I shook my head in confusion, insisted “stay” and pulled the cell, punched 911 as Devon Hawley Junior groaned with fading powers and lay his broken head down on the dirty, cold floor, one arm flopped over, the skin sickly yellow like curdled milk.

He looked up at me while the phone rang. Behind his bent glasses, the faint twist of life disappointment corkscrewed in his fading gray eyes.

“A man’s been badly injured, he’s—”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Steam World Studios, it’s a warehouse on Soto, he’s got a head wound, he—”

“Is the injured bleeding?”

“Yes, bleeding, very much so.”

I rattled off the address and she repeated it, spoke steady. “Ambulance should be there within the half hour. Please do not move the injured.”

“Yes, I understand, please hurry.”

This rant set off another moan, and I turned back to him.

“Do not move, they say do not move.”

But he couldn’t move anyway, he only grunted from some darkening half-state.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” I didn’t know where to put my body, let alone his—then I remembered we were half-hidden, and I pushed the green screens open, half an eye cocked on the writhing man. Even his moans were slowing down.

“Come on come on come on,” I said to no one, dashed past the partitions, then: “Don’t move. I’m not leaving you. I’m not going anywhere,” as I opened the front door and dragged a small trashcan to hold it open.

I shot glances up and down the street—only my car and his, not a soul in sight. I dashed back inside. Hawley’s eyes were fluttering—I dropped and held his twisted wrist, felt the weight of his cold hand.

“Do not die on me. You will not die on me.”

10

Inside an hour, Devon Hawley Junior was stretched out in the back of a Good Shepherd Ambulance headed for County General, and I was in the back of a cop car, uncuffed and heading for God-knows-where. The two policemen up front spoke to each other like old pals.

“They find a weapon?”

“Blaylock’s on detail.”

“Lotta detail.”

The two-way buzzed. “Unit 81-46 reporting.”

“We gotcha. Site is roped, vic is on the way to CG triage in critical. Voluntary wit with us, en route to N-E-W.”

“Thank you, officer.”

The box clicked off, they left-turned onto some shadowy south LA street—barbershops and florists all gated up.

“Looks like robbery to me—hit and quit it.”

“Ahhhh dunnno.” Then: “Nobody can steal that erector set. Plus, there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar Varicam on a tripod sitting in the middle of the place untouched.”

“Chief notify next of kin?”

“Couldn’t find one yet. Next-door neighbor says this guy was a serious loner.”

I chimed in. “That neighbor’s the one who told me Hawley keeps his door unlocked.”

Cop in shotgun: “Too bad about that.”

“Just where are we headed, anyway?” I said.

“Newton Community Police Station.”

On impulse, I pulled out my cell and shot a text to Ephraim Freiburger, aka Double Fry, my lawyer and best bud.

headed for newton station

emergency could use your help

I stared at the cell for the rest of the ride and got no answer. I couldn’t get the image of Hawley’s gashed head out of my own head as we parked in the middle of a fleet of black-and-whites and walked into the grimmest-looking civic building on Planet Earth. And it bugged me that they dragged me along—I had already told two cops at the scene why I’d been there. But when the LAPD says ride, you ride. The station waiting room was a kind of decrepit antechamber with two very old wooden benches and an oblong standing reception desk. A cop in uniform watched me register. He said, “Please take a seat. Officer Lanterman will speak to you shortly.”

I sat on the bench. The clerk behind the desk busied himself playing Angry Birds on his cell. Beside me, a couple, homeless looking, were excoriating their toddler for having a tantrum.

“Quiet,” the father said, “you get us in trouble.”

But by the looks of them, they were in trouble enough already.

After an interminable hour, I got up and asked Mr. Angry Birds what the holdup was.

“We need to get all relevant reports before we can let anyone go. Please have a seat.”

I grumbled and returned to the bench. About a half hour later, a new officer stepped out and called me to the desk. He introduced himself as Officer Lanterman. He was tall with a razz of jet-black cropped hair, and he seemed majorly pissed off for no reason I could make out, other than maybe facing urban blight for a living.

“If you’d step inside, I can take your full report.”

“Okay,” I said. “But for the record, I just gave a full report. Isn’t it in the system?”

“We would like our own report—for our own purposes.”

“What purpose is that?”

He bristled. “Mr. Zantz, my understanding is you discovered the victim?”

“Well, yeah, and I’m happy to cooperate,” I said. “I’m just trying to, like, find out what happened to the first report I gave.”

“Do you want to spend the night in lockup for breaking and entering?”