The Last Collection by Seymour Blicker Page A

gone out that morning. It should be arriving momentarily. Morrie Hankleman hung up the phone and walked back to his car. He smiled viciously to himself. Artie Kerner’s new calculator for the office turns out to be a crystal statuette.
    Morrie Hankleman felt much better. Artie Kerner was trying to burn him. There was no longer any doubt about that. When a man who owed close to $13,000.00 claimed he was broke and then went out and spent $400.00 on a crystal statuette, there was no doubt he was a cheat.
    Morrie Hankleman gritted his teeth and depressed the accelerator of his big Mercedes. He peeled around the corner of Park Avenue, heading for the Mountain Road. Ahead of him an old man was hobbling across the street against the red light. Hankleman accelerated and veered the car towards the man, blasting on the horn. The old man made a stumbling, panicky dash for the curb.
    Hankleman slowed the car and stuck his head out the window. “Get off the road, you fucking old arsehole!” he cursed.
    The old man reached the safety of the sidewalk, turned and shook a feeble fist at Hankleman. “Netzi!” he shouted.
    â€œUp your ass, you alte cocker!” Hankleman screamed. He floored the car and roared up the Mountain Road, laughing.
    Fucking old people, he thought. They should all be kept out of sight or put to sleep. He couldn’t stand the sight of them. They were all ugly, weak, senile. He could feel his ulcer pain beginning to gnaw at him again.
    A sneer formed on his face as his thoughts went back to Kerner. That fucking Kerner! He was probably laughing at him at that very moment. Laughing at how he was shafting Morrie Hankleman. Solly Weisskopf and his fat partner were probably laughing at him too. Laughing at how they were going to collect almost five thousand dollars because Morrie Hankleman was a stupid shmuck who couldn’t control his own business affairs. Why had he gone to those hoodlums? he cursed himself. He knew why he had gone to them. He had first thought of simply hiring a goon off the streets for a hundred dollars but he had been afraid. He had been afraid because of the very reasons mentioned by Moishie Mandelberg. An amateur couldn’t be trusted. He had known that before Mandelberg had mentioned it to him. There was always the chance that an amateur could run into trouble and under a little pressure from the police he would spill his guts about who had hired him. Then he, Morrie Hankleman, would be in big trouble.
    But now he realized that had he not made a deal for collection with Solly Weisskopf, he would hire a couple of goons and take his chances. Now that the collection had been arranged and he knew that he would only get back sixty-five percent of what was owed, he knew what he should have done and what he would do if he could do it over again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. He had made a deal and for the next month he was bound by it. There was always the chance that his talk with Kerner would yield some positive results but it was highly unlikely. He knew for certain that Kerner was trying to burn him. He had the feeling that Kerner was doing it just for the sake of doing it—because it probably gave him pleasure.
    The sneer stayed on Morrie Hankleman’s face. He ripped the big Mercedes up the Mountain Road, his hands clenched on the wheel.
    He pictured Solly Weisskopf and Moishie Mandelberg convulsed with laughter as they talked about him. He was sure from the ache in his gut that his ulcers were now bleeding. He didn’t like the way Mandelberg had spoken to him. Who did he think he was? He was a hood, a criminal, a con man.
    Hankleman suddenly became aware of a hitchhiker standing up ahead on the roadside. He smiled grimly to himself as he noticed that the hiker was a fat girl with a big camper’s knapsack strapped on her back. Hankleman began to chuckle as he drove by the girl.
    When he was about a hundred feet or so past her, Hankleman jammed on his