The Black Ice (hb-2)

two parked cars and came up with the beer bottle in hand. He was about to place it in his bag when the boy moved quickly between the cars and grabbed the bottle. Rickard refused to let go and spun so that the boy’s back was now to Bosch. Harry started moving.
    “It’s mine, man,” Rickard yelled.
    “I put it there, bro. Let it go before it spills.”
    “Go get your own, man. This here’s mine.”
    “Let it go!”
    “You sure it’s yours?”
    “It’s mine!”
    Bosch hit the boy forcefully from behind. He let go of the bottle and doubled over the trunk of the car. Bosch kept him pinned there, pushing his forearm against the boy’s neck. The bottle stayed in Rickard’s hand. None of it spilled.
    “Well, if you say so, I guess it’s yours,” the narc said. “And I guess that makes you under arrest.”
    Bosch pulled his cuffs off his belt and hooked the boy up and then pulled him off the trunk. Some of the others were gathering around now.
    “Fuck off, people,” Rickard said loudly. “Go back inside and sniff your laughing gas. Go get deaf. This here don’t concern you unless you want to go along with this boy to the shit can.”
    He bent down to Tyge’s ear and said, “Right,
bro?
”
    When nobody in the crowd moved, Rickard took a menacing step toward them and they scattered. A couple of the girls ran back into the warehouse. The music drowned out Rickard’s laugh. He then turned around and grabbed Tyge by the arm.
    “Let’s go. Harry, let’s take your wheels.”
    They drove in silence for a while toward the station on Wilcox. They hadn’t discussed it earlier but Harry was going to let Rickard make the play. Rickard was riding in the back with the boy. In the mirror, Harry saw he had greasy, unkempt brown hair that fell to his shoulders. About five years earlier he should have had braces put on his teeth but one look at him and Bosch could tell he came from a home where things like that were not a consideration. He had a gold earring and an uninterested look on his face. But the teeth were what got to Bosch. Crooked and protruding, they more than anything else showed the desperation of his life.
    “How old are you now, Kerwin?” Rickard said. “And don’t bother lying. We got a file on you at the station. I can check.”
    “Eighteen. And you can wipe your ass with the file. I don’t give a shit.”
    “Wooo!” Rickard yelped. “Eighteen. Looks like we got ourselves an A-dult here, Harry. No holding hands all the way to the juvie hall. We’ll go put this kid in seven thousand, see how quick he starts keeping house with one of the heavies.”
    Seven thousand was what most cops and criminals called the county adult detention center, on account of the phone number for inmate information, 555-7000. The jail was downtown and it was four floors of noise and hate and violence sitting atop the county sheriff’s headquarters. Somebody was stabbed there every day. Somebody raped every hour. And nothing was ever done about it. Nobody cared, unless you were the one getting raped or stabbed. The sheriff’s deputies who ran the place called it an NHI detail. No Humans Involved. Bosch knew if they were going to squeeze this kid that Rickard had picked the right way to go.
    “We got you bagged and tagged, Kerwin,” Rickard said. “There’s at least two ounces in here. Got you cold for possession with intent to sell, dude. You’re gone.”
    “Fuck you.”
    The kid drew each word out with sarcasm. He was going to go down fighting. Bosch noticed that Rickard was holding the green beer bottle outside the window so the fumes wouldn’t fill the car and give them headaches.
    “That’s not nice, Kerwin. Especially, when the man driving here is willing to do a deal… Now if it was me, I’d just let you make your deals with the brothers in seven thousand. Couple days in there and you’ll be shaving your legs and walking ’round in pink underwear they dipped in the Hawaiian Punch.”
    “Fuck off, pig. Just get me to a phone.”
    They were on Sunset, coming up to Wilcox. Almost there and Rickard hadn’t even gotten around to what they wanted. It didn’t look as if the kid was going to deal, no matter what they wanted.
    “You’ll get a phone when we feel like giving you a phone. You’re tough now, white boy, but it don’t last. Everybody gets broken down inside. You’ll see. Unless you want to help us out. We just want to talk to your pal Dance.”
    Bosch turned onto Wilcox. The station