Choose an excerpt A Terrorizing Demonstration It's Too Late to Cry Chellini's Solution Brenda, My Starr The Homecoming The Next Best Thing The Whistleblower's Mistake The Dupe The Ghost of Rory Gallagher Serpent's Dance To buy Dublin Noir, choose an online retailer from the list below. Amazon.com BarnesandNoble.com Books-A-Million indiebound.org You can also find this title at your local bookstore.   The Ghost of Rory Gallagher A loathsome bond trader, recently released from prison, is given an opportunity to revisit his life's one passion: the late Irish blues guitarist Rory Gallagher. But at what price? Suddenly, a piercing note from a Stratocaster split the air, followed by a blinding flurry that knocked the trader to his heels. The music continued for almost four minutes, burning ice daggers, an angel blasting pure light. Pinwheels, butterflies, blood spatter on virgin walls. Grace. Neither man moved, the little pink man starting intently at his enraptured host. "Where'd you get it?" the stunned trader asked when silence returned. "It" being a Rory he'd never heard. Little Pink man eased back toward the brick. "Well?" the trader repeated. The crystal meth had him pumping nitro, bugs crawling on his lungs, and yet it had been Rory, beyond doubt. In a small, eerie voice, Little Pink said, "We call him up, is what we do." The trader frowned, scratched the top of his head. "Listen, just what's your game—" "We call him up and up he comes," Little Pink repeated. "Now for someone like yourself, that is all and more. A mystery, true. But all and more, is it not?" The trader couldn't focus to study the visitor, there in his too-big hound's tooth, his black tie pulled tight to his pink neck. Nose a ball of putty, and a hint of an impish smile. Little Pink reached with a translucent finger, popped open the machine and pointed to a silver disk much smaller than a standard CD. Candlelight skittered across its surface. "Take it," Little Pink said as he wriggled out of the snug. "Take it and know there's more." The top of the man's head, covered in curly red hair, sat below the chin of the trader, who had snatched up the disk as if it were the gold of Mag Sleacht. "Who are you?" His accent slipped, revealing his years far from home. Little Pink turned up his coat's collar, the darkness carrying a chill. "I'm the man who's knowing how to bring you to Rory, I am." The trader watched as the little man leaped the moat and vanished. Appears in Dublin Noir (Akashic) edited by Ken Bruen. Published in Spring 2006 All stories © Jim Fusilli 2005. Reprinted with permission. For permission to reprint, contact the author at jimfusillibooks@aol.com.