good one. Leroy Watkins. Came in yesterday, and I haven’t given it out yet. You could have it if you want.”
“He isn’t cute, is he?” I asked Connie. “My image is at an all-time low. I’m not taking on any more cases where the FTA is Mr. Popularity.”
“I know Leroy,” Lula said. “Everybody call him Snake on account of his dick is…”
I squinched my eyes closed. “Don’t tell me.” I looked over at Connie. “What’d Leroy do to get himself arrested?”
“Tried to sell some dope to a narc.”
“He ever resist arrest?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” Connie said. “There’s nothing on his charge sheet about shooting cops.”
I took the file from Connie. If Leroy Watkins was certifiably ugly I might take a crack at it. I flipped to the photo. Yow! He was ugly, all right.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find him.” Iglanced over at Connie. “There isn’t anything else I should know, is there? Like, was he armed when arrested?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Connie said. “A forty-five, a twenty-two and a seven-inch blade.”
My voice pitched to incredulity. “Two guns and a knife? Forget it! What do I look like, a suicide waiting to happen?”
We were all quiet for a minute while we considered my chances of success.
“I could go with you,” Lula said. “We could be discreet.”
Discreet? Lula?
“You think he’s dangerous?” Connie asked Lula.
“He ain’t no Boy Scout. Don’t know if he’d want to shoot us, though. Probably he’s just FTA so he could stay on the street and make maximum profit before getting locked down. I know his woman, Shirlene. We could go talk to her.”
Talk to his woman. That sounded reasonable. I thought I might be able to handle that. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll give it a try.”
Shirlene lived in a third-floor walk-up at the southern end of Stark Street. The cement stoop was littered with globules of rock saltthat had eaten their way through yesterday’s ice, leaving a doily of frozen gray slush. The front door to the building was weathered and stood ajar. The small inside hall was steeped in frigid damp.
“Feels like a meat locker in here,” I said.
Lula snorted. “That’s what it is, all right…a meat locker. Plain and simple. That’s the trouble with Stark Street. It’s all one big meat locker.”
We were both panting by the time we got to the third floor.
“I’ve got to get in better shape,” I said to Lula. “I’ve got to join a gym or something.”
“I’m in plenty good shape,” Lula said. “It’s the altitude that gets me. If it wasn’t for the altitude I wouldn’t be breathing hard at all.” She stared at Shirlene’s door. “What are we gonna do if Snake’s at home? I figure I should ask, being that you don’t like violence except when you’re out cold.”
“Snake at home? Are you telling me Snake lives here?”
Lula blinked her big duck-egg eyes at me. “You mean you didn’t understand that?”
“I thought we were visiting his woman’s place.”
“Well, yeah,” Lula said, “but that happen to be Snake’s place too.”
“Oh boy.”
“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “That Snake gives us any trouble I’ll bust a cap up his ass.” She knocked on the door. “I don’t take no hard time from no Snake.”
No one answered, so Lula knocked louder.
“HEY!” she yelled at the door.
We stood for a moment, listening in utter silence, and then from inside the apartment, inches from the closed door, came the unmistakable ratchet of a pump shotgun.
Lula and I locked eyes for a fraction of a second and shared a simultaneous thought, OH SHIT! We spun on our heels, hurled ourselves down the first flight of stairs and skidded across the second-floor landing.
BOOM! A gun blast blew a two-foot hole in Shirlene’s front door, and plaster chunked out of the opposite wall.
“Out of my way!” Lula yelled. “Feet don’t fail me!”
I had a head start on the next set of
“He isn’t cute, is he?” I asked Connie. “My image is at an all-time low. I’m not taking on any more cases where the FTA is Mr. Popularity.”
“I know Leroy,” Lula said. “Everybody call him Snake on account of his dick is…”
I squinched my eyes closed. “Don’t tell me.” I looked over at Connie. “What’d Leroy do to get himself arrested?”
“Tried to sell some dope to a narc.”
“He ever resist arrest?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” Connie said. “There’s nothing on his charge sheet about shooting cops.”
I took the file from Connie. If Leroy Watkins was certifiably ugly I might take a crack at it. I flipped to the photo. Yow! He was ugly, all right.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find him.” Iglanced over at Connie. “There isn’t anything else I should know, is there? Like, was he armed when arrested?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Connie said. “A forty-five, a twenty-two and a seven-inch blade.”
My voice pitched to incredulity. “Two guns and a knife? Forget it! What do I look like, a suicide waiting to happen?”
We were all quiet for a minute while we considered my chances of success.
“I could go with you,” Lula said. “We could be discreet.”
Discreet? Lula?
“You think he’s dangerous?” Connie asked Lula.
“He ain’t no Boy Scout. Don’t know if he’d want to shoot us, though. Probably he’s just FTA so he could stay on the street and make maximum profit before getting locked down. I know his woman, Shirlene. We could go talk to her.”
Talk to his woman. That sounded reasonable. I thought I might be able to handle that. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll give it a try.”
Shirlene lived in a third-floor walk-up at the southern end of Stark Street. The cement stoop was littered with globules of rock saltthat had eaten their way through yesterday’s ice, leaving a doily of frozen gray slush. The front door to the building was weathered and stood ajar. The small inside hall was steeped in frigid damp.
“Feels like a meat locker in here,” I said.
Lula snorted. “That’s what it is, all right…a meat locker. Plain and simple. That’s the trouble with Stark Street. It’s all one big meat locker.”
We were both panting by the time we got to the third floor.
“I’ve got to get in better shape,” I said to Lula. “I’ve got to join a gym or something.”
“I’m in plenty good shape,” Lula said. “It’s the altitude that gets me. If it wasn’t for the altitude I wouldn’t be breathing hard at all.” She stared at Shirlene’s door. “What are we gonna do if Snake’s at home? I figure I should ask, being that you don’t like violence except when you’re out cold.”
“Snake at home? Are you telling me Snake lives here?”
Lula blinked her big duck-egg eyes at me. “You mean you didn’t understand that?”
“I thought we were visiting his woman’s place.”
“Well, yeah,” Lula said, “but that happen to be Snake’s place too.”
“Oh boy.”
“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “That Snake gives us any trouble I’ll bust a cap up his ass.” She knocked on the door. “I don’t take no hard time from no Snake.”
No one answered, so Lula knocked louder.
“HEY!” she yelled at the door.
We stood for a moment, listening in utter silence, and then from inside the apartment, inches from the closed door, came the unmistakable ratchet of a pump shotgun.
Lula and I locked eyes for a fraction of a second and shared a simultaneous thought, OH SHIT! We spun on our heels, hurled ourselves down the first flight of stairs and skidded across the second-floor landing.
BOOM! A gun blast blew a two-foot hole in Shirlene’s front door, and plaster chunked out of the opposite wall.
“Out of my way!” Lula yelled. “Feet don’t fail me!”
I had a head start on the next set of
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