question: What do you think?”

“I'm not sure.”

“A moment ago you said you were sure.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Are you sure about that, Doctor?”

“I'm positive about that.”

“I forgot what you said exactly. Could you repeat it, please?”

“No, I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Yes . . . because.”

“Because what?”

“Just because,” Dr. Lehman said angrily.

Suddenly there was a knock on the office door.

“Yes? Who is it?” Dr. Lehman said.

“It's me—Mrs. Griff. . . . Will my hour start on time today?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Griff,” Dr. Lehman shouted back with his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Last time it started a half-hour late. Do you remember, Doctor?”

Dr. Lehman didn't reply at once. Instead he sat up in his seat and reaching into his desk drawer he withdrew a microphone. He pressed a switch on the control panel in front of him.

“What are the chances of getting under way on time today, Doctor?” Mrs. Griff shouted through the door.

Dr. Lehman held the mike up to his mouth and spoke into it. “I don't know, Mrs. Griff. Let's just play it by ear, shall we?”

The sound of Dr. Lehman's voice burst out of the dozen or so speakers concealed about the room with such startling intensity that Kerner almost yelled from the pain and shock. His hands flew to his ears.

“We may end on time or we may go well over our hour, Mrs. Griff,” Dr. Lehman continued.

“But that's not exactly fair, Doctor, is it?” Mrs. Griff shouted back.

Dr. Lehman grimaced angrily and fiddled with a knob on the control panel. “No, not exactly, Mrs. Griff,” he replied.

The sound of his voice was now so overpowering that Kerner could feel his eardrums popping despite the fact that his hands were pressed tightly against his ears.

“But that's the way it is,” he added, and then fiddled with the dial once again.

“I'll do my best to finish on time with Mr. Kerner here, but if we have to, we may go over the hour. Is that all right, Mrs. Griff?”

Kerner could feel the floor shaking under him.

“Yes! Yes! Yes, Doctor! That's fine!” Mrs. Griff shouted back hysterically.

Dr. Lehman played with the volume knob again. “So you don't mind then?” he screamed into the microphone.

Kerner was sure that the office walls were about to collapse. It was as though there was an earthquake all around him.

“No! No! I don't mind! Take all day! I don't mind at all! Take a whole hour! It's all right! I can wait! Take the whole day! Don't worry about me!” Mrs. Griff screamed back.

Dr. Lehman grunted, whistled and hissed into the mike several times. Then pressing the control switch, he put the microphone back into the desk drawer. He turned back to Artie Kerner, who now removed his hands from his ears.

“I can't stand so many questions,” Dr. Lehman said sourly.

“No?” Kerner replied.

“Mr. Kerner, control yourself,” Dr. Lehman said, his eyes narrowing.

“What did I do?” Kerner exclaimed.

“Enough questions, Mr. Kerner.”

“What questions? Who's asking questions?”

“Let's get back to what we were discussing, please,” Dr. Lehman said, rubbing his eyes and sighing wearily.

“What was that?”

Dr. Lehman reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white rectangular-shaped object. “Mr. Kerner, do you know what this is?”

“No. Should I?”

Dr. Lehman grimaced and clicked the gadget in his hand. “Four hundred and twenty-seven, “he muttered to himself.

Kerner looked at the doctor quizzically.

“This, Mr. Kerner, is an apparatus similar in concept to those used by baseball umpires for recording balls and strikes. . . . I use it for recording the number of questions asked by certain patients.”

“Why?” Kerner responded.

“Four hundred and twenty-eight,” Dr. Lehman muttered, clicking the device again. “You, Mr. Kerner, up to this moment in five sessions with me have asked a total of four hundred and twenty-eight questions. That means four hundred and twenty-eight questions in a period of five hours. That means approximately one question every four seconds.”

“That much?”

“Four hundred and twenty-nine,” Dr. Lehman said, ignoring Kerner and clicking the white plate. “I have had people committed for far less than that,” he continued. “It is a theory of mine that certain relationships can be made between the number of questions asked by certain people within a given period of time and the degree of their sickness. I won't go into it now, but for the sake of fairness let me say that if, by the time you leave here today, this little meter registers . . . say . . . five hundred . . . I may begin to have serious doubts about you. So with that in mind, let's get back to what we were involved with.”

“All right, but before doing that, can I ask you one simple question?”

“Go right ahead. . . . Four hundred and thirty,” Dr. Lehman said.

“Hey. C'mon. You're not going to count that, are you?”

“Four hundred and thirty-one,” Dr. Lehman said, nodding.

“Isn't that a bit unfair?”

“Four, thirty-two,” Dr. Lehman said, shaking his head and clicking his device.

“You don't?”

“Get a grip on yourself, Kerner.”

Kerner took a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I will. No more questions. I'll talk. . . . Let's see now . . .” Kerner said, pensively, “I was talking about Weisskopf . . . and you suggested that maybe the best thing to do would be to pay off Weisskopf so that I wouldn't owe him any favours and . . .”

“I didn't suggest anything. I simply raised that as a possibility for you to consider.”

“Yes, right. I understand.”

“Just before you continue, I think I should raise one more possibility,” Dr. Lehman said, holding up a finger. “Let me say this. When you first mentioned how nice this Mr. Weisskopf was being to you, I suggested that perhaps . . . only perhaps . . . you were being conned. Do you recall that?”

“Yes, I do, but he wasn't conning me. He was sincere,” Kerner said vehemently. “I know when someone is acting sincere. He was being straight.”

“Perhaps. But then again who knows. Maybe he had decided to pull this telephone con, as you call it, on Hankleman some time ago and figured he could use you to help him accomplish it.”

“No, no.” Kerner shook his head. “No way. You're way off track.”

“I'm only mentioning this as a possibility, just so that you'll be aware of it. It's something to think about, isn't it?”

“There's no way. I know when someone is acting sincerely.”

“Weisskopf may not have even thought his plan out at the time. It may have just been fermenting somewhere in his unconscious mind. It's possible that this may have been the motivating force behind his . . . altruism towards you. In his own subconscious mind he may have been planning to use you for his benefit all along.”

Kerner laughed sarcastically and shook his head.

“I'm just raising this as one of several possibilities,” the doctor continued.

“Sometimes I think this whole shrink business with its conscious, subconscious, unconscious, whatever, is all a pile of shit.”

Dr. Lehman shrugged.

“And, besides, what does it matter?” Kerner half-shouted. “At this point it's too late to do anything. I already did my part and Hankleman has already gone for the bait, so any of your suggestions now are a waste of time. It's too late for me to do anything at this point, wouldn't you say?”

“That's something you'll have to work out by yourself.”

“Don't you have any ideas? You're supposed to help me! What am I paying you for?”

“You're paying me to come here and talk,” Dr. Lehman replied.

“You're doing all the talking but you're not telling me anything. How about letting me do some talking, eh?”

“So talk,” Dr. Lehman said.

“Okay, I will.”

“So talk.”

“Okay, okay, I'll talk in a minute.”

Dr. Lehman pressed a button. His chair suddenly reclined and he disappeared from sight behind his desk.

Kerner, with his hands folded in his lap, sat without moving or speaking till the end of the hour.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

M
orrie Hankleman drove towards his home in good spirits, knowing that in twenty-four hours, two days at most, he would be prepared to allow himself the luxury of total abandonment from pressure. Till then he would be content with just feeling good. Hankleman smiled. So far it had been unbelievably easy. All it had taken was one simple phone call to Mr. Guy Gervais. Soon he would be in a position to screw Weisskopf and Mandelberg. After that became a fait accompli, he would deal with Artie Kerner.