The goal of Del Sol Review is to publish the best work available. Political motives do not compromise, and we do not publish inferior work simply because a "name" tag comes attached. These made it easy to get past the brother working security, and soon Risto stood four stories above downtown Naples, picking his way around the panoramic dome that capped the Galleria Umberto I.
Along the rooftop catwalk, the Galleria's bulging exoskeleton, there perched two acquaintances of his own color.
Two Africans, rigging a bomb. Nonetheless Mepris and Yebleh confirmed that the two ciabatta-sized packages to either side of him were powerful plastic explosives. Each was fitted where a V of curving girder met the milky glass of the palazzo's bulging skylight, and it appeared the contraptions didn't yet have their hookups and detonators in place. Not that Risto knew anything about it. He'd only seen such stuff in the movies. Then again, it did feel as if the roof access, a claustrophobic spiral staircase, had ushered him up into a movie.
These men he'd thought of as friends had shrunk to two dimensions. Both had lighter skin, especially the golden Moroccan Mepris. Neither had Risto's fireplug bulk, his own dome up top, the shaved head he oiled every morning.
He even affected a gold earring. A ridiculous cliche, but it helped with newcomers to the gallery. That man must at least have taken a handful of Euros in exchange for letting these two up. He wouldn't have been impressed by Mepris' hipster prettiness and he wouldn't have had a clue about Yebleh's reputation, the outsider artist.
