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you.”
    He lifted the envelope.
    “Or I could hurt you.”
    He waited.
    “I could make sure you put in another ten years here before they even look at you again for parole. Is that how you want to play it?”
    Coleman shook his head.
    “And how long you think I’d last out there if I helped you, man?”
    “Not long at all. I’ll give you that. But nobody has to know about this, Rufus. I’m not asking you to testify in court or give a written statement.”
    At least not yet , Bosch thought.
    “All I want is a name. Between you and me right here and that’s it. I want the guy who called the hit. The guy who gave you the gun and told you to take out Regis. The guy you gave the gun back to after you did the job.”
    Coleman cast his eyes to the table as he thought. Bosch knew he was weighing the years. Even the strongest of soldiers has a limit.
    “It’s not like that,” he finally said. “The shot caller never talks to the gunner. There are buffers, man.”
    Bosch had been briefed by Gang Intelligence before making the journey. He had been told that the hierarchies of the longtime South Central gangs were usually set up like paramilitary organizations. It was a pyramid and a bottom-level enforcer like Coleman wouldn’t even know who had called the hit on Regis. So Bosch had used the question as a test. If Coleman named the shot caller, he would know Coleman was lying.
    “All right,” Bosch said. “I get that. So then let’s keep it simple. Keep it on the gun. Who gave it to you the night you hit Regis and who’d you give it back to after?”
    Coleman nodded and kept his eyes down. He remained silent and Bosch waited. This was the play. This was what he had come for.
    “I can’t do this no more,” Coleman whispered.
    Bosch said nothing and tried to keep his breathing normal. Coleman was going to break.
    “I got a kid,” he said. “She’s practically a grown woman and I never seen her anywhere but this place. I seen her in prison, that’s all.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “That shouldn’t be,” he said. “I’ve got a daughter myself and I went through a lot of years without her.”
    Bosch now saw a wet shine in Coleman’s eyes. The gang soldier was worn by years of incarceration and guilt and fear. Sixteen years of watching his own back. The layers of muscle were simply the disguise of a broken man.
    “Give me the name, Rufus,” he urged. “And I send the letter. Done deal. You don’t give me what I want and you know you’ll never get out of here alive. And there’ll always be glass between you and your girl.”
    With his arms cuffed behind him, Coleman could do nothing about the tear that dripped down his left cheek. He bowed his head.
    “True story,” Bosch heard him say.
    Bosch waited. Coleman said nothing else.
    “Tell it,” Bosch finally said.
    “Tell what?” Coleman asked.
    “The true story. Tell it.”
    Coleman shook his head.
    “No, man, that’s the name. Trumont Story. They call him Tru, like T-R-U. He gave me the gun to do the job and I gave it back after.”
    Bosch nodded. He had gotten what he’d come for.
    “One thing, though,” Coleman said.
    “What’s that?”
    “Tru Story’s dead, man. Least that’s what I heard up here.”
    Bosch had prepared himself on the way up. In the past two decades, the gang body count in South L.A. was in the thousands. He knew that there was a better-than-good chance he was looking for a dead man. But he also knew that the trail didn’t necessarily stop with Tru Story.
    “You still going to send in that letter?” Coleman asked.
    Bosch stood up. He was done. The brutish man in front of him was a stone-cold killer and was in the place he deserved to be. But Bosch had made a deal with him.
    “You’ve probably thought about it a million times,” he said. “What do you do after you get out and hug your daughter?”
    Coleman answered without missing a beat.
    “I find a corner.”
    He waited, knowing Bosch would jump to the wrong