Abattoir (8 page)

He watched her walk into the kitchen, graceful and sensuous. He smiled.

Her scream ruptured his thoughts.

Cantrell ran, his heart pounding.

She stood in front of the dryer, her hand covering her mouth.

His eyes followed hers to the floor.

A red surge seeped from beneath the dryer, following some slight incline of the floor and pooling on the tile.

“Oh my God!” Su Ling cried. “Anna!”

She rushed from the laundry to her daughter’s bedroom. Cantrell followed.

The girl was sleeping peacefully, her teddy bear clasped in her hands. There wasn’t a mark on her.

Su Ling turned to Cantrell. He reached behind her and softly closed the bedroom door.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Let me check.”

They returned to the laundry room. The pool was growing.

“I hate to say this . . . ” he began.

“It’s blood,” Su Ling muttered.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Where is it coming from?”

“Let’s find out.”

It took Cantrell a few strong heaves to move the heavy Maytag from its resting place. The floor beneath the appliance was likewise covered in a thin pool of the red fluid, but there was nothing else. He grunted as he tilted the dryer to the side and examined its underbelly. It was clean and dry.

He let the dryer back down and looked at Su Ling.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “There must be a logical reason for this . . . just don’t ask me what it is.”

“I’m scared, Alex,” she said quietly. “That’s blood! What in the hell is it doing on my floor? What if Anna sees this?”

“Do you have a mop and bucket? Go sit down, I’ll clean it up. We’ll figure it out later.”

She found the necessary tools and gave them to him. It didn’t take him long to mop up the hideous mess, rinsing both mop and hands in the nearby sink.

Even before he went back into the living room, Cantrell determined not to tell her something that made his stomach lurch:

The thick liquid—the
blood—
was warm.

7

The Exeter basked in the warmth of a June afternoon; golden light slanting off its improbable angles, gables and glass. The grass in its small, well-maintained front lawn had taken root, growing lush and green; the ornamental trees fully in leaf, the roses in bloom.

No longer did the place look so glaringly new; instead assuming a lived-in appearance. It almost looked as if it belonged.

It was mid-afternoon on a quiet day. Most of the tenants were gone, working or enjoying the outdoors. The parking lot was practically empty, except for one anomaly that marred the peaceful landscape: a lone police cruiser.

Lieutenant Joe Maudlin spoke to Cantrell as they made their way to the third floor.

“So, we’re talking a couple weeks?” Maudlin asked Cantrell.

“The last time I saw him was at the Tenants Association meeting, just over two weeks ago. Not a trace since then.”

“Did he have anything special to say at the meeting?”

“No. He was critical, which is par for the course for him. He tends to be gruff.”

“You mean you don’t like him?”

Cantrell paused, sensing a trap.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I understand he’s one of the investors in the building.”

Cantrell was impressed by the detective’s apparent homework.

“Yes he is, but he did tell me something after the tenants’ meeting: he said it was his intent to liquidate his investment in the building. He asked me to look into the technicalities.”

Maudlin raised an eyebrow. “Really? What do you make of that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was he a big shareholder?”

“More than some, less than others.”

“I see. So you’ve gone in, taken a look?”

“Yes, and let me warn you, it’s unbelievable.”

Maudlin seemed uninterested in Cantrell’s warning. As they ascended the staircase to the third floor, Maudlin took in the decor, the art; the impressive tree that towered through the building’s central atrium.

“Nice place.”

They stopped before door 308.

“Why did you go into Brown’s apartment?”

“I was scared that he might be sick, or dead. There was no answer on the phone, no answer to my knocks.”

“And you’re absolutely sure he’s not in there somewhere?”

“I checked every closet, under the bed, under the sofa. Nothing.”

“Believe me, if there was a body in there, you would have known it.”

Maudlin paused, regarding the closed door.

“And he left no word with you, no notice that he was taking a trip or something?”

“Nothing.”

Maudlin exhaled. “Okay, let’s take a look.”

§

Stu Brown was incensed. He was waiting on hold, and he hated nothing more than waiting on the fucking telephone. Who understood better than him that time was money?

The voice of his money manager finally came back on the line.

“So you’re serious about this, Stu? You really want to sell your shares in the Exeter?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I talked to Cantrell about it yesterday. He’s looking into it for me.”

The man’s voice betrayed a trace of frustration.

“Why, for Christ’s sake? You won’t get a dime of appreciation, and the Exeter is a winner, Stu. You know it and I know it. Hold onto it for five years, then dump it for a windfall.”

“Fuck the windfall, Steve, and fuck you! I’m selling, and that’s that. Now, what I want to know from you is have you done everything else I’ve ordered?”

The broker paused.

“Christ, no Stu! It’ll take me a week at least to get rid of everything. Come on, buddy. Don’t you want to meet and talk about this over lunch or something? We’re talking a lot of assets here. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Get this straight, Steve. You’re the broker and I’m the client. What part of that is hard to understand?”

“But I have a fiduciary responsibility, Stu, and I have to . . . ”

“. . . Listen to your fucking client! You’re right you have a fiduciary responsibility, you son of a bitch—to
me
! I’m ordering you for the last time: liquidate all of it, Steve—everything. I’m talking about the stocks, the bonds, the treasury certificates, the property, the rentals. Every fucking dime of it, liquidated and turned over to me in currency. That means cash, Steve, hard cold cash, in case you’ve forgotten what that is. Nothing else will do. And I want it done now.”

Brown paused, catching his breath. When he got angry like this, his chest hurt and his breath grew short.

“Now if you can’t get this done,” he resumed in a dangerously calm tone, “I’ll fucking find somebody who
can
. Have I made myself clear?”

The manager sighed. He was accustomed to Brown’s anger and impatience, but he’d never heard anything like this. He’d already done his best to delay Brown’s drastic decision, but sensed that it was fruitless.

“Clear as a bell, Stu,” he said in a tone of surrender. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Brown slammed the receiver down, but not without a twinge of pleasure. He enjoyed the sound of fear, of desperation, in Steve’s voice.

Brown had always believed that when you turned up the heat, the rats would come out, and good old Steve had turned out to be just another rat. In the end, they were all the same: thieves who couldn’t keep their hands out of his till. He’d suspected it for years and years, just like he had his waitresses and bartenders; his hostesses, partners and wives. All they ever wanted was to fuck him, and he figured that he’d been sufficiently fucked by now.

Stu Brown had put his foot down for good. There would be no more banks, no more professionals posing as friends, no more advisors, counselors or consultants. He’d worked way too hard for his money to allow those
parasites—those rats—
to suck it all away.

The only man left to trust was himself.

He stood in the kitchen, facing the expensive wood cabinets, copper pots and pans hanging unused from their racks. The cabinets were all open. Each shelf was lined with neat rows of cans. The counter was likewise covered with them. The refrigerator was similarly stocked.

But they were not cans of food. They were coffee and soup cans, long emptied of their original contents, and now used for a new purpose. Each can had been messily stuffed with rolls and rolls of cash; everything from ones to hundreds. There were literally thousands of bills, and this was only the beginning. More than three quarters of his assets had yet to be liquidated.

Brown had no idea how much money lay throughout his flat, nor did he care. He was driven by one overwhelming desire: to convert everything he was worth into more stuffing for his cans. He hoped desperately—he lusted—for the moment when he would realize that every last dollar had been gathered here under his watchful eye.

Nothing else mattered to him. He hadn’t bathed in weeks, nor shaven, nor eaten properly. His clothing—once an expensive silk shirt and knit slacks—were filthy, wrinkled and tattered. His beard was growing in full, his gray hair reaching well over his collar. He stank.

It took several days to complete the task. It culminated with the arrival of an armored truck, the contents of which required several trips by the guards to deliver in full. It came in heavy canvas bags. When the guards were gone, Brown methodically transferred all of it into cans.

He didn’t bother to count it, somehow sensing that it was all there.

Brown wasted little time. On the morning after the big delivery, he double-checked the locks on his door, drew the curtains, and stepped into his living room. He slowly turned in all directions, taking it all in. Each filled can represented another step in his long and profitable life, another step away from those lean and hungry early days. Each one symbolized hard work—the product of his own sweat and blood. Every bill in every can was a victory.

And now, they were all here, before their creator. Now they were finally safe.

But not for long.

Brown knew that Steve and the others—the
rats
—would be coming. They knew that he was gathering his money here, and
they wanted it,
like they always had. He hadn’t slept in days. Sooner or later, fatigue would get the best of him. That’s when the rats would strike. They’d wait until he was sleeping, in the middle of the night; silently creep in, remove each can, leaving him nothing. He could picture them smiling; their drool dripping onto his precious bills as they skulked about his apartment. Not one fucking penny left . . . not one.

He had to find a safe place, now, before it was too late.

The solution struck him in an instant. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. He had a refuge, right
here,
right before his eyes. The company safe. A black, iron monstrosity: utterly impenetrable.

Yes. It would be safe there.

Brown looked at his clock, the only item of furniture that didn’t fit his richly appointed decor. It was a round electric model, emblazoned with the words “Miller High Life”—a relic of his first bar. The neon showed ten-thirty in the morning. If he moved quickly, he could finish by tonight.

He set to work. Can by can, he gathered the bills and flung them into the gaping maw of the safe. Handful by handful, his precious work, his way of keeping score his entire life, his protection from want, was swallowed.

He hummed as he worked, reveling in his progress. Soon, he was surrounded by a sea of empty tin cans. With every thrust into the door, the empty cans clanked and rolled.

When the rays of the summer sun were growing long, he was finished at last. With one last heave, he slammed the door shut.

Try to get it now, you fucking rats. Just try.

His work done, Stu Brown stretched out on the living room carpet, scattering cans in all directions. Before he drifted off to a deep, untroubled sleep, he took one last glance at the clock.

It didn’t surprise him that it still showed ten-thirty.

§

As Cantrell unlocked the door of 308 with his master key, he heard the cop take in a deep breath, as if by old habit.

“Ash,” Maudlin said immediately. “He’s been burning something.”

They entered the living room. It was dim, the curtains drawn. Each step scattered tin cans in all directions.

Cantrell found the lights.

“What the hell . . . ?” Maudlin said, taking in the hundreds of empty cans strewn across the apartment. They covered every square inch of carpet, tile and linoleum.

“You said strange,” Maudlin muttered to Cantrell. “This is light years beyond strange. Is this guy nuts?”

“Not to my knowledge. You must know who Stu Brown is, Detective; the guy who owned the Yellow Pages, the Righteous Dove, the Barbary Coast . . . ”

The cop grunted. “I know the places, not the man. You say he isn’t crazy?”

“He’s a tough guy, like I said. Not the most trusting fellow, or the most pleasant. But how many multi-millionaires do you know who are crazy?”

“Good point.”

Maudlin moved into the kitchen, where he was greeted by an open and empty refrigerator, a sink full of filthy dishes and more cans.

He stepped back into the living room and sniffed the air.

Instinctively, he was drawn toward the fireplace; a large stainless steel unit that dominated a corner of the expansive room. Its glass windows were blackened with soot.

He opened the door with a pencil and peered inside.

“Ton of ash in here,” Maudlin said, his voice echoing through the open flue. He switched on a penlight and shone it inside.

“Holy shit . . . ”

“What?”

“Come here. Take a look at this, and hold your breath. I don’t want this evidence destroyed.”

Cantrell leaned toward the fireplace and followed the beam of Maudlin’s light. He gasped when he saw it: a clear facsimile of a $500 bill. The impression was printed on a micro-thin wafer of ash. There were dozens more in the fire-pit, and a substantial layer of indecipherable ash beneath.