The clothes parted and Leroy Watkins, buck naked, sporting a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, fell out onto Lula.
Lula lost her footing, and the two of them went down to the floor—Leroy, arms outstretched, stiff as a board, looking like Frankenstein from the 'hood, on top of Lula.
“Holy cow,” I yelled. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
“Eeeeeeeeee,” Lula screamed, flat on her back, arms and legs flailing, with Leroy deadweight on her chest.
I was jumping around, hollering, “Get up. Get up.”
And Lula was rolling around, hollering, “Get him off. Get him off.”
I grabbed an arm and yanked, and Lula sprang to her feet, shaking herself like a dog in a rainstorm. “Ugh. Gross. Yuk.”
We squinted down at Leroy.
“Dead,” I said. “Definitely dead.”
“You better believe it. Wasn't shot with no BB gun, either. Got a hole in his head about the size of Rhode Island.”
“Smells bad.”
“Think he pooped in the closet,” Lula said.
We both gagged and ran to the window and stuck our heads out for air. When the ringing stopped in my ears I went to the phone and dialed Morelli. “Got a customer for you,” I told him.
“Another one?”
He sounded incredulous, and I couldn't blame him. This was my third dead body in the space of a week.
“Leroy Watkins fell out of a closet on top of Lula,” I said. “All the king's horses and all the king's men aren't going to put Leroy Watkins together again.”
I gave him the address, hung up and went out to the hall to wait.
Two uniforms were the first to arrive. Morelli followed them by thirty seconds. I gave Morelli the details and fidgeted while he checked out the crime scene.
Leroy had been naked and not especially bloody. I thought one possibility was that someone had surprised him in the shower. The bathroom hadn't been covered with gore, but then I hadn't felt inclined to peek behind the drawn shower curtain.
Morelli returned after walking through the apartment and securing the scene. He ushered us down to the second-floor landing, away from the activity, and we went through our story one more time.
Two more uniforms trundled up the stairs. I didn't know either of them. They looked to Joe, and he asked them to wait at the door. A television continued to drone on. The muffled sound of young children arguing carried into the hallway. None of the residents opened a door to snoop on the police activity. I suppose curiosity isn't a healthy character trait in this neighborhood.
Morelli drew the zipper up on my jacket. “I don't need anything else from you . . . for now.”
Lula was halfway down the stairs before I even turned around.
“I'm out of here,” Lula said. “I got filing to do.”
“Cops make her nervous,” I told Morelli.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know the feeling. They make me nervous too.”
“Who do you think did Leroy?” I asked Morelli.
“Anybody could have done Leroy. Leroy's mother could have done Leroy.”
“Is it unusual for three dealers to get faded in the space of a week?”
“Not if there's some kind of war going on.”