Curtis tried, and missed completely.
"You ass**le," 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 f**k 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 g*y people are lazy; it's been scientifically proven. The g*y 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 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 don't think you set it, anyway. Got your mind on blowjobs and such."
"Grunwald, can't we-"
"No. We can't. You deserve this. You earned it, you bought it, you got it. Get in the f**king 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 one's leaning too far," Curtis said. "If I get in, it might fall over."