The Last Collection by Seymour Blicker

calculator for the office,” Kerner said, grabbing the package from the man and forcing a nervous smile.
    â€œNo, 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?”
    â€œNo,” Kerner replied, shaking his head.
    â€œHe’s also known as Solly the Hawk. Now does it ring a bell?” Hankleman asked, smiling broadly.
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou 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?!”
    â€œI don’t know who he is,” Artie Kerner said mournfully.
    â€œWell, 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.
    Artie Kerner felt a wave of depression and nausea sweep over him. He was frightened. Then suddenly his foot knocked against the package on the floor. He reached down and picked it up. He quickly began to unwrap it. He removed all the paper and lifted the cover of the exposed box. He looked inside and a smile broke across his face.

Chapter Ten
    M orrie Hankleman spied a pay phone just around the corner from Artie Kerner’s office. He stopped his car, got out and went into the booth. He dialed the number of Ogilvy’s. Identifying himself as Mr. Arthur Kerner, he explained that he had recently ordered an item for $400.00 which was to have been delivered to his office that day but hadn’t come as yet. Would they be kind enough to tell him when it would arrive. He waited as the sales clerk went to check. A moment later he was informed that the crystal statuette which he had ordered had