Read The Last Collection Online
Authors: Seymour Blicker
“Well, you know, I'm not exactly crazy about you either.”
“Don't start with me, Kerner, because verbally I can make mincemeat out of you.”
“I'm not starting anything. I just don't think it's right of you to insult me all the time.”
“Look, in this office I can do whatever I want! If I want to insult you, I can insult you; if I want to shit on my desk, I'll shit on my desk; if I want to piss in my pond, I can piss in my pond. Okay?”
Kerner nodded.
“Okay?” Dr. Lehman repeated.
“Yes,” Kerner replied.
“Yes what?
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Okay,” Dr. Lehman said with a satisfied nod of his head. “Now let's get back to business here. Let's see . . . Let's see . . . Enough of this Rorschach shit,” he said, throwing the sheets into the waste-paper basket. “I think we'll try some thematic apperception.” He pushed another sheet across the table. “Do you understand how this works?”
“No.”
“Well, there is a vaguely defined picture in here,” the doctor said, pointing at the paper. “There is something happening in here. I want you to tell me what went on prior to the event or events in this picture; then I want to know what is actually taking place in the picture itself; and then tell me what happened afterwards. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, go ahead.”
Kerner stared down at the picture. “Well . . . Let's see . . . I think it has to do with an old couple,” he began.
“Yes? Yes?”
“They were quite old. Too old, in fact, to have children. Then one day the old woman decided to bake some gingerbread cookies. She made one in the shape of a little man.”
Dr. Lehman was now eying Kerner suspiciously.
“When she opened the oven, the little cookie man jumped out, yelling, âRun, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!'”
“Mr. Kerner,” the doctor said in a quiet but firm voice.
Kerner looked up at Dr. Lehman.
“Do you really see all that in that stupid little picture?”
“Well . . . not exactly.”
“Then why are you making it all up?”
“Well, I saw a cookie in there.”
“And that started you off?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what a cookie is?”
“Pardon?”
“A cookie, a cookie! Do you know what a cookie is?”
“It's a biscuit.”
“A cookie is another name for a cunt, Mr. Kerner. You have cunt on the brain. For you a cunt is symbolic for love and you are chasing it. Don't you see?”
Kerner nodded. The doctor was right.
“I'm telling you, sometimes these little pictures are quite helpful for separating the crazies from the normal types. For example, if I looked at it, what would I see?”
The doctor retrieved the card and glanced at it. “Now here's the difference. When I look at it, I see a little girl and three bears. . . . But that's beside the point. What I see doesn't count; it's your vision that is important.”
The doctor glanced at his watch. “Well, that's about it for today, but just let me leave you with this. It's obvious to me, and should be to you, that your addiction is completely psychological and is a direct result of your attempt to replace love with sex. We've seen quite clearly that you're afraid to love. Why? . . . That we don't know. However, at this point I feel confident in saying that you must now begin making a serious effort to control your buying habit. This should be easier now that you've gained a certain insight into yourself. Furthermore . . .”
Dr. Lehman suddenly put a finger to his lips, indicating a desire for silence. He tiptoed quickly to the door and yanked it open. Mrs. Griff toppled forward into the room. The doctor waved a finger at her as she picked herself up off the floor.
Kerner sidled past the doctor and headed into the waiting room.
“That's the second time I've caught you, Mrs. Griff,” Kerner heard the doctor say. “You know you can't fool the old doctor, don't you?”
Kerner pulled open the door and quickly walked away.
“
. . . Then at approximately nine-twenty
A.M.
, the subject, Mr. A. Kerner, came out of the apartment garage driving a red Corvette, license number 3C84-CL. He was accompanied by another man who had entered the apartment building approximately thirty minutes earlier.”
“What did this other man look like?” Morrie Hankleman said, interrupting the burly man seated opposite him.
The detective shuffled through the several pages on his lap and pulled one out.
“Yes, here it is. . . . This subject was middle-aged. Late forties or early fifties. Approximately five-foot-eight. Thin build but larger-than-average shoulders. Slight greying of hair at the temples. Sharp features. Prominent nose . . .”
“All right, go on,” Hankleman said curtly. The description was more than enough to tell him that it was Solly Weisskopf in the car with Kerner.
The man continued where he had left off. “I followed the subject at high speed to Walton's Art Gallery, located on Sherbrooke Street West near the corner of Crescent Street. On the way, the subject was stopped for speeding and given a ticket by a motorcycle policeman. He then proceeded at the same high speed to Walton's where he parked the car in a no-parking zone and ran very quickly into Walton's. The subject appeared frightened or in a state of semi-panic as he ran in, followed by the other man whom I described a moment ago.
“I entered the store and saw the subject purchase a painting for which he paid over four hundred dollars. This was carried out of the gallery by the second man. They got back into the subject's car and proceeded . . .”
“Wait a minute! Hold on! . . . You say the other man was carrying the painting?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“You're positive?”
“Yes. Very definitely so,” the man replied.
“All right, go on,” Hankleman said, scowling.
“Well . . . then, unfortunately, I lost track of the subject for a while.”
“Whatta you mean, you lost track?” Hankleman yelled angrily.
“Well, sir . . . you see, I was trailing the subject in traffic and I was trying to keep a few cars back of them. The car directly in front of me was a taxi. . . . Well, for some reason, he suddenly had to hit his brakes and I ended up rear-ending him.”
“So you should've kept going!” Hankleman shouted.
“Well, hey, look. That would have been a hit-and-run. I could lose my investigator's license for that. Besides, the taxi driver flew out of the car from the impact and fell onto the street. He was out cold; they had to take him away in an ambulance. I couldn't leave until the police came and filled out a report. Then I had to fill out my own report about the accident to give to my boss. See, here, I had to fill all of this out on the spot,” the man said, holding a sheet out towards Hankleman. “Here's the guy's name and everything about the accident. See, here! Gabor Pelzic, that's the guy I hit. It's all here in black and white, just in case you think I was goofing off or just lost him through inefficiency.”
“Never mind, never mind! I'm not interested in your problems!” Hankleman snapped. “Did you pick him up again?”
“Well, I went back to his apartment but the doorman said he hadn't returned. I then went to his office, the address of which you had given me, but he wasn't there either.”
“So where the fuck was he? What the fuck am I paying for anyway?” Hankleman shouted. He stood up and began pacing around the office.
“I returned to his apartment and waited there. The subject returned at approximately six
P.M.
”
“So for half a day you lost track of him. During that time he could have got on a plane and left the country,” Hankleman said.
“Well, he didn't,” the investigator replied.
“Yeah, and you're just lucky that he didn't.”
The burly man made no reply.
“Anyway, is that it, or is there more?” Hankleman asked.
“No, that's it. I left his apartment at six-thirty and came straight here.”
Hankleman nodded and gestured to indicate that the meeting was over. The investigator stood up and headed for the door. Hankleman followed him. The man stopped at the doorway and turned to Hankleman. “Do you want us to continue the surveillance on this guy?” he asked.
“I'll speak to your boss in the morning and tell him what I want done,” Hankleman replied.
“Very good, sir,” the detective nodded, turned and went out. Hankleman closed the door after him and walked back towards his desk. He smiled grimly to himself.
His instincts had been right. He had done well to hire an agency to keep tabs on Kerner. He was certain now that Solly Weisskopf was up to something. What was he doing accompanying Artie Kerner into an art gallery and then coming out with a painting? What was he up to? He had to be up to something. Hankleman knew it without any doubt. Either Solly Weisskopf and his partner had made a deal with Kerner or they were doing an extortion number on him. Maybe they would force Kerner into paying them the whole bundle and then frighten him out of town so no one would be the wiser.
It was something like that, he knew it now. They had probably had that idea in mind the minute he had come to their office with his proposal. It was strange how quickly they had agreed to take on the collection job for him. They were almost too eager; in fact, he had expected them to say no and had been surprised when Weisskopf had said yes.
The more he thought about it, the more certain Morrie Hankleman was that they were out to shaft him. He laughed aloud and shook his head several times. No, no, there was no way he was going to allow himself to be taken. Not by Kerner and not by Solly Weisskopf and his partner. He would have to move fast. He would go and see them first thing in the morning. He would sound them out. He would tell them that he wanted things sped up; that he wanted his money within forty-eight hours.
Yes, he would sound them out. He would find out what they were up to. He would tell them what to do and if they put him off, then he would move on his own. He wasn't going to be screwed. No way! He was going to get his money. All of it. He was glad they were trying to screw him. That made his agreement with them invalid. He owed them nothing. He could do whatever he wanted now. He could do what he should have done in the first place.
He would get all his money. Every cent. It was his. Not Kerner's and not those two hoods'. Just his. He was going to get it. All of it. One way or another.
A
rtie Kerner arrived home at six
P.M.
He went into his bedroom, took off his shoes and lay down on his bed. He began to think. He thought over his past life. He thought about the ambitions and the dreams he'd had; the compromises that he'd made. He thought about the present and the problems he was faced with. He thought about the emptiness of his life. Then he thought about the future.
Some time past four in the morning, he knew what he was going to do.
H
ankleman arrived home at eight
P.M.
Only the maid was home. She informed Hankleman that his wife had packed half a dozen suitcases, taken the child and left for parts unknown.
Hankleman fixed himself a double Scotch and went into his den. He put on the T.V. and sat in front of it wondering where his wife could have headed off to. He got up and went into her bedroom. He opened all her drawers and her cupboard. He gave a short laugh of sardonic admiration when he observed how she had cleaned things out.
He went back into the den and watched some T.V. A short while later he went out and tried to fuck the maid. She refused. Hankleman fired her. Then he went to bed alone. He thought about Artie Kerner and Solly Weisskopf and Moishie Mandelberg for a few minutes. He felt very calm as he told himself that they were not going to screw him. There was no doubt about it in his mind. He would be the screwer and they would be the screwees.
Hankleman fell asleep. He slept soundly.
S
olly the Hawk and Moishie Mandelberg were having their morning coffee and discussing several legitimate business ventures when their secretary announced the arrival of Morrie Hankleman. Big Moishie winced disgustedly. Solly stood up and forced a smile as Hankleman entered the office.
“Morning,” the Hawk said.
“Good morning,” Hankleman replied with a curt nod. He turned to Big Moishie who gave a short nod to Hankleman and said nothing.
“Have a seat, Mr. Hankleman,” the Hawk said, motioning towards the chair in front of his desk.
Hankleman sat down.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Hankleman?” Solly asked.
“Well, I was just wondering how you're progressing with our friend Kerner.”
“We're making very good progress,” the Hawk replied.
“Uh huh. I see. How good is good?”
“Good is very good, Mr. Hankleman.”
Hankleman hesitated for a moment. “Well . . . you know, I had hoped I might have had some . . . some feedback by now, if you know what I mean. I mean, I don't exactly understand why it's taking so long.”
“Long? We only took dis ting on two days ago. Dats not long.”
“Well, maybe I was over-optimistic but I had really expected something definite by now, if you know what I mean.”
“We understand,” Big Moishie said. “But sometimes these things take time,” he added.
“Of course, of course . . . but how much time?” Hankleman asked, turning to Moishie Mandelberg.
“I already had a liddle talk wid dis Kerner,” the Hawk said, passing over Hankleman's question. “An I can guarantee you dat he'll come up wid de scratch.”