Free The Last Collection by Seymour Blicker Page B

Just give me half a chance and I’ll prove it to you. I’m going to make it good!”
    Morrie Hankleman shook his head slowly and deliberately. “No . . . No . . . You’re not going to make nothing good. For me you’re going to make everything bad. I know it. You think I’m a shmuck or something?”
    Kerner started to reply. “No . . . I don’t . . .”
    Hankleman cut him off in mid-sentence. “I don’t need an answer from you on that. What you think or what you say has no validity. D’you understand?”
    â€œOf course . . .”
    â€œDon’t talk! I don’t need an answer from you, friend. I’m not asking, I’m telling.”
    â€œLook, Mr. Hankleman . . .”
    â€œAnd don’t fucking Mr. Hankleman me. I know what I am to you, you lousy psychopath. You don’t give a shit about anything or anyone. You’re a mooch. You’re a nothing. You’re garbage. You don’t deserve to exist in this fucking society. You’re a parasite. You live on other people. You suck their blood. You just know how to take. I know your type. Everything is take, take, take! Take what you can get and fuck em. So don’t fucking Mr. Hankleman me because I don’t want to know about it.”
    Morrie Hankleman was on the verge of violence and he knew it. The more he yelled, the calmer Kerner seemed to become. He would have liked nothing better than to grab Artie Kerner by the hair and beat his face to a pulp against the top of his genuine rosewood desk. He tried to calm himself, a little frightened by his own fury.
    He was well aware that he hated Artie Kerner’s guts. For the last four weeks he had fantasized regularly about hurting him in every conceivable way. He had felt great anger, but nothing to compare with the unmitigated hatred that consumed him now.
    Hankleman tried to calm himself. He wanted to lead up to his threat about Solly the Hawk on a note of coolness. That would create a greater effect. He made an extreme effort to relax but he found it difficult because as long as he looked at the face before him, he could think of nothing else but smashing it. He stood there at the edge of Kerner’s desk and tried to catch his breath.
    Kerner was reluctant to make any attempt at discourse. He felt that Morrie Hankleman could attack him at any moment.
    â€œI want to ask you something,” Hankleman said finally in an overly calm voice.
    â€œYes, sure. What is it?”
    â€œI know you live in a three-bedroom apartment at the McGregor House, right?”
    â€œYes, that’s right, I do.”
    â€œSo how come you can afford a $500.00-a-month pad if you’re so choked?”
    â€œI got a special deal,” Kerner replied quickly.
    â€œHow special? So you’re paying $400.00 a month, $350.00 let’s say . . .”
    â€œNo. no, I’m paying less. I got a fantastic deal. I know the owners.”
    â€œOkay, so you’re paying $300.00 a month . . .”
    â€œNo, much less. I’m telling you. It’s incredible the rent I’m paying.”
    â€œOkay, $200.00 a month,” Hankleman said.
    â€œA tiny bit less,” Kerner said, gesturing with his fingers.
    Hankleman threw up his arms. “Ah! What am I doing here? You’re a lunatic. I can’t reason with you so there’s no use trying . . .”
    Hankleman was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the office door. A delivery man poked his head through the doorway. “I have a C.O.D. package here from Ogilvy’s,” he said.
    Kerner stood up quickly and approached the delivery man. He started to push him out the doorway. “Oh, I think you must have the wrong place. It’s probably for next door.”
    The delivery man held his ground. “No, it’s the right address. It’s for a Mr. A. Kerner. C.O.D. $400.00.”
    â€œOh, right, it must be the new