The Last Collection (8 page)

Big Moishie nodded understandingly.

“Anyway, I was struggling wid myself. I couldn't make up my mind what ta do. Dats why I kept saying we should hold off. . . . It was a struggle, believe me. Anyway, finally last week I tole myself: It's enough already. Leave em go. You don need dis. Dats what I finally decided. I was jus waiting for de right time ta tell you. I was actually tinking about telling you like today or tomorrow but now I told you.”

For a few seconds Big Moishie said nothing. With his lips pursed he simply nodded his head slowly. Finally he said, “I understand, Solly. I understand what you're saying. But what I don't understand is if this is the way you feel, then why did you take on this collection job for this Hankleman putz?”

“Why? . . . I know it's crazy, Moishie, but I got it in my head ta do one last collection. I have ta prove it to myself dat I'm not going out because I lost my nerve. Like in de deal wid Saltpeter, like we boat know, dere was no risk an when I decided not ta do it I knew why. But wid de collecting dere is a risk. I mean, we boat know anyting can happen. I just gotta prove ta myself, ta make sure dat I still have it, dat I'm not going out fer de wrong reasons. Ya know whad I mean, Moishie?”

“Yes, I know,” the big man said. “Maybe after we finish with Hankleman we can sit down and discuss what we're going to do—that is, if you want to do something together.”

“Are ya serious, Moishie?” the Hawk asked excitedly.

“Sure. Why not? I've been doing some thinking too, you know. I have enough money too. But what do I do with it? Sweet fuck all. I have no kids, so who am I going to leave it to? My wife? Even she couldn't spend it all in a hundred years. Maybe I'm tired of it all too. Eh? Why shouldn't I want to get out? Am I so different?”

“I'm sorry, Moishie.”

“What for? You didn't do anything. I'm the one who should be sorry because I've been thinking for years and I never said a thing to you. If I had, then maybe it would have saved us both a lot of tsouras.”

The Hawk shrugged. “It's all wadder under de dam, Moishie.“

”I know, I know.“

For a few seconds neither man spoke. Big Moishie flicked his cigar and stared off across the room. Finally he turned to the Hawk. “Anyways, Solly, I feel good. I feel very good,” he said, grinning.

“Me too, Moishie. I feel very good also.”

“We'll talk after we finish with this Hankleman putz. Meanwhile, like I said, be careful on this job.”

“Nutting ta worry,” the Hawk replied with a grin.

Chapter Nine

M
orrie Hankleman arrived at Artie Kerner's office shortly before noon. The office was a one-storey plant consisting mainly of warehouse space with offices in the front. Finding the reception area deserted, Morrie Hankleman walked towards the nearest office, the door of which was ajar, and looked in. Artie Kerner was sitting at his desk with a faraway look in his eye. At first he wasn't aware of Hankleman standing there. Hankleman made a scraping noise against the door and Kerner looked up suddenly.

“Oh hello,” Kerner said unconcernedly.

Hankleman became angry. For some reason, he was expecting Kerner to look shocked, perhaps even afraid, at seeing him there.

“For the last time, I need my money.”

“I'm going to pay you, Mr. Hankleman, but it's going to take just a little while longer.”

“That's what you told me a month ago and two weeks ago and last week. Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

“No, no, I don't. Believe me. I'm just in a bind. I'm being choked.” Kerner put both hands to his throat.

“You're being choked. What about me? Eh! What about me? I lent you $9,000.00 on good faith. You were supposed to pay me back in thirty days. Now it's going on two months.”

“You said I could get an extension if I paid you the interest. I told you I'd pay it.”

“I never said that!” Hankleman snarled.

“You did. I remember it very clearly. I can pay you the interest. I'll give you a cheque now,” Kerner said.

“I never said that. I just know one thing. I want what you owe me now. All of it.”

“I can't give it to you now. I'm really sorry. Please believe me. I'm in big trouble but I'm good for the money. I'll pay you every cent I owe you. I promise you. You won't lose on me.”

“I won't lose on you! No? No? I've already lost, my friend. What you did to me I'll never make up.”

“I'll make it up, I promise.”

“Don't promise me nothing, you cheap piker. You made me look like shit. D'you understand?”

“Why do you say that?” Artie Kerner asked innocently.

“Why? Because the word is already out that on my first loan I got burned.”

“I didn't say a word to anybody. I don't talk about my financial problems to anyone.”

“Look. I paid my dues, Kerner. D'you understand? I don't ever intend to go back. You heard you can't go home again, eh?”

Kerner nodded.

“You know that, eh?”

Kerner nodded again.

“So I'm not going back again. I'm not going to allow you, my first mistake, to fuck everything up.”

“I'm not going to fuck anything up. Believe me, I'll be good for the money. I swear to you, by the end of the month you'll have the whole bundle.”

“You just don't understand,” Hankleman said. “Or maybe you just don't want to understand.”

“I understand, I understand . . .”

“Look, just let me finish, okay?” Hankleman shouted, cutting Kerner off. “Don't fucking patronize me. I don't need it from anyone, least of all a piker like you.”

“There's no need to insult me,” Kerner protested.

“Don't tell me who I can and who I can't insult. If I want to insult you, boy, I'll insult you. If you don't want insults, pay up the money and you won't get insults. Okay? So just shut up and listen,” Hankleman shouted, burning now with self-righteous anger. “I was saying that maybe you just don't want to understand, because if you did, you would realize that I cannot function properly till you're all paid up. My credibility is gone. You understand? Every mooch in town will be after a loan from me with the idea that they don't have to pay it back. You've made me a philanthropic organization overnight. You understand what I mean?”

“I understand what you're saying but I don't think I agree with you. I swear to you, I didn't tell a soul.”

“You swear? You swear!” Hankleman rasped. “What good is your word? I have your lousy marker with your name on it. It's not worth a piece of shit. And you swear,” Hankleman said scornfully.

“Look, I . . .” Kerner began to protest again but Hankleman cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“But it's not only that. It's more than just the money. The money alone is enough but it's more . . .” He paused for a moment as though to catch his breath.

Kerner waited without saying a word.

“It's also a matter of principle. Nobody is going to beat me, not even for a dime!” he said viciously and slammed a fist into his open palm. He walked up to Kerner's desk and leaned over it. “Not for a fucking dime. You understand?” He stared hard into Kerner's eyes, trying to see something there.

“I'm not trying to beat you. I'm an honest man. Just give me half a chance and I'll prove it to you. I'm going to make it good!”

Morrie Hankleman shook his head slowly and deliberately. “No . . . No . . . You're not going to make nothing good. For me you're going to make everything bad. I know it. You think I'm a shmuck or something?”

Kerner started to reply. “No . . . I don't . . .”

Hankleman cut him off in mid-sentence. “I don't need an answer from you on that. What you think or what you say has no validity. D'you understand?”

“Of course . . .”

“Don't talk! I don't need an answer from you, friend. I'm not asking, I'm telling.”

“Look, Mr. Hankleman . . .”

“And don't fucking Mr. Hankleman me. I know what I am to you, you lousy psychopath. You don't give a shit about anything or anyone. You're a mooch. You're a nothing. You're garbage. You don't deserve to exist in this fucking society. You're a parasite. You live on other people. You suck their blood. You just know how to take. I know your type. Everything is take, take, take! Take what you can get and fuck em. So don't fucking Mr. Hankleman me because I don't want to know about it.”

Morrie Hankleman was on the verge of violence and he knew it. The more he yelled, the calmer Kerner seemed to become. He would have liked nothing better than to grab Artie Kerner by the hair and beat his face to a pulp against the top of his genuine rosewood desk. He tried to calm himself, a little frightened by his own fury.

He was well aware that he hated Artie Kerner's guts. For the last four weeks he had fantasized regularly about hurting him in every conceivable way. He had felt great anger, but nothing to compare with the unmitigated hatred that consumed him now.

Hankleman tried to calm himself. He wanted to lead up to his threat about Solly the Hawk on a note of coolness. That would create a greater effect. He made an extreme effort to relax but he found it difficult because as long as he looked at the face before him, he could think of nothing else but smashing it. He stood there at the edge of Kerner's desk and tried to catch his breath.

Kerner was reluctant to make any attempt at discourse. He felt that Morrie Hankleman could attack him at any moment.

“I want to ask you something,” Hankleman said finally in an overly calm voice.

“Yes, sure. What is it?”

“I know you live in a three-bedroom apartment at the McGregor House, right?”

“Yes, that's right, I do.”

“So how come you can afford a $500.00-a-month pad if you're so choked?”

“I got a special deal,” Kerner replied quickly.

“How special? So you're paying $400.00 a month, $350.00 let's say . . .”

“No. no, I'm paying less. I got a fantastic deal. I know the owners.”

“Okay, so you're paying $300.00 a month . . .”

“No, much less. I'm telling you. It's incredible the rent I'm paying.”

“Okay, $200.00 a month,” Hankleman said.

“A tiny bit less,” Kerner said, gesturing with his fingers.

Hankleman threw up his arms. “Ah! What am I doing here? You're a lunatic. I can't reason with you so there's no use trying . . .”

Hankleman was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the office door. A delivery man poked his head through the doorway. “I have a C.O.D. package here from Ogilvy's,” he said.

Kerner stood up quickly and approached the delivery man. He started to push him out the doorway. “Oh, I think you must have the wrong place. It's probably for next door.”

The delivery man held his ground. “No, it's the right address. It's for a Mr. A. Kerner. C.O.D. $400.00.”

“Oh, right, it must be the new calculator for the office,” Kerner said, grabbing the package from the man and forcing a nervous smile.

“No, sir, it says . . .”

Kerner cut him off abruptly. “Okay, okay. Never mind. It's my calculator. I'll pay you for it.”

Kerner put the package down, pulled out his wallet and paid the man.

Hankleman watched as Kerner peeled off a series of bills from a large fold and felt his teeth clenching uncontrollably. It was no use. He was trying to beat him for thirteen thousand dollars but that would never be.

The delivery man went out. Artie Kerner carried the package back to his desk and placed it down out of sight near his chair. “I've got to keep my business going. This new machine is an absolute necess . . .”

Hankleman cut him off with a brusque move of his hand. “I don't want to know about your lousy calculator or about your business. All I know is you're trying to beat me for thirteen gees. You'll never do it, I promise you that. Yesterday I had a talk with a man. His name is Solly Weisskopf.” Hankleman paused, waiting for a reaction from Kerner. “Does that name ring a bell?”

“No,” Kerner replied, shaking his head.

“He's also known as Solly the Hawk.
Now
does it ring a bell?” Hankleman asked, smiling broadly.

“No,” Artie Kerner replied. “Should it?”

Hankleman forced himself to remain calm. He was sure Kerner was playing games. He was certain he knew the name and knew it well.

“I think it should ring a bell,” Hankleman said quietly. “He's very well known in the finance business.”

Hankleman stopped and waited for Kerner to say something, but he didn't bite and that made Hankleman lose some of his self-control, and the fact that he lost some of his self-control made him then lose almost all of his self-control.

“You never heard of him? Eh! You're full of shit. You heard of him plenty! You probably heard of him so much that he's coming out of your ears. Right?!”

“I don't know who he is,” Artie Kerner said mournfully.

“Well, if you don't know, believe me you're going to know. . . . He's a collector, you know? You know what I mean? A strong-arm man. A goon. He's a killer. A ruthless psychopath who would just as soon kill you as say hello to you. For fifty bucks he'll put you in the hospital for a year. And I'll tell you, I'm paying him a lot more than fifty bucks. He's going to come and see you. He's going to come and have a little talk with you. And, believe me, if you don't come across, you can kiss your ass goodbye. That's all I want to tell you. I give you twenty-four hours more and after that, goodbye!”

Artie Kerner felt his heart quicken. He wanted to say something further to Morrie Hankleman, to make him believe that he wasn't a dishonest man, that he would repay him in full if given a chance; but in an instant, Morrie Hankleman was gone.