My ass-faced ragbag bitch, Curtis repeated at once, and didnt feel the slightest twinge of disloyalty to Betsys memory.
Now say, And how I loved to lick her smelly cunt, The Motherfucker further instructed.
Curtis was silent. He was relieved to discover there were still limits. Besides, if he said that, The Motherfucker would only want him to say something else.
Grunwald did not seem particularly disappointed. He waggled the gun. Just joking about that one, anyway.
Curtis was silent. Part of his mind was roaring with panic and confusion, but another part seemed clearer than it had been since Betsy died. Maybe clearer than it had been in years. That part was musing on the fact that he really could die out here.
He thought, What if I never get to eat another slice of bread?, and for a moment his mind unitedthe confused part and the clear partin a desire to live so strong it was terrible.
What do you want, Grunwald?
For you to get into one of those Port-O-Sans. The one on the end. He waggled the gun again, this time to the left.
Curtis turned to look, feeling a small thread of hope. If Grunwald intended to lock him up that was good, right? Maybe now that hed scared Curtis and blown off a little steam, Grunwald intended to stash him and make his getaway. Or maybe hell go home and shoot himself, Curtis thought. Take that old .45 Hardballer cancer cure. A well-known folk remedy.
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 murderpreviously inconceivable to himturned 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. Id 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 Grunwalds 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 Curtiss 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 Vespas keyring. Some things didnt change even in extremis, it seemed.
You forgot your shopping list, Fucko. You dont want to forget that. Everything back in your pockets. As for your phone, Im 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 paperOJ, Rolaids, pce of fish, Eng muffins, it saidand stuffed it back into one of his rear pockets. You cant do that, he said.
The Motherfucker raised his bushy old-man eyebrows. Want to share?
The house alarms set. Curtis couldnt 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. Its Thursday, neighbor. Your housekeeper only comes in during the afternoons on Thursdays and Fridays. Did you think I wasnt keeping an eye on you? Just like youve been keeping one on me?
I dont
Oh, I see you, peeking from behind your favorite palm tree on the roaddid you think I didnt?but you never saw me, did you? Because youre lazy. And lazy people are blind people. Lazy people get what they deserve. His voice lowered confidentially. All gay people are lazy; its 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 hes 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. Ill let you in on a little secret: your system was put in by Hearn Security, and Ive 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 wanted was yours. He sniffed, spat on the ground, then coughed a loose rumbling cough that came from deep in his chest. It sounded as if it hurt (Curtis hoped so), but the gun never wavered. I dont think you set it, anyway. Got your mind on blowjobs and such.
Grunwald, cant we
No. We cant. You deserve this. You earned it, you bought it, you got it. Get in the fucking shithouse.
Curtis started toward the Port-O-Sans, but aimed for the one on the far right instead of the far left.
Nope, nope, Grunwald said. Patiently, as if speaking to a child. The one on the other end.
That ones leaning too far, Curtis said. If I get in, it might fall over.
Nope, Grunwald said. That things as solid as your beloved stock market. Special sides is why. But Im sure youll enjoy the smell. Guys like you spend a lot of time in crappers, you must like the smell. You must love the smell. Suddenly the gun poked into Curtiss buttocks. Curtis gave a small, startled scream, and Grunwald laughed. That Motherfucker. Now get in there before I decide to turn your old tan track into a brand-new superhighway.
Curtis had to lean across the ditch of still, scummy water, and because the Port-O-San was leaning, the door swung out and almost hit him in the face when it came off the latch. This occasioned another burst of laughter from Grunwald, and at the sound, Curtis was once more visited with thoughts of murder. All the same, it was amazing how engaged he felt. How suddenly in love with the green smells of the foliage and the hazy look of the blue Florida sky. How much he longed to eat a piece of breadeven a slice of Wonder Bread would be a gourmet treat; he would eat it with a napkin in his lap and choose a complementary vintage from his little wine closet. He had gained a whole new perspective on life. He only hoped he would live to enjoy it. And if The Motherfucker just intended to lock him in, maybe he would.
He thought (it was as random and as unprompted as his thought about the bread): If I get out of this, Im going to start giving money to Save the Children.
Get in there, Johnson.
I tell you itll fall over!
Whos the construction guy here? It wont fall over if youre careful. Get in.
I dont understand why youre doing this!
Grunwald laughed unbelievingly. Then he said, You get your ass in there or I will blow it off, so help me God.
Curtis stepped across the ditch and into the Port-O-San. It rocked forward alarmingly under his weight. He cried out and leaned over the bench with the closed toilet seat in it, splaying his hands against the back wall. And while he was standing there like a suspect about to be frisked, the door slammed shut behind him. The sunlight was gone. He was suddenly in hot, deep shadows. He looked back over his shoulder and the Port-O-San rocked again, on the very edge of balance.
There was a knock on the door. Curtis could imagine The Motherfucker out there, leaning over the ditch, one hand braced on the blue siding, the other fisted up to knock with. Comfy in there? Snug?