The Last Collection Read Online Free PDF Page A

to myself. Cock measuring isn’t good enough for you. You have to be a lousy junkie, eh? I could tell you were arrogant the minute you walked in the door.”
    Kerner tried to protest, but the doctor rolled right over him.
    â€œDon’t worry, Mr. Kerner, we’ll effect a cure, even if I have to rip this ugly sickness out of you with my bare hands. . . .”
    â€œI don’t think you understand. It’s not . . .”
    â€œDon’t worry, my friend, I understand. What are you on? Coke? Shmeck? Nembutal? Mandrax?”
    â€œNo, you don’t understand . . .”
    â€œStop playing around with me, Kerner,” the doctor yelled. “You’re making me paranoid and in one minute my fee will soar to $75.00 an hour.”
    â€œYou’re not letting me talk. I thought the patient was supposed to do the talking while the psychiatrist listened.”
    â€œI don’t believe in that bullshit. In my office we both talk. You talk until I get sick and tired of hearing your voice. Then I talk so I can pay you back for making me sick and tired. In other words, you talk when I want you to.”
    Kerner was getting angry. “Well, chacun à son goût,” he said sarcastically.
    â€œOkay, okay, Kerner. You’re not impressing me. I can speak French too. I also speak Yiddish, so, ‘Gay cocken offen yam.’ You know what that means? . . . It means, go shit in the ocean.”
    Kerner started to get up. It was no use; the man was obviously crazed. He had to get out of there. His chest was beginning to constrict and his stomach was knotted. He felt like throwing up. He got off the couch and turned towards the door.
    â€œWhere are you going, Mr. Kerner?”
    â€œI’m leaving,” Kerner said and walked quickly to the door.
    â€œYou’re a shlepper, Kerner!”
    â€œYou’re crazy,” Kerner replied angrily and went outside. He opened the waiting-room door and went out into the hallway. Behind him he could hear the doctor yelling.
    â€œKerner, you’re a shlepper. You have no faith. That’s your sickness. You have no faith!”
    Kerner started to run. He ran all the way to the stores on Sherbrooke Street.

Chapter Three
    M orrie Hankleman sat at his desk unable to work. No matter what he tried to think about, his mind kept coming back to Artie Kerner. He had never thought it possible to hate someone as much as he hated that man. Kerner was going to pay his dues. One way or the other, he was going to pay. No one was going to take Morrie Hankleman for a ride; not after what he had been through.
    For six years he had worked his ass off as a department manager for the Blue Star chain of food stores. Then they had promoted him to store manager. He had worked in that capacity for another two years. All the while he was thinking of ways to get into something on his own. He had a lot of ideas but no money to implement them.
    The time was passing. He had hoped to be at least well-off if not wealthy by the time he was thirty, but things weren’t turning out that way. He was getting desperate. He wanted to make some big money, to relax, to play the big shot, to come and go as he pleased. He couldn’t see himself working for the Blue Star chain for the rest of his life but he could see no other alternatives.
    He felt he had to break out or die. He was ready to go for broke if only something would fall his way. And then it did. He was promoted to vegetable buyer for all the Blue Star stores on the island of Montreal—thirty-four of them. The increase in his salary wasn’t insignificant but he couldn’t have cared less about that. He would have gladly taken the promotion with a decrease in his salary because, from the very moment he was told about his new function, Morrie Hankleman knew exactly what he would do.
    He didn’t do it immediately. First he familiarized himself with the job and the people with whom