“Nobody really knows shit, that’s why. They tell you about black ice?”

“A little. That’s the competition, they said. Comes from the Mexicans. That’s about all they said.”

Moore looked around for the bartender, who was down at the other end of the bar and seemed to be purposely ignoring them.

“It’s all relatively new,” he said. “Basically, black ice and glass are the same thing. Same results. Glass comes from Hawaii. And black ice comes from Mexico. The drug of the twenty-first century, I guess you’d call it. If I was a salesman I’d say it covers all the demographics. Basically, somebody took coke, heroin and PCP and rocked ’em all up together. A powerful little rock. It’s supposed to do everything. It’s got a crack high but the heroin also gives it legs. I’m talking about hours, not minutes. Then it’s got just a pinch of dust, the PCP, to give it a kick toward the end of the ride. Man, once it really takes hold on the streets, they get a major market going, then, shit, forget about it, there’ll be nothing but a bunch of zombies walking around.”

Bosch said nothing. Much of this he already knew but Moore was going good and he didn’t want to knock him off track with a question. He lit a cigarette and waited.

“Started in Hawaii,” Moore said. “ Oahu. They were making ice over there. Just plain ice, they called it. That’s rocking up PCP and coke. Very profitable. Then it evolved. They added heroin. Good stuff, too. Asian white. Now they call it glass. I guess that was their motto or something; smooth as glass.

“But in this business there is no lock on anything. There is only price and profit.”

He held up both hands to signify the importance of these two factors.

“The Hawaiians had a good thing but they had trouble getting it to the mainland. You got boats and you got planes and these can be regulated to a good degree. Or, at least, to some degree.