Just After Sunset(111)

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 Motherf*cker 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."

"Nope," Grunwald said. "That thing's as solid as your beloved stock market. Special sides is why. But I'm sure you'll 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 Curtis's bu**ocks. Curtis gave a small, startled scream, and Grunwald laughed. That Motherf*cker. "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 bread-even 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 Motherf*cker 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, I'm going to start giving money to Save the Children.

"Get in there, Johnson."

"I tell you it'll fall over!"

"Who's the construction guy here? It won't fall over if you're careful. Get in."

"I don't understand why you're 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 Motherf*cker out there, leaning over the ditch, one hand braced on the blue siding, the other fisted up to knock with. "Comfy in there? Snug?"

Curtis made no reply. At least with Grunwald leaning on the Port-O-San's door, the damned thing had steadied.

"Sure you are. Snug as a bug in a whatever."

There was another thump, and then the toilet rocked forward again. Grunwald had removed his weight from it. Curtis once more assumed the position, standing on the balls of his feet, bending all his will to keeping the stinking cubicle more or less upright. Sweat was trickling down his face, stinging a shaving cut on the left jawline. This made him think of his own bathroom, usually taken for granted, with loving nostalgia. He would give every dollar in his retirement fund to be there, razor in his right hand, watching blood trickle through the shaving cream on the left-hand side while some stupid pop song played from the clock radio beside his bed. Something by The Carpenters or Don Ho.

It's going over this time, going over for sure, that was his plan all along-

But the Port-O-San steadied instead of tumbling over. All the same it was close to going, very close. Curtis stood on tiptoe with his hands braced against the wall and his midsection arched over the bench seat, becoming aware now of how badly the hot little cubicle smelled, even with the seat closed. There was the odor of disinfectant-it would be the blue stuff, of course-mingling with the stench of decaying human waste, and that made it somehow even worse.

When Grunwald spoke again, his voice came from beyond the rear wall. He had stepped over the ditch and circled around to the back of the Port-O-San. Curtis was so surprised he almost recoiled, but managed not to. Still, he couldn't suppress a jerk. His splayed hands momentarily left the wall. The Port-O-San tottered. He brought his hands back to the wall again, leaning forward as far as he could, and it steadied.

"How you doing, neighbor?"

"Scared to death," Curtis said. His hair had fallen onto his forehead, it was sticking in the sweat there, but he was afraid to flick it back. Even that much extra movement might send the Port-O-San tumbling. "Let me out. You've had your fun."