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.
“When we have this analyzed, Mr. Cantrell, I’ll bet my career we find at least several million dollars in there. Unbelievable. This guy burned everything he had.”
“Are you sure that stuff is real?”
“I’m no expert, but those look pretty damn real to me. The lab will confirm it. They’ll take a fine-toothed comb to everything in the place.”
“Why would he do something like this?”
“That’s the first question I intend to ask him, providing we ever find him. Any ideas on that?”
“Not a clue. You guys are the experts in finding people.”
The cop rubbed his forehead. “So they say, Mr. Cantrell, so they say.”
A dozen blocks away, in a part of Derbytown that remained forgotten and forlorn, a solitary figure sat against a brick wall in a litter-strewn alley. His clothes were rags, his hair in wild disarray. A month’s worth of gray stubble was forming itself into a straggly beard.
Just another homeless derelict in a part of town full of them. He was hungry, his stomach churning, but he didn’t know what to do. Instinct told him to make for downtown. It took all his strength to rise to his feet. On wobbly legs, he began wandering in that direction.
Where there were people, there would be food. And how are you going to find it, hmmmm? Beg? Steal? Rummage through trash cans?
For all his financial acumen, for all the business skills he’d spent a lifetime honing, today Stuart Brown found himself as confused and helpless as an infant.
8
There must have been thousands of grams of cholesterol in the feast before him.
Janice had gone all out to impress this Friday night, planning the dinner with impeccable taste and richness—mussels on the shell in a rich butter garlic sauce, fois gras and beef tenderloin. It was presented with silver, linen and crystal, the latter containing a rare vintage French Bordeaux.
Bill Sloane silently counted calories in his head. He’d been to his cardiologist once again, just that afternoon. As always, the doctor had assured him that his cholesterol levels and blood pressure were fine, exceptional in fact.
He believed none of it, of course.