He said, “All right. I can do that.”
“But first I want you to empty your pockets. Dump them right out on the ground.”
Curtis pulled out his wallet, then, reluctantly, his cell phone. A little sheaf of bills in a money clip. His dandruff-flecked comb.
“That it?”
“Yes.”
“Turn those pocketses inside out, Precious. I want to see for myself.”
Curtis turned out his left front pocket, then his right. A few coins and the key to his motor scooter fell to the ground, where they glittered in the hazy sun.
“Good,” Grunwald said. “Now the back ones.”
Curtis turned out his rear pockets. There was an old shopping list jotted on a scrap of paper. Nothing else.
Grunwald said, “Kick your cell phone over here.”
Curtis tried, and missed completely.
“You asshole,” Grunwald said, and laughed. The laugh ended in that same choking,
sobbing sound, and for the first time in his life, Curtis completely understood murder.
The clear part of his mind registered this as a wonderful thing, because murder—
previously inconceivable to him—turned out to be as simple as reducing fractions.
“Hurry the fuck up,” Grunwald said. “I want to go home and get in the hot tub. Forget
the painkillers, that hot tub is the only thing that works. I’d live in that baby if I could.” But he did not look particularly anxious to be gone. His eyes were sparkling.
Curtis kicked at the phone again and this time connected, sending it skittering all the way to Grunwald’s feet.
“He shoots, he scores!” The Motherfucker cried. He dropped to one knee, picked up
the Nokia (never taking the gun off Curtis), then straightened up with a small,
effortful grunt. He slipped Curtis’s phone into the right pocket of his pants. He
pointed the muzzle of the gun briefly at the litter lying on the road. “Now pick up the rest of your crap and put it back in your pockets. Get all the change. Who knows, you
might find a snack machine in there.”
Curtis did it silently, again feeling a little pang as he looked at the attachment on the Vespa’s keyring. Some things didn’t change even in extremis, it seemed.
“You forgot your shopping list, Fucko. You don’t want to forget that. Everything back
in your pockets. As for your phone, I’m going to put that back on its little charger in your little housie. After I delete the message I left you, that is.”
Curtis picked up the scrap of paper— OJ, Rolaids, pce of fish, Eng muffins, it said—
and stuffed it back into one of his rear pockets. “You can’t do that,” he said.
The Motherfucker raised his bushy old-man eyebrows. “Want to share?”
“The house alarm’s set.” Curtis couldn’t remember if he had set it or not. “Also, Mrs.
Wilson will be there by the time you get back to Turtle.”
Grunwald gave him an indulgent look. The fact that it was mad indulgence made it terrifying instead of just infuriating. “It’s Thursday, neighbor. Your housekeeper only comes in during the afternoons on Thursdays and Fridays. Did you think I wasn’t
keeping an eye on you? Just like you’ve been keeping one on me?”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, I see you, peeking from behind your favorite palm tree on the road—did you
think I didn’t?—but you never saw me, did you? Because you’re lazy. And lazy
people are blind people. Lazy people get what they deserve.” His voice lowered
confidentially. “All gay people are lazy; it’s been scientifically proven. The gay lobby tries to cover it up, but you can find the studies on the Internet.”
In his mounting dismay, Curtis hardly noticed this last. If he’s been charting Mrs.
Wilson… Christ, how long has he been brooding and planning?
At least since Curtis had sued him over Betsy. Maybe even before.
“As for your alarm code…” The Motherfucker loosed his sobbing laugh again. “I’ll
let you in on a little secret: your system was put in by Hearn Security, and I’ve been working with them for almost thirty years. I could have the security codes for any
Hearn-serviced home on the Island, if I wanted. But, as it happens, the only one I