The Last Collection (23 page)

The fact that Carlin was fully involved and rolling fast with an exciting and apparently lucrative business deal made Hankleman that much more aware of the time he had lost on account of his problem with Artie Kerner.

Hankleman snapped his fingers at the waiter who was passing by. The waiter turned.

“Where's our bloody food?” Hankleman demanded angrily.

“It's coming, sir.”

“You said that ten minutes ago. Now c'mon, speed it up, eh. We haven't got all night.”

The waiter nodded curtly and walked away.

“Fucking arrogant prick,” Hankleman muttered. “We'll see how he acts when I don't leave a tip.”

“That's one thing I never do,” Eugene Carlin said.

“What?”

“Tell off the waiters.”

“Why not? Some of them need to be told off sometimes.”

“It's not worth it,” Carlin said. “If you get them pissed off, they spit in your food. I'm sure they all do it . . . When he brings your food, you just better examine it closely.”

Hankleman shrugged. “This one wouldn't have the guts to do it.”

“Maybe not but just check anyways.”

Hankleman looked at Carlin sceptically.

“Did you hear from your wife yet?” Carlin asked.

“I heard from her lawyer. He called just before I left the office.”

“Who's she using?”

“Sampson and Rothman.”

Carlin nodded. “That's who my ex-wife used. You remember?”

“Yeah.”

Eugene Carlin rubbed his mustache. Then he dragged on his cigarette, exhaled, and sipped slowly at his martini. He put the glass down.

“That Rothman's a real smiling whore,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Hankleman replied, trying to sound disinterested.

“Yeah.”

Hankleman waited for him to add something, but Carlin remained silent.

“Why do you say that?” Hankleman finally asked.

“He just is,” Carlin replied offhandedly.

“Why do you say that?” Hankleman asked again, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“He's got a thing about trying to make all his female clients.”

“Yeah? Where did you hear that?”

“I heard it from this woman I was taking out. She got her divorce through him. I also heard it from a few other people.”

“It's probably just talk,” Hankleman said.

“No, no, it's more than talk,” Carlin replied.

Hankleman shrugged and picked up his drink. For a while neither of them spoke. Hankleman looked around for the waiter.

“You feel like checking out the action at George's after we eat?” Carlin asked.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“I picked up a real nympho there last week. She takes it any way.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

Hankleman looked around again for the waiter. “Ah, the prick's finally coming,” he said, spotting the man moving towards their table with a tray.

The waiter approached, removed the plates from the tray and placed them on the table. “Bon appetit, messieurs,” he said with a smile, and moved off.

“Check your food,” Carlin suggested matter-of-factly as he began to eat with gusto.

Hankleman looked down at the food on his plate. He turned it around in front of him. There, next to the thick slice of roast beef, almost camouflaged by the scoop of mashed potatoes, Hankleman saw what looked surprisingly like a gob of spit.

Chapter Thirty-Four

E
arly that evening, Solly and Big Moishie went over to Artie Kerner's apartment. They told him what they had found out from Busfare. They filled him in on Saltpeter and the entire background of the telephone gaff—how they had set up the office; the manner in which the telephone line had been installed to intercept the calls headed for the office of the Quebec Roads Planning Department; how they had held the plan in abeyance. They explained that everything was still set up and that they were going to use the same basic plan to teach Morrie Hankleman a very expensive lesson. Big Moishie outlined the strategy.

“How do you know he'll bite?” Kerner asked.

“How do I know he'll bite? . . . I don't know how I know, Artie . . . but I just know. I know a mooch and I know when a mooch is going to bite.”

Kerner nodded.

“Lemmie explain you why Moishie knows, Arter. I'll give you like de classic story about Moishie's judgement,” Solly the Hawk said. “Dis happened maybe . . . what? . . . I dunno, maybe fifteen years ago, Moishie?”

“You mean the watch story?”

“Yeah, wid de watch.”

“Yeah, fifteen years ago,” the big man replied.

“So fifteen years ago, one day me and Moishie were taking like a lunch break, dooring de day. We're like shopping. I tink I was looking fer someting fer de wife. So like we go into a store an we're like, you know, looking aroun. Moishie, at de time, is wearing a watch which he smuggled in from, I tink, Switzerland a year before. Dis watch cost him over dere like a g-note. A tousand bucks. Over here it was wert like maybe double. Okay? Show em de watch, Moishie.”

Moishie Mandelberg drew back the cuff of his shirt sleeve and revealed a large gold watch. Kerner could see that the case was studded with what appeared to be several small diamonds.

“It's beautiful,” he said.

“Dose are real diamins in case yer wondering,” the Hawk offered.

“It's really something,” Kerner said.

“Anyway, so he's wearing dat same watch at de time,” the Hawk continued. “We're like leaning over de showcase in de store when all of a sudden a salesgirl comes over. She spots de watch on Moishie's hand. ‘Hey, dats some good-looking watch you got dere, mister,' she tells Moishie. Moishie says, ‘Oh yeah, you like it, miss?' At de same time he gives me like a nudge wid his foot, like to say ‘Watch dis.' So I watch.

“‘Yeah, I like it very much,' de bear says to Moishie. ‘Are dose like real diamins?' she says.

“‘Yeah, dere real,' Moishie says.

“‘Tell me,' de bear says, ‘how much costs a watch ly dat?'

“‘Ehh! It's not dat expensive,' Moishie says. ‘Why? You wanna buy it?'

“‘Yeah, if I could afford it, I'd buy it,' de broad says.

“‘It's not expensive,' Moishie tells her. ‘You wanna buy it, I'll sell you it. Make me an offer.'

“‘Are you serious?' she says.

“‘Sure. What's it wert to you?' Moishie says.

“De broad tinks fer a minute. Den she says, like wid a liddle laugh, ‘Fer fifteen bucks, I'll buy it.'

“Moishie makes like he's tinkin fer a secun an den he tells er, ‘It's a deal.' He takes off de watch. ‘Gimmie fifteen an de fob is yers.'

“De bear looks at em fer a minute like somebody just gave er a bite in de beaver. Den she rips out her wallet like fast an she pulls out fifteen and holds it out fer Moishie. ‘Are ya serious?' she says.

“‘Sure, gimmie de scratch,' Moishie says.

“‘Yer jus joking,' she says.

“‘Naw, c'mon. It's a deal,' Moishie says. ‘Here, take de watch.' He shoves de watch in her shirt pocket, managing ta cop a quick feel at de same time. I remember she had a big pair of bazookas, eh, Moishie?”

“Very big,” Moishie replied, nodding. “Like watermelons . . . big watermelons.”

“So she gives em de dough,” the Hawk continued. “Meanwhile, I'm looking at Moishie like he's nuts.

“‘C'mon, let's go,' Moishie tells me. We walk outside. ‘Moishie, are you crazy?' I say. ‘Don worry, Solly,' he says. ‘C'mon, let's go.'

“‘Whadda ya talking?' I say. ‘I'm going back in an getting back de watch.'

“‘Don worry, Solly,' Moishie tells me, an he starts to pull me along de street. Okay. Dats what Moishie wants, dats what we do. We walk. We walk half a block. Moishie is like whistling, happy, like he don give a shit. He don know from nutting. . . . Me, I don feel so good. We walk anudder half block. Moishie is singing now. He's singing Mein Yiddishe Mama, an I'm like, ya know, jerking myself off.” Solly made the appropriate hand motion. “All of a sudden, I hear like someone screaming. It's a broad.

“‘Hey, mister! Hey, mister!' she's yelling.

“I turn aroun; Moishie, he's like still singing. I see de bear from de store like running down de street. ‘Hey, mister! Hey, mister!' she's yelling. Moishie, he don even bodder to turn aroun. He's like looking in de store windows. De broad comes running up.

“‘Hey, mister!' she yells to Moishie.

“Moishie turns aroun slow like. You know, like he's very surprised. ‘What's de problem, liddle lady?' he says like he's out ta lunch.

“‘I was tinking,' she says, like holding up Moishie's watch. ‘I tink I paid too much fer dis watch.'

“‘Oh yeah?' Moishie says. ‘Okay, so give it back.' She gives em back de watch, he gives er back de scratch. She fucks off an we start walking, and Moishie's still singing Mein Yiddishe Mama like nutting ever happened. Ever since dat time, I trust Moishie's judgement. He knows a mooch when he sees one. Dey don even have ta talk an Moishie can tell. So when he says Hankleman will bite, I guarantee you, he will bite.”

“Well, from that story, I'll put my money with you,” Kerner said, looking at the big man.

“So you'll do your part?” Solly asked.

“Yes, of course. After the way you've treated me, how can I refuse.”

“Okay, very good. So let's get down to work,” Moishie Mandelberg said, pulling several sheets out of his briefcase. “I'll make notes and then we'll each have a copy. It'll be like a T.V. show. We'll start off tomorrow like a regular day. I come into the office and my secretary blows me like usual.”

“Yes,” the Hawk said. “Everything has ta be like natural.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“G
o right in, Mr. Kerner. They're expecting you,” the secretary said.

Artie Kerner took a deep breath, gulped and walked into the office.

“Oh, you're finally here, Kerner,” Big Moishie said angrily.

“I'm sorry. I had some trouble with the car,” Kerner said meekly.

“Did you hear, Solly? He had some trouble with the car,” Big Moishie said with fierce sarcasm.

“Next time take a bus. We don like ta be kep waiting,” the Hawk snapped.

“I'm sorry . . .”

“Never mind!” Solly said, rising and moving towards Kerner. “Jus gimmie de dough.”

“I still don't have it,” Kerner replied.

“Well den, my friend, you're like up shits creek widout a paddle.”

“I just need another few . . .”

“You don't need sweet fuck all, friend!” Big Moishie growled. “We told you what we were going to do to you, Kerner.”

“It's not like we didn give you fair warning,” the Hawk added.

“Look, you can't get blood from a stone,” Kerner whined.

“No? No? You don tink so? It's bin done. We did dat lots already. We can do it. Take it from me, we can do dat; very easy like. Okay?” the Hawk sneered.

Big Moishie, orchestrating from behind his desk, pointed at Kerner.

“Please, Mr. Weisskopf, maybe you could talk to Mr. Hankleman and just give me a few days more.”

Solly the Hawk laughed menacingly. “Listen, shmuck, lemmie like explain you someting here. At dis point I don care whad dis putz Morrie Hankleman tinks or whad he's ready ta do fer you. It's out of his hands. He gave it over ta us. Y'unnerstan. Whad he tinks now don interest me. We got like turdy-five percent coming ta us on what you owe. Dats what we want number one. Den number two, we want Hankleman's sixty-five percent. Dats what we want. Dats what you were supposed ta bring us here dis morning; an if I hafta break every bone in yer fucking body den dats what I'll do. Y'unnerstan, shmuck?”

“Please, just . . .”

“Look, Kerner!” Big Moishie shouted, standing up suddenly. “We're through fucking around with you!” He slammed a huge fist down on the desk top.

“Look, if you give me another few weeks I'll pay you double what you're getting out of this,” Kerner yelled.

“Did you hear, Solly? All of a sudden he's going to pay us double. . . . He can't come up with the thirteen gees, but all of a sudden he's going to find twice as much.”

“I mean it,” Kerner protested.

“Did you hear, Solly? He means it.”

“Yeah, I heard, I heard.”

“I promise you, it's true!” Kerner pleaded.

“You promise?” the Hawk said with quiet menace in his voice. “I'm gonna tell you what
I
promise, my friend. I promise you dat if by five o'clock today you don come up wid de scratch what you were supposed ta bring to us here dis morning, den I will put you in de fucking hospital for like a year. Y'unnerstan what I'm talking?”

“Yes . . . but if you would only give me just another week, or even . . . let's say another few days, then you could make twice as much.”

“We're not interested, Kerner,” the Hawk snarled. “We want what's coming. Now!”

“Wait. Wait a minute,” Big Moishie said quietly. “Let's give the man a chance here. . . . You have something cooking, Kerner?”

“Well . . . sort of . . . yes.”

“You sort of have, or you do have?” Big Moishie asked.

“Well, yes, I do have.”

“So let's hear about it.”

“I can't talk about it, but if I have a little while longer it'll pay off big.”

“You mean, if you have the use of the money you owe us a little while longer then it will pay off big?”

“Yes, that's right. But I can't discuss it.”

“Did you hear, Solly? The man says he can't discuss it. Did you hear?”

“I heard. I heard,” the Hawk replied softly. “He has a proposition wid our money but he can't discuss it.”