"How does the West Coast sound?"

"Like it ought to be far enough. We get settled, maybe we can find a fixer, start to iron things out with McCrea."

"Oh, sure," sneered Lucian. "We'll do that. Put all them worms right back in the can, no problem. Get that horse back in the barn. Put the tiger back in the old cage." He shook his head at Mackie's optimism.

Mackie's equanimity restored, he grabbed his suitcase and said with a sly grin, "Yeah, put old Pandora back in her box."

They were both sn.i.g.g.e.ring as they left the apartment. "That's terrible." Lucian p.r.o.nounced it turrible. "No wonder he thinks we're morons. You probably want to send him a postcard, too."

Mackie tossed the case in the back seat of the El Dorado and climbed in the front. "Why not? Having wonderful time. Wish you were here."

"Picture of Alcatraz on it," Lucian joked.

They laughed for thirty miles. By the time they reached San Francisco, Mackie had forgotten why it was so funny. In fact, it seemed like a pretty good way to start smoothing things over, so he went out and bought a postcard. Picture of Alcatraz on it.

Naomi Johnson pounds out book reviews and tortures her writing comrades by running the Watery Grave Invitational Short Story Contest at her blog, The Drowning Machine. Her short stories have been published at A Twist of Noir, Crimefactory, Southern Cross Review, and Powder Burn Flash. She made her first sale to a print publication last year but denies all responsibility for the subsequent demise of that publication.

Surf Rider.

By Ian Ayris.

The Surf Rider's mind blew in April '73. The Surf Rider, he didn't feel a thing five Strawberry Fields and a staple diet of Mandrax and Lebanese Gold does that to a man.

The doctors called it a "drug-induced psychosis."

Nearly forty years on, the Surf Rider stands at a bar in Huntington Beach, what remains of his dignity covered by an Afghan coat and knee-length Bermuda shorts. His voluminous gut pushes out a faded Grateful Dead t-shirt, his sun-brown hands clutch a bright yellow Lightning Bolt surfboard closer to him than the dreams of a shattered childhood. His silver-grey hair hangs past his shoulders, and his eyes stare wide, wide to a world beyond words.

Two men stagger into the bar. Strangers in this town. Foreigners. London boys on the holiday of a lifetime.

"Look at that c.u.n.t," one of them says, pointing at the man in the Afghan coat and the Bermuda shorts. "Thinks he's on Hawaii f.u.c.kin' Five-O."

The other man, the man with him, laughs. Laughs too loud. And the vibrations cut through the smoke and the chatter and land at the edge of the Surf Rider's perception. Two shadows, that's all they are. Two shadows. Melting.

"What you havin', Steve? Some of that Yankee p.i.s.s lager?"

"Look at his eyes," Steve says, "it's like they're gonna f.u.c.kin' explode. Geezer's gotta be f.u.c.kin' on a f.u.c.kin' world of s.h.i.t."

The other one nods, one shattered soul to another.

"But look at that f.u.c.kin' surfboard," Steve says. "That's a f.u.c.kin' original Lightnin' Bolt, that is."

"What the f.u.c.k's a Lightnin' Bolt?"

"It's an old surfboard. Collector's item, you know. Me dad had one when we used to live down the coast. Probably worth a f.u.c.kin' fortune nowadays."

"Best we take a closer look then."

And the two Londoners move along the bar, punters at a Victorian Freak Show. Businessmen of the New Millenium.

The colors change, the beat slows. The edges become sharp and the shadows become fiery demons, eyes aflame.

The bartender steps in, slows time. He asks the boys if he can get them something to drink.

"What? Yeah. Couple of lagers, mate."

"Are you boys from England?" the bartender says.

"That's right, fella. London."

Two bottles of Yankee p.i.s.s lager land on the bar.

The bartender says his wife is from England, and says the beers are on the house.

"That geezer with the surfboard, what's his story?"

The bartender's jaw tightens. The friendly smile sets in concrete, eyes fixed on the two strangers. He leans on the bar. Lowers his voice. Confidential. And tells them he's always been here, the Surf Rider. Stands in the corner, holding his board, he says. That's all he does. Just stares off into nowhere with them big round eyes. He never buys more than a couple of drinks. The Boss says he's good for business. A local attraction.

Steve fumbles in the front of his jeans for his camera, wanting to get a closer look at the surfboard. He scythes through the crowd till he's within a couple of feet of the Surf Rider.

Blood and brains and walls too thin. The flowers are shouting and the blue devil eats the elephant's ears.

"Gi's a smile, mate."

Flash.

The Surf Rider, he don't even blink.

Steve returns to the bar and his Yankee p.i.s.s lager. The bartender glares at him, grave and disapproving, and casts a wary eye along the bar to where the Surf Rider stands.

"What's up with this c.u.n.t?" Steve says. "I only took a f.u.c.kin' picture."

The two lads take their bottles of Yankee p.i.s.s lager and find a place to hide in the crowd.

"So, what do you reckon? The real deal?"

"Yeah, mate. It's the real f.u.c.kin' deal all right. A one hundred f.u.c.kin' percent original Lightnin' Bolt. Gonna be like takin' candy off a f.u.c.kin' baby."

Edges sharp as razors now. Sharp as razors.

Closing time. The bartender is waiting for the Surf Rider to exit the building so he can lock up for the night. The Surf Rider. One heavy step after the other. Like he's walking on the moon. He nears the exit as the doorway gets smaller and smaller, narrowing, shrinking. He squeezes through the rabbit hole and into the Wonderland night, and he paints the darkness with gold and silver and blue broken diamonds.

Just because he can.

And waiting in the darkness, hiding in shadows, the two strangers watch with dollar-sign eyes, just like in the cartoons.

The Surf Rider rounds the corner. The two strangers emerge from the dark, and waste no time. One jumps the Surf Rider from behind whilst the other tries to wrest the board from his grip. But the board, it is a part of him. Don't they know that? Can't they see?

With a twist of might, one a.s.sailant is hurled against the wall, and slides down like vomit. The other, the other is having his face caved in with the top edge of the surfboard.

And deep in the darkness to a Beach Boy rhythm, the Surf Rider rides... the waves of oblivion... pounding... pounding... pounding...

Ian Ayris has had nearly forty stories published online and in print over the last couple of years. His debut novel, Abide With Me, is due to be published by Caffeine Nights Publishing in late 2011, and one of his short stories, "Small Print," has been accepted for next year's edition of Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best British Crime. Ian lives in London, England, with his wife and three children.

The Slicers' Serenade of Steel.

By Gary Phillips.

Rudy Canary wasn't much for jogging. His knees hurt and it seemed as if invisible pins were p.r.i.c.king his lower legs as he ran down the street. It was going on eleven o'clock on a moonless night. In this part of town, only the working girls and potential johns cruising by getting an eye and earful were out.

"Come on, stud m.u.f.fin, forty for a date," a big-boned gal spilling out of a too-small outfit blared at a mortgage slave rolling slow on the street in a sedan. She made a fist near her mouth, working it back and forth as she rhythmically poked her tongue inside her cheek.

Rudy Canary collided with the woman. Given she was st.u.r.dy, his average-sized frame was knocked back several steps.

"Watch it, a.s.shole," biggie growled as her would-be customer drove on. She put her vermilion-nailed hands on her substantial b.r.e.a.s.t.s in its straining top, did a quick adjustment, then resumed scanning the avenue like a grizzly hunting salmon.

He mumbled something and went on, looking for a bar, a motel, h.e.l.l even a dice game, just some place with other bodies for protection. But to what avail? The denizens of the Rust Valley area knew better than to interfere with another's business, especially if there were guns involved. Rudy Canary had a sweet little Glock his dear mother, currently doing two to five for receiving stolen goods, had given him several birthdays ago. Yet what good were bullets against a relentless pursuer said to be dead already?

Under its buzzing neon sign, Canary bore into a bar he'd been in many a time, the Cobra Tap. The usuals were about, planning petty scores and lamenting the previous ones that had gone sour. He careened to the bar, gesturing hurriedly at the bartender called Torchy for his unruly head of red hair. The bartender had various tats and piercings, including a tiny crucifix that dangled from a ring sunk in his soul patch.

"Torchy, Torchy, let me use the spidey hole." There was a section of false floor in the storage room over a hidden sunken cavity. There for a price, an individual in possession of material the law might have an interest in could secret such away for a set time.

"Sure, Rudy," Torchy said while he dried a gla.s.s. "Four hundred for four hours. Night-time rates." His smile was like that of an adder.

"I don't have that kind of scratch on me. I might have forty, forty-five. That ought to get me like, what, half hour, something like that?"

"Hundred an hour. No halvsies."

"What the f.u.c.k, man?"

Torchy had already moved on.

The sweating man looked about the bar, the patrons doing their best to ignore him. Nothing said don't get involved like the radar waves of desperation emanating from Rudy Canary. He did notice a hooker, a new one he'd seen a couple of times on the stroll chance a look up at him. In a silk, slit skirt she was still pretty, not yet ravaged by crack and rough johns. She couldn't help him. Her pimp would take the skin off her back with a wire hanger if she gave him any money. He went over to Sally Sincyr, a con woman who specialized in the grieving niece bit.

"Sal, stake me a twenty, won't you?" Surely he could raise the freight among these mooks. Surely d.a.m.n near each and every one of them owed him that.

"Sorry, Rude, got all my green tied up in a will swindle I'm working on a matron on Platinum Hill."

"It's only a stinking twenty bucks, Sal," he growled. "You got Alzheimer's now? Ain't I the one you came to when your old man was out of lock up and looking for you 'cause your conniving a.s.s had turned him in? Who helped you, huh? Me. That's who." He tapped his chest several times with the flat of his hand.

Cold eyed she said, "You remember what you made me do for your precious help, don't you?"

"Aw, Sal, that, that's just, you know, what a man would do with a hot tamale like you. That's natural."

"Unnatural you mean." She turned from him and back to her drink and companion, a picket fence-looking dude Canary hadn't seen before in the Tap.

He dared to take a glance at the saloon's old-fashioned swing door then back at Sincyr. f.u.c.k it he concluded. Pride could take a hike as he got down on a knee beside her, clutching at her arm. "I'm beggin' you here. Just a crummy Jackson to get me out of this tight spot and I swear to the fates I'll make it up to you, Sal. Please. Can't you see this is my life we're talking about."

She huffed, "Then we're not talking about much." The swindler knocked back her scotch.

"Look, I'm just supposed to observe," the outsider said, "but I couldn't live with myself if you're truly in some kind of predicament and I was able to be of a.s.sistance." He reached inside his sport coat. It had suede elbow patches.

"Oh, mister, for the love of... oh my G.o.d you're the best man, the best." Rudy Canary was by the man's side, trying to keep from shaking. The newcomer had produced a rectangular leather wallet and had it open, his fingers gracing several twenties in the slit.

"Better make it sixty I suppose," the man said absently.

Rudy Canary was giddy with relief. "Thank you. You'll get this back. I promise."

Sally Sincyr snickered.

"No need to do that, Rudy. You won't need the loan."

He almost peed himself there in front of everyone but he was already going to leave them with the image of him groveling. Wasn't that bad enough? Rudy Canary grabbed at the top of his head as it felt as if the blood vessels pulsing inside his brain might burst.

Standing inside the bar was Hano Thane. Gaunt and tall, he was dressed unimpressively in black slacks, heavy black shoes and a dark gray windbreaker zipped up midway, light blue shirt underneath. He wore his black slouch hat low, the prow of his nose prominent beneath its brim.

"Oh Christ on the cross, Thane," Canary said, stumbling backwards, arms moving as if jerked by unseen strings. "There's a roomful of witnesses here."

His spurt of a laugh was hollow and mocking. "They see nothing nor do they know anything."

Such was the frightful reputation of the hit man that Canary didn't have to look around to confirm his stalker's declaration. It was fact. Except...

"Hey, you're a right guy," he said, going over to the man with the elbow patches. "You can't let a crime be committed right before you, can you? You must have a cell phone, call the cops will ya?"

The other man did his best not to look nervous but his complexion had gone sallow. "Listen, I..." he began, craning his neck to look back at Thane who'd advanced in the Cobra Tap. A few of the patrons disengaged themselves from stools or booths and exited the establishment to provide better alibis.

"Maybe as you say he can't do anything to you in here," the square said. But he didn't really believe that as he couldn't hold his gaze on Canary and looked down at the table.

The object of pity turned and Glock now in hand, fired three rounds at Thane. Two of the bullets penetrated his clothing and the last one creased the side of his face, creating a streak of ebon tinged crimson. The hit man was unharmed.

"What they whisper in the bodegas on Avenida Rojo is true," a man called Benny the Bounce muttered from a corner table. "He wields the power of Chango."