Free Abattoir by Christopher Leppek, Emanuel Isler Page A

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