continuing down to the open gate and seeing the sign posted there, he knew.
THIS SITE HAS BEEN CLOSED BY
THE CHARLOTTE COUNTY DEPT
OF BUILDING AND PLANNING
THE CHARLOTTE COUNTY BUREAU OF TAXATION
THE FLORIDA BUREAU OF TAXATION
UNITED STATES INTERNAL REVENUE
FOR FURTHER INFORMATION CALL 941-555-1800
Below this, some exuberant wit had spray-painted: DIAL EXTENSION 69 AND ASK
FOR THE CUNT-LICKER GENERAL!
The tar ended and the potholes began after the only three buildings that looked
completed: two shops on one side of the street and a model home on the other. The
model home was a faux Cape Cod that made Curtis’s blood run cold. He didn’t trust
the Vespa on the unpaved sur face, so he turned in beside a payloader that looked as if it had been parked there for a century or more—grass was growing in the dirt at the
bottom of its partially raised scoop—put down the stand, and turned off the engine.
Silence poured in to fill the socket which had been occupied by the Vespa’s fat purr.
Then a crow cawed. It was answered by another. Curtis looked up and saw a trio of
them poised on a scaffolding that enshrouded a partially finished brick building.
Maybe it had been intended as a bank. Now it’s Grunwald’s tombstone, he thought, but the idea didn’t even bring a smile to his lips. He felt like gagging himself again, and might even have done it, but farther down the deserted dirt street—at the far end, in fact—he saw a man standing beside a white sedan with a green palm tree on it.
Above the palm tree: GRUNWALD. Below it: CONTRACTORS & BUILDERS. The
man was waving to him. Grunwald was for some reason driving a company car today
instead of his Porsche. Curtis supposed it wasn’t impossible that Grunwald had sold
the Porsche. It wasn’t impossible to think the IRS had seized it, and might even seize Grunwald’s Turtle Island property. Then the Vinton Lot would be the least of his
worries.
I just hope they leave him enough to pay for my dog, Curtis thought. He waved back to Grunwald, flicked the red alarm switch below the ignition after removing the key
(these things were only reflex; he did not think the Vespa was in any danger of being
stolen, not out here, but he had been taught to take care of his things), and put the key in his pocket with his cell phone. Then he started down the dirt street—a Main Street
that never was, and, it now seemed certain, never would be—to meet his neighbor and
settle the trouble between them once and for all, if that were possible. He was careful to avoid the puddles left from the previous night’s shower.
“Yo, neighbor!” Grunwald said as Curtis approached. He was wearing khakis and a
T-shirt with his company’s palm-tree logo on it. The shirt bagged on him. Except for
hectic blotches of red high on his cheekbones and dark—almost black—circles under
his eyes, his face was pale. And although he sounded cheerful, he looked sicker than
ever. Whatever they tried to cut out of him, Curtis thought, they failed. Grunwald had one hand behind him. Curtis assumed it was in his back pocket. This turned out not to
be true.
A little farther down the rutted and puddled dirt road was a trailer up on blocks. The on-site office, Curtis supposed. There was a notice encased in a protective plastic
sleeve, hanging from a little plastic suction cup. There was a lot printed on it, but all Curtis could read (all he needed to read) were the words at the top: NO ENTRY.
Yes, The Motherfucker had fallen on hard times. Hard cheese on Tony, as Evelyn
Waugh might have said.
“Grunwald?” It was enough to start with; considering what had happened to Betsy, it
was all The Motherfucker deserved. Curtis stopped about ten feet from him, his legs
slightly spread to avoid a puddle. Grunwald’s legs were spread, too. It occurred to
Curtis that this was a classic pose: gunfighters about to do their deal on the only street of a ghost town.
“Yo, neighbor!” Grunwald repeated, and this time he actually laughed. There was