Yay! I got a review! Thanks a lot, Nick! Yeah, this is pretty much that old story, but it has been updated, enlarged, and amended. It will now include a little mobster action. That's the reason why I changed the rating to Teen. You'll find out more in this installment. Hope you all like it! Now, back to the story.

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Sammy had grabbed a chair and was sitting by the window. He was feeling drowsy again, but was still too nervous to sleep. Besides, it was not long before dawn; although the sky was still dark, a lighter shade of blue began to appear over the horizon, announcing the beginning of a new day. When he was sad, Sammy liked to watch the sky and see the sun rising over the horizon. It always made him feel better; the beginning of a new day always promised a brighter tomorrow, and Sammy really enjoyed watching the dark sky become clearer and clearer until the sun appeared and illuminated everything back to life. He had discovered the magic of dawn recently; it was a very effective tranquilizer for him on the sleepless nights his asthma had afforded him lately.

The boy was contemplating the dawn when a couple of headlights appeared on the hill. Taking off his earphones, he recognized immediately the noisy engine of Tito's 1965 VW Microbus. The old van chugged up the hill and stopped by the Rocket's house.

Sammy smiled when he saw the old thing, remembering the story Tito himself had told him about it the day before. The colorful Hawaiian said that, in the good old days, during the late sixties and early seventies, he and Ray used the microbus to travel from beach to beach, carrying their surfboards on the roof and all kind of camping gear inside. They had painted the van in the hipster fashion, with lots of colorful flowers, peace signs and psychedelic motifs. With its oversize rear tires and a huge Peace symbol on the front, the old camper was known all over the place as the "green dream", and not precisely for its color. Even today, scraps of that paintwork were still visible on the sides, but now the old thing was the Shore Shack's delivery van, and Tito used it everyday to transport groceries to the restaurant. That's what the burly Hawaiian was doing at that early hour. He had just bought the fish on the pier and was picking up Ray before heading to the wholesale market to buy the meat, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, sodas and bread. It was a weekly routine for the two old friends.

Sammy watched as Ray got out of his house, clad as usual with shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. He greeted Tito and, after locking the front door, climbed into the odd vehicle. Tito started the old but reliable engine and turned about. The headlights illuminated the street again, and with its characteristic noise, the colorful van resumed its voyage.

When they passed in front of Sammy's house, Ray saw the boy sitting by his window. He was taking his medicine again; the paleness on his face was evident, even under the dim light of the dawn. Tito and Ray waved their hands to Sammy, and the boy responded their salute, smiling.

"It looks like Sammy had another bad night tonight, eh, Tito?"

"Definitely, bruddah" – replied Tito in his markedly Hawaiian accent.

"I'm worried about him. Paula told me yesterday that his medicine hasn't been working well anymore. Poor Sammy has had a hard time with his asthma lately. I've seen him up like today at least four times this week, and each time he looks paler and thinner. Maybe it's me, bro, but I think the boy is getting sicker."

"I've noticed that too, bruddah. Sammy is definitely thinner and weaker than ever. I am worried about him."

"We all are, Tito. We all are."

Tito nodded affirmatively, and turned on the radio. He was truly concerned about Sam; he had seen how difficult it was for the boy to keep pace with the rest of the kids, and the cruel jokes that Twister and Otto made of him. He reprimanded the two boys and told them to stop bugging Sammy, but they were picking on him again shortly after.

"Goodbye, my friends, maybe for forever

Goodbye, my friends. The stars wait for me.

Who knows where we shall meet again...?"

"Wow! Where's the funeral, Tito? Why the sad song?"

"I'm sorry, bruddah. It's the only station transmitting music at this hour."

"Don't you have something merrier?"

"Well… I think I have a cassette with Janis somewhere…"

"Groovy! The Hipster Queen, Janis Joplin! Let's hear it, bro!"

"Ok. Suit yourself…"

Tito opened the glove box and pulled a tape. After inserting it on the radio, a raspy female voice began to sing.

"You say that it's over, baby.

You say that it's over now,

But still you hang around me, come on,

Won't you move over? ..."

"This is more like it, brother!" - said Ray, snapping his fingers and keeping the tempo with his foot.

"I'm glad you like it, bruddah."

"This song brings back a lot of memories, brother. Remember that day in Malibu, when those girls began singing and belly-dancing around the fire?"

"(Oh, God! Here we go again!) Yes, bruddah…"

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Things were not going well for the driver of the decrepit van that stalled on the California Incline, and he cursed while he tried to wrestle the rusted spark plugs out of the old engine. This man, a former surfer-turned-fisherman-turned-fishmonger, was known only as "Old Harris". He was a slender, tall man of about fifty years of age, not precisely clean, with long, shaggy grey hair and beard. He wore a stained pair of Levi's jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and old brown boots. He was not a very popular figure among surfers, mainly because he was a notoriously sarcastic and ungrateful person. In the old days, these qualities had cost him the friendship of most of the surfers, and those who still spoke to him, like Tito and Ray, did so in honouring the aloha spirit of friendship with every creature of the universe.

He was a heavy drinker and an inveterate gambler. His wife had divorced him the previous year and left for Cape Cod, Massachusetts, taking their daughter and most of their belongings with her. Shortly after the man received a letter from her lawyer, informing him he had been sued for not providing for his daughter's needs. The long and expensive divorce left him in bankruptcy and soon he was forced to live in his old fishing boat, ironically called "the Abundance", a rusted and derelict trawler that was permanently moored in the marina because Harris couldn't pay for repairs. Besides, his fishing permit had expired and the Coast Guard required him to fix his boat and replace the broken radio in order to allow him to work in the fisheries again, and to top it all, his former crew had abandoned him and were now on board of another boat, working for a captain who actually paid them.

But those were mere inconveniences to him. Right now, Old Harris had other, more urgent troubles to worry about. After the divorce, he fell in a spiral of gambling, alcohol and drugs, until he literally hit the bottom. He had lots of debts, product of his frequent incursions to illegal casinos owned by the local mobster boss, Don Luchese, a cheap version of the Godfather that nevertheless made guys like Hoffa look like boy scouts. At first, it seemed that Harris could actually beat the casinos, making a couple thousand dollars one night, but soon his luck changed and he started losing over and over again, until he owed the Don more than he could possibly pay.

So, basically, he had sold his soul to the devil. He had been forced to make weekly payments to the casino, and he knew he better made them in time, unless he wanted to have his legs broken. Soon he started getting behind in his payments, and then he started receiving threatening phone calls and messages demanding him to pay his debts. He even received a couple of visits from the Don's henchmen, and they always told him the same: pay your dues or else.

That's what happened earlier that morning. He was stepping out of his boat when he saw two men dressed in black coming towards him. He shuddered when he recognized them as Mick McGuire, a tall, blond bearded, imposing and frighteningly brawny figure in a black beanie and matching sweater, Don Luchese's lieutenant, and Andreas Broodie, a rattish fellow in thick glasses and leather cap, which belied his credentials as a notorious gunman. Harris stopped cold as the two goons faced him.

"Good morning, Harris. Long time no see." – said McGuire.

"H…. hi."

"Don Luchese wants to know what happened to you this week, Harris. We didn't see you in our office."

"Well… see… I… had some trouble getting the money, folks…"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know Don Luchese doesn't like to hear excuses like that, Harris."

"I… I know; but I swear I couldn't make the money in time! My van broke again last night and I couldn't make it to the market to sell the fish. I'm only 100 bucks short of the sum, and I'm getting them today, as soon as I take a load of sardines to the market… Please, give me a chance to collect the money… I'll pay Don Luchese today, I promise… It's the first time in months that I'm late with the payments…"

"All right, all right" – interrupted Broodie. - "Relax, Harris. We're only here to remind you of your dues. Take it easy; we'll be waiting for you today, after you sell your fish. But don't take too long; Don Luchese is a patient man, but even his patience has limits."

"Thank you! Thank you! I'll be there in time, I promise!"

"I know you will, Harris. And just to make sure you won't forget your appointment, there's a reminder for you inside your van."

The two men grinned evilly as they boarded a black Buick parked nearby. Harris stood in his place, petrified with fear, while the driver started the engine. He didn't dare to move until he saw the Buick disappear towards town.

Harris walked cautiously to his van, which was parked right by the pier. He walked around it, looking carefully to it, but everything was just as he had left it the day before. It was not until he opened the driver's door that he saw the message.

Harris gagged and turned in disgust at the sight. Inside the van, on the driver's seat, was the body of a small cat that had been visiting him for a couple of weeks. The animal had a noose on its neck, and a piece of paper with the words "don't be late!" between the lips.

Harris fell to his knees and cried. It took him a while to force himself to take the dead cat out of his van, and he was shaking when he left the marina. Although really scared, he knew better than calling the cops. He proceeded to the piers and bought a whole load of sardines and shrimp, and then headed for the market. Luckily, he would get to the market before their opening time, and set the price for the fish. That would give him a nice profit, 700 dollars or so, enough to complete this week's payment and get some money to survive.

But his old Ford Econoline had other plans, and it stalled on the Incline, barely one mile from the piers.

Harris looked at his watch and cursed again. The market had already opened. He would have to hurry if he wanted to sell his fish and earn a profit on them. Mumbling obscenities under his breath, he cleaned the spark plugs and tried desperately to start the engine.