Read The Last Collection Online
Authors: Seymour Blicker
“Do you feel all right, Solly?” Helen Weisskopf asked from the walk-in closet.
“Of course! What's wid you? Leamie alone already. I feel fine.”
“Okay, I'll leave you alone, but I know something's on your mind.”
“Oh, leamie alone already. You're gonna gimme a headache.”
“Okay, I'm not saying another word,” Helen Weisskopf replied, coming out of the closet.
“Good. Make me a coffee.”
“Okay, Solly,” she said and left the bedroom.
The Hawk continued to lie motionless. The sound of the robins was grinding on his nerves. Usually he liked their song but at that moment he knew that had his thirty-eight revolver been in his hand rather than locked in the basement safe, he would have found it very easy to blast them into silence.
The Hawk raised his lower body slightly off the mattress and farted. Then he sank back down and continued to stare at the ceiling.
A
rtie Kerner was driving along route 15 heading north.
The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day.
Kerner looked down at the red cylinder lying beside him on the seat.
He smiled as a wave of euphoria swept over him.
S
olly the Hawk and Big Moishie Mandelberg were sitting at a table in the rear of Dankoff's Delicatessen. Big Moishie took a bite of his corned beef sandwich.
The Hawk plunked a slice of dill pickle into his mouth and looked at his watch. “By dis time if everything went off okay, our friend Hankleman has already laid out his money.”
Big Moishie raised a hand with his fingers crossed. “We'll know soon enough,” he said, gulping down his corned beef and glancing at the pay phone on the wall beside them.
The Hawk nodded in agreement. “I figger Lemay should call widdin two minutes,” he said.
“That's if Hankleman was on time for the appointment.” Big Moishie put his head back and downed a large glass of coke in one long swill.
“I have a feeling he was dere on de button.”
Big Moishie nodded and bit into his third corned beef sandwich. He raised his fingers again in a good-luck gesture.
“You ever get de feeling dat like dis whole ting already happened?”
Big Moishie shrugged and chewed on his food.
“Sometimes I get de feeling like it all happened before. It's funny.”
Big Moishie finished the last of his corned beef. “Bring another medium!” he bellowed towards the front of the restaurant.
“I even had a dream about it las night,” the Hawk said. “I jus remembered it about an hour ago.”
“Yes?”
The Hawk nodded.
“Do you tink dere's any meaning in dreams, Moish?”
Big Moishie shrugged and made an open-handed gesture. “They say a dream is half a prophet.”
“Yeah . . . it might be so,” the Hawk replied. “I dreamed about Hankleman. Kerner too. . . . I saw Kerner wid our plan . . . you know, in de red package dat we gave him. He was holding it and giving it to Hankleman.”
“That sounds good,” Big Moishie said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” the Hawk replied and then looked at his watch.
Suddenly the phone on the wall rang.
The Hawk jumped in his seat, momentarily surprised. “That must be Lemay.”
He stood up and walked over to the phone. He grinned and picked up the receiver.
M
orrie Hankleman was driving along route 15 heading south. He took a deep, luxurious breath of air and exhaled it with a whoosh. He could feel the tension rolling off him. He looked down at the red cylinder lying beside him on the seat.
He smiled broadly and turned his eyes back to the road.
He began to whistle as a wave of euphoria swept over him.
D
r. Lehman finished his twenty-fifth lap and pulled himself up onto the edge of the pond. He stood up and walked over to the hut. He went inside, dried himself and dressed. He left the hut, walked back to his desk and sat down. He glanced at his watch. Kerner was already an hour and a half late.
Dr. Lehman pressed a button on the desk and his chair shot several feet upwards, rotating as it ascended. Then he pressed the remote control button on the chair and it descended slowly, spinning in a counter-clockwise direction. He allowed it to rotate for several seconds and then stopped it. He looked at his watch again.
“Can I come in yet, Doctor?” Mrs. Griff shouted from the waiting room. “My hour should have started already.”
Dr. Lehman made no reply.
“You didn't answer me, Doctor,” Mrs. Griff yelled.
Dr. Lehman opened his desk drawer and reached for his microphone.
“W
here to from here?” Jerry Shmytxcyk asked as he headed along Côte des Neiges Road.
“Just keep goin' straight till I tell you ta turn,” Teddy Regan grunted.
Shmytxcyk accelerated and shot through a red light. “What exactly am I supposed to do when we get there?” he asked.
“You don't have ta do nothing . . . unless I'm havin' trouble with this guy. . . . I wanna work him over all by myself.”
“Hey, shit! Can't I take a few shots at him too?”
“You stay the fuck out of it . . . unless I'm havin' some trouble . . . You understand?”
“Aw, c'mon, Teddy! Shit! Lemmie take one or two shots at em, eh?”
“Jesus shit, man! You deaf or something! I said no. I got us this fucking job. Eh!”
“What about all the jobs I lined up, eh? I let you in on most of the action. I let you punch em out as much as you wanted to. You were hittin' those fuckers more than I was.”
“Sure, because you asked me to, Jerry. You were gettin' punched out. You're just lucky I was there to help you . . . and anyway . . . on the last job you did it all yourself. You had all the fun. Didn't ya?”
“Shit! You call that fun? Christ! She hardly even put up a fight. I hardly even hit her and she was out cold. She didn't even feel me kicking her.”
“She musta felt the first few.”
“No way! She didn't even yell once. The old cunt was out cold.”
“I heard her yell.”
“She didn't yell, Teddy. She just went fucking plop, right on her face.”
“Okay, okay. Look,” Teddy Regan said, “if I let you kick this guy one time, will that make ya happy?”
“One fucking kick! Christ, what's that! That's sweet fuck all! . . . Lemmie fucking kick him a few times, Teddy. Eh? C'mon,” Shmytxcyk pleaded.
“No! You get one kick. That's it. If he starts givin' me trouble, then you can boot him all ya want. Okay?”
“I don't want the fucking kick. . . . Lemmie hit him on the nose one time.”
“No! The nose is mine! You leave the fucking nose alone. That's my property!”
“Ya always keep the nose for yourself,” Jerry Shmytxcyk whined angrily.
“So what!” Regan said, turning to glare at his friend.
“So, I want some of that!”
“The nose is mine!” Regan said with grim finality. “No one touches the fucking nose but me!”
They drove in silence for a while.
“Ah! I never get ta do nothin'.”
Regan turned slowly to look at Shmytxcyk. “Oh, Christ! You're so full of shit!”
“It's true. You know it.”
“Okay, okay. You can knuckle him on the back of the head.”
“Ah, fuck that! Christ! Is that all you're giving me?”
“Hey, look! Fuck off, eh! It's more than you fucking deserve,” Regan yelled.
“Says who?” Shmytxcyk shouted back.
“Says me! That's who!”
“Who the fuck are you, eh?”
“I'm the boss of this fucking outfit!”
“Says who, eh?”
“Says me!”
“What the fuck makes you think you're the fucking boss of this fucking outfit, eh?”
“Because I can break your fucking head if you fucking get me mad, you fucking asshole!”
“That's a fucking good reason,” Shmytxcyk said meekly.
“You're fucking right it is, fuckface!”
“Okay, okay, take it easy.”
“Okay, but don't fuck with me, Jerry.”
“I wasn't fucking with you.”
“You were fucking with me. . . . So don't fuck with me, Jerry.”
“Fuck! I wasn't fucking with you, Teddy.”
“Eh, look. Will you just fuck off!”
“Okay, okay.”
Again they drove in silence. After a minute, Shmytxcyk said, “Lemmie kick him in the balls, Teddy.”
With deliberate slowness Regan turned to look at Jerry Shmytxcyk. “The balls are mine, Jerry,” he grunted.
“Ah! Everything's yoursâthe nose, the balls. You get all the good stuff.”
“What the fuck are you cryin' about? Didn't I give you a kick and a knuckler on the head? Eh?”
“Big fucking deal.”
“Big fucking deal, eh? Okay, farthead, now you got nothin'! I'm takin' it all back. Now you got sweet fuck all.”
“Okay, okay, I'll keep the kick and the knuckler,” Shmytxcyk said quickly, slowing the car and turning towards Regan.
“No, farthead. I took em back. So shove that up your arse and blow it out.”
“No, I'll take em, Teddy. Lemmie keep em. C'mon, eh.”
“I thought you didn't want em.”
“Yeah, I'll keep em.”
“D'you want em?”
“Yeah, okay, I'll keep em.”
“D'you want em!”
“Yeah, Yeah, okay.”
“Well, ask for em then.”
“Could I have them back?”
“Say please.”
“Please.”
“Say it like ya fucking mean it!”
“Please.”
“Say please, Teddy.”
“Yeah, okay. . . . Please, Teddy.”
“Okay, farthead, you got em back. One kick and one knuckler on the head.”
“Big fucking deal,” Shmytxcyk muttered.
“You're just never satisfied, are ya? I just gave you back the kick and the knuckler and ya still ain't satisfied. What the fuck's the matter with you, eh?”
“I'll give you back the kick and the knuckler for one shot on the nose.”
“I said the nose is mine. You fucking deaf or something?”
“Okay, okay, I'll trade you back the kick and the knuckler for one shot in the balls.”
“I already told ya, the balls are mine!”
Shmytxcyk scowled. He turned to his friend. “Lemmie give em a coco bump and see if I can knock out all of his teeth.”
“No way, asshole. Are you kidding? If you miss his teeth, you'll end up busting his nose, and I told you, that's mine.”
“I won't miss, Teddy. I swear. Shit, I've been practisingâyou know, butting my head against the wall. I'll just get his teeth.”
“No! The teeth are mine.”
“Ya see! Ya see! You get ta keep everything,” Shmytxcyk whined.
“Okay, you asshole, gimmie back the kick and the knuckler and you can have . . . let's see . . . okay, let's say three rabbit punches to the back of the neck. Okay?”
Shmytxcyk shrugged. “The neck. Big fucking deal.”
“What's the matter with the neck?”
“I just don't like it. Okay?”
“Okay. Then three in the kidneys. How's that?”
“Throw in a few kicks in the head to go with the kidneys and you got a deal.”
“A few kicks! Naw, no way. One kick, okay, but not in the head-in the leg.”
“In the leg?!”
“Yeah, in the leg. Whatsa matter with that?”
“I don't want the fucking leg.”
“Whatsa matter, ain't the leg good enough for you?”
“No, it ain't. Gimmie the kneecap.”
“The kneecap?”
“Yeah, I want the kneecap.”
“Okay, you got it, prick, but only one.”
“And I wanna use the big baseball bat on it.”
“No fucking way! We're not using no bat.”
“Okay, then I'll use the little bat.”
“I said no fucking bats!”
“Okay, then I'll use the brass knuckles when I knuckle him on the head.”
“No equipment, Jerry. Nothin'.”
“Ah! This is for the birds,” Shmytxcyk snorted.
“You're always fucking cryin',” Regan said. “You got three in the kidneys and one on the kneecap. That oughta make ya happy, prickface.”
“Gimmie one more thing, okay?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno . . . something good.”
“Well, like what, asshole?”
“I dunno. I'm thinking.”
“Well, don't take all day. We're almost there.”
“Okay, I got it! An open-hand smash on the ears. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay . . . but don't fuck up my action. If I'm goin' for the nose, you stay clear of the ears. You get it? You go for the ears when I go for the balls.”
“Okay, okay, don't worry.”
Regan leaned back against the seat. “You got three things now, Jerry . . . .Are ya happy?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so! You prick. You're just lucky I'm a nice guy,” Regan shouted.
Jerry Shmytxcyk made no reply. He just kept on driving.
“M
r. Kerner,” the doctor said, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.
Kerner turned his head slowly and looked up at Dr. Lehman.
“What happened to you?”
“I had a bit of an accident.”
“A bit of an accident! . . . You look like a house fell on you.”
“That wouldn't have been so bad.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? . . . I'd hate to see you when something did happen.”
Kerner smiled weakly.
“So what happened, Mr. Kerner?”
“It's not important.”