Crashed

precisely. He stopped, mouth half-open, and so did she.

“See how stupid you look?” I said.

“Tell her to stop-” he said, and almost in unison, Thistle said, “Tell her to stop-” Hacker choked it off, glaring at her, and got exactly the same glare in return. He opened his mouth. Thistle opened hers. Hacker’s tongue flicked the center of his lower lip, and Thistle’s did the same. For five or six seconds the two of them stood there, immobile as frescoes, and then Thistle said, “Aww, you’re too easy,” and relaxed.

Hacker waited to make sure she’d really quit. He put his hands on his hips, but she didn’t follow suit. “I still know about Louie,” he said to me. “One more double-cross, one more hint you’re not being straight with us, and you’ll be all over Rabbits’s backyard.” His eyes flicked nervously to Thistle, but she was through playing.

“See?” I asked. “See how much easier it is when you do things in the right order? There’s the message, errand boy: Do what you’re supposed to or it’s doggie time. Tell you what: You don’t mention Louie to anybody, and I won’t tell Wattles how you screwed this up. And I’ll make sure she stops imitating you.”

“He’s no fun anyway,” Thistle said. “It’s like imitating a hand puppet.”

“Just so’s you remember,” Hacker said to me, his eyes going involuntarily to Thistle. He turned to go, and when he was halfway down the hall, he looked back and said to me, “You don’t want that kid of yours to lose her daddy, do you?” I took a couple of steps toward him, and he backed away, saying to Thistle, “And you, chickie, you’re going to have a much bigger day than you think.” Then he turned the corner and was gone.

“A bigger day?” Thistle asked. “What’s that mean? Are you somebody’s daddy? Where do you think he got that suit? And what was that thing about dogs?”

“I’m under a certain amount of duress,” I said. “It’s kind of picturesque, but you don’t need to know the details.”

“If you say so. But, I mean, dogs? That’s like a metaphor, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “You know, go to the dogs.”

“That’s real convincing,” she said. “So tell me if there’s something I can do to keep whatever it is from happening to you, I mean, I sort of owe you. And also, let’s find Doc and see if I can’t get taken down a few feet.”

“Where’d you learn to do that? What you did to Hacker and Trey?”

“I’ve always been able to do it,” she said. “I used to do it on the show all the time. It’s about the only thing I’ve got left.”

At that moment there was a burst of male voices, and six guys rounded the corner Hacker had vanished behind. Thistle turned in their direction, and the two of us watched them come. Four white, two black, all in their late twenties or early thirties. I’m not generally much on snap judgments, but one sprang to mind then, a word Thistle had recently used: trash. Dressed in jeans, T-shirts, outdated Seattle grunge-rock plaid, leather wristbands, tattoos, and dangling steel bracelets. Chin-patches and sideburns, the ghosts of hairstyles past. Chains jingled at the heels of boots. None of them sparkled with conspicuous cleanliness or intelligence. As they swaggered down the hall, they eyed Thistle openly, even speculatively. They showed no indication of wanting to avoid a collision with us, so I tugged Thistle out of the center of the hall and over to the wall. As they passed, one of the guys closest to her reached out without slowing and touched her lower lip and said, “Hurts, I’ll bet.”

“Hands to yourself, asshole,” Thistle said.

“Okay,” the guy said, “no hands.” They all laughed. They walked on down the hall in a cloud of testosterone, one or two of them looking back at her.

Thistle said, “I’m not feeling good about this.”

“There you are, sweetie,” someone trilled, and I turned to see Rodd Hull come around the corner, trailed by Tatiana and the girl who had doubled for Thistle-what was her name?

“Our little star,” Rodd said. He had a clipboard clasped to his chest, but other than that he looked pretty much the same: vest full o’pockets, viewfinder dangling. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t know me from Adam, do you? I’m Rodd Hull.” He waited a moment, apparently anticipating some reaction from Thistle. “Your director,” he added a bit more sharply.

Thistle said, “Uh-huh.”

“And here we have Tatiana and, um, I forget your name, darling,” he said to the other girl.

“Ellie,” she said, as though she was used to it. “Ellie Wynn.”

“And they’re here to get you ready,” Rodd said. “We’ve had a little schedule change. Since you were so, um, lively in the press conference, we’re going to start with something just a wee bit more ambitious.” He leaned forward and looked at Thistle’s lip, then put his hand under her chin and gently turned her head. “Not bad,” he said. “Maybe keep you in three-quarters.”

“Ambitious?” Thistle said.

“Scene twenty-one,” Rodd said. “Why not get one of the big ones out of the way? Make it a little easier later on.”

“What’s scene twenty-one?”

“Tatiana and, um, Ellie will explain it all to you. You do have a script, don’t you, Tatiana?”

“No, Rodd,” Tatiana said wearily. “I always report for work without a script.”

“Wait, wait,” Thistle said. “This was supposed to be an easy day, just a few setups.”

“This will be much better for you,” Rodd said. “As I said, get one of the big ones-”

“I’m going to need cards,” Thistle said “Cue cards.”

“Not that much dialog,” Rod said, glancing at his watch. “Mostly action.” He began to turn away.

“Just a minute,” Thistle said. “Action. What action? What kind of action? What are you trying to-”

“I’ll let the ladies explain it to you, darling,” Rodd said. “I’ve got to get the set ready.” He gave her a critical look. “You’re going to need some lighting,” he said, and then he turned and went down the hall, his feet splayed out like a duck’s.

“Come on, honey,” Tatiana said, taking Thistle’s arm. “We’ll talk you through it.”

“But, what” Thistle stopped. She started to say something, failed to find her voice, and tried again. “It’s those guys, isn’t it? Those guys who just came in?”

Tatiana looked at me and then at Thistle, but said nothing. It was Ellie who said, “It’s, um … sorry, Miss Downing. It’s them.”

27

Digital mode

“Sweetie,” Tatiana was saying. “You’ve got to face it. You’re in digital mode now. It’s either on or off, yes or no. There isn’t anything in between.”

Thistle was caught in an eyelock with her own reflection. She shook her head, about a sixteenth of an inch, the movement so small I wouldn’t have seen it except that one of the two makeup girls, the one who was dabbing foundation on Thistle’s forehead, lifted her sponge for a second. When Thistle’s head was still the girl went back to work, saying to the other, “Maybe some shading under here?” indicating the space below Thistle’s cheekbones.

“The light will do it,” the other makeup girl said. “Can you look up, Thistle? Just with your eyes, honey, not the whole head.” She began doing something to the lower lids of Thistle’s left eye.

“I can do it,” Thistle said.

“I’m sure you can,” Tatiana said. “They’re all pros. The guys, I mean. For what that’s worth. They’re not people you’d run into at the public library or anything, but they know what they’re doing.”

“I meant my eyes,” Thistle said between her teeth. “I can do my own eyes. I’ve never liked having people do my eyes.” She extended a hand, and the makeup girl gave her the pencil.

“Are you going to be okay here?” I asked her.

“Here’s fine,” Thistle said. She tugged down the skin below her left eye and applied an expert line. Her hands