The Black Ice (hb-2)

who could no longer forgive even their own sins. It was a place to drink mean, as long as you still had the green. It cost you five bucks for a stool at the bar and a dollar for a glass of ice to go with your bottle of whiskey. A soda setup was three bucks but most of these people took their medicine straight up. It was cheaper that way and more to the point. It was said that Poe’s was not named after the writer but for the general philosophy of its clientele: Piss On Everything.
    Even though it was dark outside, stepping into Poe’s was like walking into a cave. For a moment, Bosch was reminded of that first moment after dropping into a VC tunnel in Vietnam. He stood utterly still by the door until his eyes focused in the dim light and he saw the red leather padding on the bar. The place smelled worse than Porter’s trailer. The bartender, in a wrinkled white shirt and unbuttoned black vest, stood to the right, backed by the rows of liquor bottles, each with the bottle owner’s name attached on a piece of masking tape. A red stem of neon ran along the booze shelf, behind the bottles, and gave them an eerie glow.
    From the darkness to Bosch’s left, he heard, “Shit, Harry, whaddaya doing? You looking for me?”
    He turned and there was Porter at the other end of the bar, sitting so he could see whoever came in before they could see him. Harry walked over. He saw a shot glass in front of Porter along with a half-filled water glass and a third-filled bottle of bourbon. There was a twenty and three ones fanned out on the bar as well and a package of Camels. Bosch felt anger rising in his throat as he approached and came up on Porter’s back.
    “Yeah, I’m looking for you.”
    “Whassup?”
    Bosch knew he had to do what he had to do before any sympathy could crack through his anger. He yanked Porter’s sport coat down over his shoulders so his arms were caught at his sides. A cigarette dropped out of his hand to the floor. Bosch reached around and pulled the gun out of his shoulder holster and put it on the bar.
    “What’re you still carrying for, Lou? You pulled the pin, remember? What, you scared of something?”
    “Harry, what’s going on? Why are you doing this?”
    The bartender started walking down behind the bar to the aid of his club member but Bosch fixed him with a cold stare, held up his hand like a traffic cop and said, “Cool it. It’s private.”
    “Damned right. It’s a private club and you ain’t a member.”
    “It’s okay, Tommy,” Porter spoke up. “I know him. I’ll take care of it.”
    A couple of men who had been sitting a few stools from Porter got up and moved to the other end of the bar with their bottles and drinks. A couple of other drunks were already down there watching. But nobody left, not with booze still in their jars and it not quite being six o’clock yet. There would be no place else to go. Bars wouldn’t open until seven and the hour or so until then could last a lifetime. No, they weren’t going anywhere. This crew would sit there and watch a man murdered if they had to.
    “Harry, c’mon,” Porter said. “Cool it yourself. We can talk.”
    “Can we? Can we? Why didn’t you talk when I called the other day? How about Moore? Did you have a talk with Cal Moore?”
    “Look, Harry-”
    Bosch spun him around off the stool and face first into the wood-paneled wall. He came easier than Harry had thought he would and hit the wall hard. His nose made a sound like an ice-cream cone hitting the sidewalk. Bosch leaned his back against Porter’s back, pinning him face first against the wall.
    “Don’t ‘Look, Harry’ me, Porter. I stood up for you, man, ’cause I thought you were… I thought you were worth it. Now I know, Porter. I was wrong. You quit on the Juan Doe. I want to know why. I want to know what’s going on.”
    Porter’s voice was muffled by the wall and his own blood. He said, “Harry, shit, I think you broke my nose. I’m bleeding.”
    “Don’t worry about it. What about Moore? I know he reported the body.”
    Porter made some kind of wet snorting sound but Bosch just pushed him harder. The man stunk of sour body odor, booze and cigarettes, and Bosch wondered how long he had been sitting in Poe’s, watching the door.
    “I’m calling the police now,” the bartender yelled. He stood holding the phone out so Bosch would see it was a real threat, which of course it wasn’t. The bartender knew if he dialed that phone every stool in