Cursing, certain his two minutes were up, Royal did what life on the streets had taught him to do well: he thought on his feet. He bounded back down the stairs two at a time and returned to the kitchen, where he checked Devo, who was twitching. Putting his newly acquired handgun in the waistband at the small of his back, Royal grabbed Devo and swung the thin man up over his shoulder. Devo made no sound, not then and not when Royal dumped him into the trunk, where the girl should have gone, and slammed it shut.

He slid behind the wheel and forced himself to drive slowly out of the alley. The rain was pounding, a Southern California gutter buster of a storm, and even with the pummeling of the water, he thought he heard sirens. Winding out of the San Pedro neighborhood, Royal found his way to the Gerald Desmond Bridge and back into Long Beach. He drove to Sixth Street, where he could park under an overpass, out of sight of traffic, got out of the car, and threw up.

When his stomach was completely empty, he stepped out from under the overpass and let the rain pound him until he was soaked through. Only then was his head clear enough to consider what he must do next. They’d failed where the girl was concerned, and Royal was not about to add to it by getting arrested. He checked on Devo again. The cokehead was dead, already cold to the touch.

Considering the car, which was stolen, and poor dead Devo, Royal had an idea. He knew how to get up on the bike path that ran along the flood control channel. With this rain, the channel would be rushing, engorged with runoff, if not now, soon.

Hopping back in the car, Royal drove up onto the bike path. He cautiously turned the car wheels down the steep concrete bank, toward the rushing water, which was halfway up the bank, left the car in drive, and leaped out, hitting the wet pavement so hard his teeth jarred. The vehicle rolled forward and down into the dark, debris-clogged water. In the darkness, the car disappeared quickly.

Royal didn’t know where it would end up, but he knew the water and the elements would erase any evidence tying him to the car. As an afterthought, he tossed his little .38 into the water after the car. He examined the gun he’d taken from the cop. Shiny, it was a larger revolver with hard rubber grips, and it felt like it was made for his hand. I’ll keep this, he thought. Scratch off the serial number . . . it will be a good piece.