The brewery was an unassuming stucco building a few blocks from the university. One of Learâs murals covered the east wallâa massive, dynamic figure carved with intricate geometric textures. An article once described his work as Klimpt meets Basquiat, but Learâs murals were mathierâfrenetic, for sure, but playing more with geometry and dimension. He used clay and wood to give the paint and figures a kinetic, blocky depth, painted gold and carved with reticulated patterns. Even amidst Valpoâs cacophony of street art, it stood out.Â
I checked my phone. 2:04 PM. Learâs been to jail, I thought. I could ask him what itâs like. If the gang does have something nefarious planned, I could just offer to turn myself in. Iâd get swept off to the US federal prison system, and theyâd never see or hear from me again, as good as dead. After a few more shaky breaths, I marched my badass black boots through the graffitied steel door.
The brewery proper was a maze of stainless steel metal vessels, lined up like redwoods on either side of the cavernous back room. It was like walking into a grand estate, or a prison. Squat windows near the ceiling drained light in, casting the brewery in sleepy, afternoon blue. Every step echoed. I was almost at the opposite end of the building when Lear popped out from behind a brew kettle. I nearly shot out of my shoes.
Lear looked like an arrowârail-thin, sharp features, long gray hair puffing out from under his beanie. The wrinkles of his drawn face pointed up towards his high forehead, so he always looked like he was pitying you. âWhoa, whoa!â He checked his watch, then spread his balsa-wood arms, snapping his fingers like jabs. âDonât be so jumpy-y-y.â
There was a dark spot under his linen shirt where he kept his gun. A deep breath balmed my frazzled nerves. âH-hey, Lear. The crew around?â
âMight be. You got your computer?â
I hugged my laptop bag and nodded.
âCool. Letâs jam.â Lear swaggered into the shadow between the back 2 brew kettles, checking his wrist and whistling Ennio Morricone.Â
I didnât follow. âLear, p-please tell me what this is about.â
Learâs tight shoulders slumped. He pursed his heart-shaped lips. âCome on, now, donât make this hard on me.â His voice was flat. Panic reached up from my stomach and choked me. I backed up, but bumped something solid and warm. I spun, twitchy as prey. Cat raised her wooly-bear-caterpillar eyebrows at me.
Cat was the muscle in the crew, a big woman with a strong jaw, long silky hair, and a manslaughter rap Lear helped her out of. Her grease-stained tank top showed off meaty arms holding a tall baking dish with a lid on it. âHey, Dom.âÂ
âYouâre late!â Lear scolded, jutting his knobby chin out at her. âJigâs up, I guess.â Throwing an arm around my shoulders, Lear pulled me with him around the corner towards a black shadow between cylinders. My heart hammered my ribs. The dark alcove in front of me, Cat behind me blocking the exit. There was nowhere to go.Â
âLear, please, just wait. You donât have to do this.â
âOh, I think I do.â Lear clapped his hands once, the sound shuddering against the stainless-steel kettles.
âNo, really, I promise, Iâll leave and youâll never-â
Overhead fluorescents blinked to life over the picnic table we used to look over blueprints, count money, and eat greasy takeout. It was Jackson-Pollucked with every color of sticky acrylic paint. Unfamiliar paper cones were stacked on it. Inscrutable chalk-scrawls covered an ancient, wheeled blackboard situated beside an equally antique television, also on wheels. Paper streamers hung haphazardly off pipes and valves. A few feet back, U.H. stood beside the fuse box in skinny jeans and a pornhub hoodie, their phone in one hand. âUm. Surprise?â
Behind me, Lear crackled out a raucous chorus of cumpleaños feliz. I twisted around in time to see him elbow Cat, who grudgingly joined in. U.H. pointed their fingers at me as they ran up, hooked an arm around my neck, shouting the song in my face.
âWh-what?â
âWell, you wouldnât tell us when your birthday is, so I thought weâd pick one for you,â Lear said. âSeptember 18th. One hell of a surprise party, right?â One hell of a surprise party was right. September 18th wasnât my birthday of course, it was⊠January, definitely January. The 27th, maybe? The 23rd? âLook at her face, Cat! Told you sheâd never see it coming.âÂ
âYeah, Boss, you made up a birthday for her,â Cat said flatly, bumping past Lear to set her ice-white dish down on the picnic table.
âWhy did you tell me to bring my computer if you were just throwing a party?â
âYouâre so paranoid, I had to pretend it was for work. Plus, I want to talk over your idea.â
âItâs not an idea, Lear, Iâm just curious.â
Cat lifted the lid of her baking dish. The cake was a puffy cloud of chantilly cream drizzled with caramel. A rum-colored puddle covered the bottom of the plate. U.H. sat down across from us, smoking weed from an electric-green vape pen.
U.H. was an adrenaline-junky from a young age. By the time their rich parents gave up on them, the teenager had accrued 10 charges for driving without a license, 8 for reckless endangerment, 13 for destruction of property, 6 for grand theft auto, 24 for drug possession, and 1 for public nudity. U.H. was a gearhead with an obscene knowledge of cars and no slouch when it came to gadgets either. They once escaped from a Hyundai they crashed by fashioning a high-powered laser cutter out of the CD player, but beyond working Tinder, they werenât very good with the software side.Â
Cat slid a slice of cake my way. The yellow sponge glistened with rum, bifurcated by a layer of icing and dulce de leche in the center. U.H. promptly reached across the table, dragging the plate towards them with a single finger. Cat flicked them behind the ear. âThatâs for Dom, you gremlin.â U.H. flinched but took a bite anyway.Â
Lear passed us 4 unlabeled beer bottles, each one foaming at the mouth. âYou tell her about the bike?âÂ
âOh yeah,â U.H. said, hopping to their feet as they licked their plastic fork clean. âCat ân me stole you a bike. Itâs out back, wanna see?â
Still gobsmacked by my fake birthday party, I followed Cat and U.H. in a daze, unable to process this new piece of information. We took 2 lefts through brew kettles and mash tuns to the loading bay doors that led to the breweryâs gravel back lot. Cat slid the garage-style door up.
When U.H. said they stole me a bike, I assumed they meant something with a basket and some tassels. I didnât expect the sleek-black paint job, angry headlamps and chunky engine. I should haveâCat and U.H. didnât run a chop-shop for bicycles, after all.Â
âI know the 400 is babyâs first bike, but I didnât know how much experience you had with motorcycles,â U.H. said (none was how much experience I had with motorcycles). âThey had this moronic turbo setupâbecause, yâknow, letâs strap a rocket to a tricycleâbut I fixed it for you. We figured you donât come out much because you must live real far away, right?â
It was less than 2 miles, but I didnât have the heart to tell them that. I couldnât explain why it wasnât safe to be around me; that if I get caught, the crew will too. Besides, trying to drive a motorcycle through the roller-coaster hills of Valpo sounded like the definition of a death wish.Â
âAnyway,â U.H. went on as we walked back inside, âbuy a helmet, not a shitty one, spend half a mil at least, otherwise your headâll be-â U.H. made a wet noise as they scraped the palm of their hand across their skull. âCanât let you die until we kill your new job.â
âItâs not a job,â I said as we walked back to Lear at the table. âIs that really why you called me down here?â
âNah, nah nah,â Lear protested. âItâs about the party, a rowdy row wrapped in ribbons. Jobâs just the bow on top. After what you said about the campaign I confabbed with a few folks around town who might be in the know. You werenât kidding about this law and order angle.â
âThe kids are out of control!â U.H. mocked. âTheyâre delinquents, theyâre violent, they stole my 1984 Pontiac Firebird and crashed it into a Starbucks!â
âSo, I took your advice and sent Cat and U.H. in. Told âem to push the mayhem angle.â
âYeah. I threw a brick through a window,â U.H. bragged.Â
âThat was you?â
âOh yeah. Didnât even get yelled at. I might quit boosting cars and just do this now.â
âYou got in no trouble at all?â
âNo,â Cat said. âThey said to keep up the good work.â
âMy god⊠Heâs really doing it, heâs paying people to be violent to validate his message.âÂ
âAnd when U.H. is already validating his message so well already,â Lear japed.Â
âFuck yeah I am!â
Chile had seen fascism. The right-wing dictator installed by the CIA in the â70s âdisappearedâ thousands of Chilean citizens for protesting his âpresidency.â If Godoy played dirty like this, he could go full Pinochet once elected. What would happen to ValparaĂso, Chileâs bastion of bohemian revolt? âYouâve sent all this to Teresa, right?â
âNope,â Lear said, checking his watch. âIn fact, itâs imperative she doesnât find out.â
âLear, thereâs no score.â
âOh, but there is,â he said, walking to the ancient TV. âSee, I did send Teresa one tidbit from the whisper mill. It was just a rumor to me, but she did her multiple sources thing. She said itâd break at 2:30.â Lear switched the TV on.
There was Teresaâs scolding gaze and severe haircut. She leaned over a glass desk, oversized and gleaming with studio lights. A picture-in-picture of the Ek building was up on the screen beside her. âIn an unexpected move,â Teresa told the camera, âpresidential candidate and television personality Adalberto Godoy is holding his campaign fundraiser in the city of ValparaĂso instead of Chileâs capital, Santiago. Ek Inc., the tech company best known for its Ekko mobile phones, plans to host Godoyâs gala in its newly-constructed and controversial office building in ValparaĂsoâs historic district. Godoyâs pro-business agenda is expected to attract corporate donors from across the globe who use Chilean copper and lithium in a broad range of electronics. Sources close to the campaign report they expect up to $20 billion pesos in donations the night of the gala.â
Lear whistled, muting the TV. âIâve been to plenty of charity blowouts. Small donations go into envelopes on the tables, but the big stuff gets entered into a tablet.â
My job. $20 billion Chilean pesosâabout $20 million USDâdonated through a piece of technology. âYou want to rob the fundraiser,â I realized aloud.Â
Lear grinned, all graveyard teeth. âNo, you want to rob the fundraiser. This was your call, D-zero, and you called it. Itâs only right that you manage it.â
âMe? I-I just wanted to see what Godoy was up to.â
Lear lowered his voice as U.H. chatted to Cat. âExactly. Youâre in it for the right reasons, D-zero, just like I am. The money isnât what youâre after, thatâs just icing.â Lear dipped a knobby finger into his slice of cake, popping the wad of chantilly cream in his mouth. âWe want to even the odds. We want these bastards out of Valpo. What do you say?â
What a stupid, sloppy idea, I thought. The last time I went up against Ek directly, he ended up acquitted and I ended up here. Iâd be risking detection, capture, federal prison, or worse: another 4000 white-knuckle miles of static. Yet, how could I sit back and watch Ek and Godoy take over ValparaĂso, the town that had sheltered me for 4 terrified years? How many more times would I let Julian run me from my own home? Lear, as off-kilter as he was, took care of me when I arrived in Valpo in a broken down car, delicate as an exposed wire. Paula too, who gave me a dark and quiet place where I felt safe. I loved ValparaĂso, with its crooked streets you couldnât help but get lost in; never be found in. I felt safe cradled between the mountains and the sea, holding me in cupped hands with paint-stained fingers.Â
He canât just get away with it. Not this time; not your thumb; not this scale. If the law canât stop Julian Ek, Iâll black his eye for them. âIâll do it. Iâm in.â
âGood,â Lear said. âIâll take care of staffing, you just figure logistics. U.H. and Cat will keep looking for limits on hell-raising. Iâll drag for contractors.â
âWe should get someone in the campaign staff.â
âSee? Youâre bossing me around already.â Learâs smile went soft around the edges. âYouâre a peach, Ms. Mysterio. Sorry to do this on your birthday.â
âItâs OK. Itâs not my birthday.â
âOh, you about to tell me when it really is?â
âNo.â
âThen far as Iâm concerned, itâs September 18th, baby.â
âDonât call me âbabyâ,â I said, rolling my eyes while trying to decide between 1/23 or 1/27. Lear set an occupied brown paper bag on the table. Whatever was inside was the mass, volume, and density of a textbook. âWhatâs this?â
âWhatâd I just say? Sept-tem-ber 18th, baby.â Lear tapped the bag with each syllable.
âAnd what did I just say?â Reaching inside, my fingers found something solid and poly-smooth. It was heavy, and I needed both hands to pull it up and out of the bag. The sturdy frame had hinges drilled into one side, attaching a small, squat door. A dollar-store lock held the door shut, covering whatever painting the frame was framing. With a bit of digging I fished the small, notched key from the bottom of the bag. The lock clicked open with spring-loaded satisfaction. I unhooked it from the latch, then opened the door like a book.
It was me. Bands of butter yellow and daubs of ultraviolet chiseled me out from the black canvas. Gold geometric patterns marched along the seams of my jacket and zigzagged through my textured hair. It still smelled like turpentine. In the painting, I was laughing, my sunglasses in my hand and my eyes wet with molten gold. Looking at it was uncomfortable. The girl in that painting wasnât a big, bad cyber-revolutionary. She was small and jagged, laughing through her tears. That girl couldnât do what Iâm about to. That girl was an open wound. âItâs beautiful, Lear,â I said, and meant it. âHow is it meant to be displayed? With the door open or closed?â
âSuppose thatâs up to you, D-zero.â Lear smiled, but barely. âThatâs not my name, yâknow.â He tapped 4 sweeping, capital letters in the bottom-right corner. L-E-A-R. âItâs Reyes. But you knew that already, right?â
Yes. You were arrested by Pinochetâs military police after one too many avant-garde acts of vandalism. After that, the Universidad de Chileâs art program revoked your admission.
âWhy do you think they call me that?â
âSeems obvious. Youâre the king, andâŠâ
âAnd?â
âAnd youâre a little crazy.â
Lear nearly fell off his seat, howling with laughter. âNah, that ainât why. Itâs because I let little girls like you push me around.â
You treated jail like the university you couldnât go to. You learned; networked, and not just with the other political prisoners. You graduated from avant-garde to direct action. âIâm not a princess,â I said.
âDonât I know it. So? I showed you mine, you show me yours.â
You have a real daughter in Santiago that refuses to see you. I know what kind of soap you use, what kind of porn you watch, what kind of emails you write but never send. I know everything about you, and you donât even know my name. âI think itâs better if you call me Domino,â I said as I shut the door on the painting, âand I call you Lear.â
â4 years and you still donât trust me.â With a heavy sigh, Lear stood up from the table. âGuess that makes you a good criminal.âÂ
I couldnât process any kind of answer to that. Had 4 years turned me into a criminal, or did my chemical makeup fundamentally change the moment I opened that video? It seemed like a lifetime since Iâd gone on the run, that 2-month road-trip panic-attack, screaming south until no one knew my name.Â
A strange revelation hit me thenâa bug in my code. What was my real name again? I hadnât used it since I left, and the news only referred to me as âFormer Ek Inc. Employee.â It was on the tip of my tongue. My brows pressed together, as though the information could be folded back into my brain. My thumb was running down the stained wood of the paintingâs closed door when the syllables floated up from a dusty corner of my mind, like a piece of trivia.Â
Lia. My name is Lia.