His phone rang three times before someone answered, but it wasn’t Allison. A deep, male voice said, “Hello?” Darren hung up. He asked for another quarter, received three ——“Thanks a lot, really”——and dialed again. The telephone rang twice, then the same voice: “Hello?” He hung up. The neighbors had apparently called 911 during the shootout and now L.A.’s finest was walking around his demolished house. He picked up the receiver again and dialed Jorge’s place. The phone rang twice before he heard Jorge’s old man say, “Sí?” “Is Jorge there?” “Jorge! Teléfono!” A second later, “Yes?” “Jorge, this is Darren.” “Darren! Where are you? We just got back from your house . . . the place is crawling with cops . . . and your mom was sitting in the driveway bawling, and they had to call an ambulance because she was going bug-shit crazy.” Darren heard Tony in the background. “Is that Darren? Where’s he at?” “Where are you?”
