He went into the living room and looked around. His eyes took in the entire room and then went slowly from object to object. He observed each item of hand-crafted furniture, every piece of sculpting, each lamp and vase, every painting, the two large tapestries. He felt no relief. The pain in his head was now almost unbearable and he knew he was about to throw up.
He ran to the bathroom and leaned over the toilet bowl, trying desperately to control himself. The nausea dissipated but Kerner knew it was only temporary. He washed his face with cold water then swallowed two 292s.
He turned and stood in the doorway of the bathroom. The blank space on the wall beside his newest possession glared out at him. He could feel the heaves coming. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub beside the toilet bowl and rested his head in his hands. Again he thought of the girl who had been with him during the night.
What did I do to deserve this? Kerner wondered as tears began to flow from his eyes. He had never hurt anyone. Why couldn’t someone help him? Why couldn’t Dr. Lehman help him? He felt a sudden surge of anger for the doctor.
He looked up at the blank patch of wall. He had to fill it. He knew exactly what had to go there. It had to be another lithograph by the same artist. A mate for the one he had purchased the previous day. Kerner’s heart began pounding. He pressed his elbows down on his knees to try to stop the tremors in his arms.
He glanced at his watch. The stores wouldn’t be open for another hour and a half. He pictured himself in the store taking possession of the work. His heart was pounding. He glanced up at the wall. He wanted the blank space filled now! He cursed the art dealer aloud. Why did they have to open so late? Some stores were ready to do business at eight-thirty. But those bastards had to open at ten. Arrogant sons of bitches. He tried not to think about the litho, but in spite of his efforts his eyes were inexorably drawn to the wall. He could feel the wave of sickness coming. He turned and threw himself towards the toilet. On his hands and knees in front of the bowl and gripping the edges with both hands, he began to heave. He prayed for relief.
Again the wave of nausea was momentarily dissipated. He leaned his head down on the edge of the toilet bowl. He looked at his watch again. Why did the time pass so slowly? Maybe today Walton’s gallery would open early. He stood up slowly, dragged himself into the bedroom and began dressing as quickly as he could. As he dressed he tried to keep his eyes averted from the wall. He threw on his jacket and headed out of the bedroom.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Kerner froze and held his breath. The knock came again. Kerner exhaled as slowly and quietly as he could.
Who could it be? he wondered. There was nothing in the sound to tell him anything about the person outside the door. It was a neutral knock. Three evenly spaced raps, neither aggressive nor meek sounding. Kerner had to get out. He couldn’t stand there any longer.
Once again the knocks sounded.
“Yes?” Kerner said, trying to inject a light tone into his voice.
“Mr. Kerner?” the voice said.
Kerner hesitated for a moment. He didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes. Who’s there?” he said, moving towards the door on tiptoe.
“My name is Weisskopf—Solly Weisskopf.”
Kerner went rigid against the door. Oh, no! It was Hankleman’s goon. The psychopath, the killer! His body frozen, Kerner’s mind groped desperately for some answer that would make Solly Weisskopf go away.
“I was asked ta come down an see you by a certain person about a madder of some money.”
“Oh. I see. . . . Yes. . . . Well, I’m sorry but I can’t discuss money matters with you today, Mr. Weisskopf.”
“No? How come?” the Hawk asked.
“Well. . . . I’m quite ill actually.”
“Oh yeah? What’s de matter?”
“It looks like I’ve come down with something quite bad,” Kerner replied.
“Yeah? Like what f’rinstance?”
“It could be a rare form of leprosy.”
“Leprosy? No kidding. I tot you could only pick dat up in de hot climates.”
“Yes. Yes. That’s quite true,” Kerner replied hastily.
“So where d’ya tink ya got it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You were in Africa?” the Hawk asked.
“Yes, that’s right. I was there on a buying trip. I must have gotten it there.”
“I was in Africa once. I found it very hot dere. It’s not fer me.”
“I agree. I like a more temperate climate too.”
“Yeah,” the Hawk said, and then added, “Anyway, I’d like ta come in an talk wid you.”
“Well. . . . I really don’t think you should, considering what I think I have.”
“It doesn’t bodder me. I’m not worried about leprosy.”
“You should be. It’s quite contagious, you know.”
“Yeah, but only from touching, an I don wanna touch. I only wanna talk.”
“Oh, you don’t have to touch?”
“No. Why should I have to touch?”
“You shouldn’t. I just thought . . .” Kerner stopped himself in mid-sentence.
“So can I come in?”
“Well, what exactly is it you want to discuss?”
“Like I said, it’s about de money dat you owe to a certain Mr. Hankleman.”
“Right. Right. Uh huh. Yes. Well. Actually, the other thing is I can’t discuss money matters with you today, Mr. Weisskopf.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you see, I happen to be an orthodox Jew and we’re not allowed to discuss money on the Sabbath. As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of my morning prayers when you knocked. I’m actually not allowed to do anything on the Sabbath. I’m not even allowed to brush my teeth or comb my hair or open or close a light switch or anything. I can’t even go to the bathroom till after sundown.”
“No shit?” the Hawk exclaimed, feigning surprise.
“Yes, and no piss either,” Kerner replied.
“Isn’t dat something,” the Hawk said. “I haven’t talked to an ortidox Jew in a long time. My fadder was ortidox also. A very religious man; which is why he trew me outa da house when I wanted to join de army. He also did what you do. He wouldn do nutting but read de Bible on de Sabbit.”
“Of course. That’s what I was just about to do before you knocked. I actually shouldn’t even be talking to you. . . .”
The Hawk let Kerner finish and then continued. “De only difference is dat fer my fadder, de Sabbit was on Saturday, an fer you it’s Wensday.”
Kerner felt his legs buckling under him. “Isn’t it Saturday today?”
“Today it’s Wensday,” the Hawk replied.
Kerner leaned against the door. He had thought for sure that it was Saturday. He was so involved with his buying problem and his psychiatrist that he was now losing track of the days. What would be next? he wondered.
“I was sure it was Saturday. It looks like I did all that praying for nothing.”
“Well, it couldn’t hurt.”
Kerner knew he had to get out of the apartment even if it meant taking a beating. Maybe the psychopath outside the door would take it easier on him if he could establish some rapport with him before opening the door. The fact that they were both Jews was something positive. That was a good angle. He would try playing that up.
“So your father was orthodox?” Kerner said.
“Yes, he was very religious. He was actually a rabbi.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Kerner replied, feeling much better. Certainly a rabbi’s son couldn’t be all that vicious. “So I guess you must be religious too, then.”
“Me? Naw. De only time I go ta Shul is on Yom Kippur so I can ask ta be forgiven for alla de sins which I committed dooring de year.”
Kerner felt his heart suddenly pop into his mouth and lodge there like a large rock.
“Well, anyways, it’s always nice talking to another Jew, but you’ll have to excuse me now, Mr. Weisskopf, s
o I can get back into bed. My doctor told me that lots of rest is the best thing for leprosy.”
“He didn’t tell you to drink lots of fluid?” the Hawk asked.
“Yes, that too. As a matter of fact, I think I had better take a drink right now. Why don’t you call me tomorrow at the office. Okay?”
Kerner pressed his ear against the door. He couldn’t hear anything. He began to ease away from the door on tiptoe.
“Mr. Kerner,” the Hawk said suddenly.
Kerner froze again. “Yes,” he replied.
“You’re a religious man, so you must know some of the famous old Jewish sayings which have come down to us troo de ages. Right?”
“Well, yes . . . some. I mean, there are some I forget.”
“Well, maybe you know dis one. It says dat a nail can’t stay lost in a sack. Eventually it’s gotta come out. If not today, den tomorrow. D’ya know dat one?” the Hawk said, smiling to himself.
“Yes, I think I’ve heard that one,” Kerner said, his voice cracking.
“It’s a good one, eh?”
“Yes.” Kerner’s voice was choked to a whisper.
“I tink our forefadders were smart, Mr. Kerner. Dey made up like a lotta smart sayings. Anudder one I remember is, ‘It’s easier to get in den to get out.’”
Kerner could feel his legs giving out under him. What did the psychopath mean by that? Kerner wondered in a sudden panic. He must know. Somehow he knew about his buying sickness. He knew that he had to get out and get down to the art gallery. He’ll stay here all day and torture me. The more Kerner thought about this, the greater was his urge to get out. He knew he had to get out of the apartment soon or he would crack.
What could this man Weisskopf do to him? Beat him up? How badly? A broken arm? A broken leg? A broken jaw? All three?!
Kerner could feel himself cringing. He tried to steel himself. He had to take his chances with the goon. Even a completely broken body would be better than to continue feeling the way he felt at that moment. Anything was better than that. If the pain and nausea went on much longer, he would go into a state of shock. He prayed that Weisskopf wouldn’t punch him in the stomach. He’d take a broken jaw any day before that.
He reached for the dead bolt, but as he did so something told him to hold on just a bit longer. Maybe, just maybe, if he could force himself to make one last effort, he might be successful in persuading the man to leave.
He withdrew his hand from the lock. With his head lowered and his eyes closed, he summoned up all his will power in an effort to control himself. If he was smart he would stay on the same verbal wavelength as the goon. It might be wise if he now used an aphorism of his own to convince the man to desist. He searched his mind for the appropriate saying.
“I don’t want to seem rude, Mr. Weisskopf, but this is the worst possible time for me to discuss this with you. As a matter of fact, to quote an old Jewish expression . . . you sort of caught me standing on one leg.”
“Well, you shouldn’t complain because like de old Rumanian saying goes: One leg is better den none.”
Kerner’s blood curdled. “I thought the expression was: Two heads are better than one.”
“Dats a different one, Mr. Kerner. Deres anudder one also dats very similar: One head is better den no head. I tink dats also an old Jewish one.”
“It sounds like it.”
“Wouldn’t you agree wid dat one, Mr. Kerner?”
“Yes, definitely. It makes sense,” Kerner replied quickly, biting on his knuckles.
“And one head an two legs is better den one head an only one leg. No?”
“Yes, yes. That’s true. That’s logical all right.” Kerner felt his eyes popping in their sockets.
“An one head an one leg an two arms is better den one head one leg an one arm. . . . Right?” the Hawk asked.
“Right,” Kerner replied. “Is that an old Jewish one as well?”
“I tink so but I’m not sure. It could be Ukrainian.”
“I see.”
“An would you not agree dat one leg an one arm is better den one head, no legs an one arm?”
“I would agree.”
“An dat one head, one leg an one arm is better den no head, one leg an two arms?”
“Yes. Definitely, yes. I couldn’t say no to that.”
“You sound like you have a good head on your shoulders, Mr. Kerner, so lemmie ask you dis. . . . Which is better—one head, two legs, one broken arm an one good arm, or . . . one head, two legs, one good arm, one broken arm an only one ear?”
“That’s a tough one,” Kerner said, pondering the problem. “Let me mull that over for a moment or two.”
“Don take too long on it, Mr. Kerner. Like dey say . . . time flies.”
“Give me a chance, eh! This is a toughie.”
“I don see why you’re making it so hard for me, Mr. Kerner. De way you’re acting you would tink I was asking for an arm an a leg.”
“You’re not?! . . . I mean . . . well, look . . . I don’t see why I should have to let you in. This is my apartment. As far as I’m concerned, we can talk like this . . . through the door.”
“Sometimes when you talk troo a closed door whatever is said goes in one ear an out de udder,” the Hawk said.
Kerner couldn’t think of a reply.
”Are you there, Mr. Kerner?“
“Yes, I’m here.”
Kerner decided on a last desperate gambit. He would try to make the goon leave by taking an offensive posture. He would attempt an indignant and outraged approach. Maybe this might succeed where meekness had failed. If threats failed to drive the man away and he was forced to let him in, what could he lose? The punishment would probably not be any worse than if he allowed him in at that very moment. He decided to go for broke.
“Look, who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Eh? I mean, who do you think you are? What is this! Coming up here and threatening me! I mean . . . as far as I’m concerned, you’re a criminal. I could have you prosecuted. There are laws against this kind of thing, you know!”
Kerner waited for a response which he expected would be immediate one way or the other. For several seconds there was silence. Then:
“Mr. Kerner,” the Hawk said, “I would like to suggest dat before calling me a criminal you should take de bean out from your own eyes.”
“It’s not a bean . . . it’s a beam.”
“A beam?”
“Yes, a beam.”
“If you had a beam in your eye, I doubt if you could take it out by yourself. I doubt if you would need to even have it removed.”
“It’s not a beam, like a two by four.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So whad is it?”
“I think it means a small particle or a piece of dust or something like that.”
“Hmm. Live and learn. An I always tot it was a bean. . . . Mind you, not a big bean like a lima bean or a kidney bean but . . . you know, like a liddle bean. Of course, I always wondered how someone could get even a liddle bean stuck in dere eye. A pea, a very small pea . . . maybe . . . like from a peashooter . . . but in dose days dey didn’t have peashooters.”
Kerner detected a conciliatory note in the man’s voice. Perhaps his show of outrage had made a dent in the man’s psychic defenses. Perhaps now if he said the right thing it might be possible to force the man into having a sudden insight into the shallowness of his line of work. If he could achieve that, then it was possible that the man might have a change of heart and leave him in peace.
“Don’t you find this kind of job somewhat unsatisfying?”
“Unsatisfying? No. Why should it be?”
“Well. I mean. After all . . . look what you have to do.”
“Well, I don wish to get involved in a philosophical discussion wid you, Mr. Kerner, but to me it’s a job. You understand. It’s a way of making a living. It’s better den being on unemployment, an like dey say, a bird in de hand is wert two in a bush.”
“It depends what kind of bird,” Kerner replied cockily.
“Yes, dats true. It depends on what kind of bird. A dead bird in de hand isn’t wert much.”
Kerner felt his face contort into a sick grimace. Was the man threatening to kill him? No! That couldn’t be. Dead men didn’t repay debts. Still, just hearing the words made him tremble.
“Deres anudder old saying . . . dat a half of a bird in a bush is wert more den five in a hand if de hand is not connected to an arm. Would you not agree?”
“Yes,” Kerner replied, happy that the subject had returned from talk of death to simple physical maiming.
“In fact,” the Hawk went on, “a dead bird in a bush is wert more dan five dead birds in a hand wid all de fingers broken.”
“That makes sense. That sounds like an old Jewish one.”
“No, dats Polish,” the Hawk said.
“Oh, I see,” Kerner replied hesitantly.
There was a long silence which was finally broken by the Hawk. “So where do we stand, Mr. Kerner?”
“Stand? Well, to repeat what I first told you, I’m still more or less standing here on one leg.”
“Well, den maybe it would be easier for you an your leg if you put your ass on de table . . . or maybe you tink you have enough on your plate already?”
“I have more than enough on my plate, without putting my ass on it as well,” Kerner replied.
“I’m not asking you to put your ass on your plate, just on de table, Mr. Kerner.”
“I don’t know if that will accomplish anything at this point,” Kerner said.
“You never know. . . . Maybe it will give you some food fer tot,” the Hawk replied.
“Food for what?”
“For tot,” the Hawk said.
“Tot?”
“Yeah, tot.”
“What’s tot?”
“Tot, tot,” the Hawk said.
“How do you spell that?” Kerner asked, puzzled.
“Tot! T-h-o-u-g-h-t . . . tot!” the Hawk said emphatically.
“Oh! Tot!” Kerner exclaimed, realizing he had made an error.
The Last Collection Page 10
