“Eva,” I said.
The office men loved it, of course. They knew who made a star.
Lewis called from Legal. He told me Eva had a competing contract offer from Atlas Films that she was willing to take rather than be in a movie of mine.
“We don’t want to make waves,” said Lewis. “You can find another leading lady—they’re a dime a dozen, you know that.”
Eva wasn’t some leading lady, she was a star, but I didn’t have to tell Lewis. They knew it. That’s why they were cutting me to keep her.
I didn’t tell him that she was the key to the whole movie. Best case: he’d think I was out of my mind. Worst case: he’d believe me, and pull my funding.
“I’ll look around,” I said. “Where should I go?”
I ended up at the Sidewalk Cafe, watching Eva dancing with a string of men, and hating her.
When she saw me she looked a little upset (I wasn’t proud of how happy it made me, but I’d take anything I could get). She sat for three songs, and then she got a light from Maitland and vanished through the crowd.
I went outside after her.
When she saw me she shook her head, ground out her cigarette underfoot, and turned to leave.
“Just hear me out,” I said. I hated her for making me beg. I was above begging.
“When I move to Atlas,” she said, “you can tell your friends at Capital why.”
“You have to understand,” I told her. “I promised the studio a special effect like they’ve never seen. Without your hummingbird trick, the whole movie’s a bust.”
She raised her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. “My trick?”
“If you don’t do it, the studio will make me a laughingstock!” I saw her face and added, “And you! If this doesn’t happen, it’s going to come back to you, you wait and see.”
“I’ll live,” she said.
And then (just to spite me, I know it) she broke apart, flashes of green and red and the whir of birds disappearing into the dark, and nothing left of her but glimpses of white at the edges of my vision like a scattering of teeth.
A good director films a story that’s set in front of him.
A great director can make a story out of nothing.
I stood in the dark outside the club, watching as a straggler fluttered up into the dark, and the rest of her story came to life in front of me.
The next morning I called Lewis and told him that I would find another leading lady.
“I saw Eva last night,” I said. “She’s not doing very well for herself, it looks like. Looking old. I was thinking we’d do Marie Antoinette instead of that Aztec crap. Everyone loves the French costumes, and then we don’t have to worry about making the Code happy.”
I was scrabbling, and I knew it, but the only way to get ahead in this town is to lie like you mean it, so I went on, “We can use that blonde instead—you know, the one who can sing?”
(Turned out there were several; that phone call took a while.)
Then I called the publicity office and told them I wanted to offer Eva a part in my new movie; did they know if she was meeting Maitland tonight?
When she left her house that night I was waiting for her, leaning against my car.
Eva was in white silk that looked nearly green in the moonlight, and now I couldn’t look at her without looking for a flash of red near her throat.
I knew her so well; it stung that she wouldn’t give me credit for it.
“You ruined my movie,” I said, casually. “Without you I had to change the whole thing. If that doesn’t work, Capital is out a lot of money, and I’m sunk.”
“That’s because you promised something that wasn’t yours to give,” she said.
“How do you think movies get made, Eva?”
Now she looked wary. God, her face was exquisite. I realized, too late, I should have brought a camera.
“Do you think this is still just for the movie?” she asked.
She was looking right at me, and I felt guiltier than I had in a long time.
“Someday you’ll understand,” I said.
Then I yanked the gun out of my jacket and pulled the trigger.
As a director, there were two problems with what happened next.
1) I was a pretty cheap shot—I’d just bought the gun, it’s not as if I had practiced—so the recoil surprised me and the bullet went wild, which takes away the power of the moment.
2) When you tell someone “Someday you’ll understand” right before you shoot, you’re not absolving yourself so much as you are giving them a moment to prepare, and then what happens is that by the time your shot goes wide you’re already staring at the last of the hummingbirds disappearing into the trees.
Still, when I stopped worrying if I’d broken my thumb, I saw that there was a hummingbird hopping around on the dirt in front of me in a panic, one of its outstretched wings suddenly much shorter than the other.
The singed edges were still warm to the touch where the bullet had struck, I noticed, after I scooped it up and kissed it.
The birdcage is an antique, a gift from the studio. It’s big enough that the hummingbird could fly around pretty comfortably, if it could still fly.
(I named it Polly for the present, because that was just the best name for a bird. Whenever people come over, they laugh themselves sick when I tell them, and then they try to call her over like it’s actually a parrot and can answer to the name. I’m working on getting some more sophisticated people.)
I keep the cage just near enough to the window that when the others come looking they’ll see Polly sitting there, and just far enough in that there’s no stealing her out without coming all the way inside.
And they will come back; Eva can’t become human without all of them, and there are only so many places you can hide two hundred hummingbirds.
(“Rising Star Falls,” cried the Reporter. “Exotic Eva Disappears—Have We Seen Her Last Film?”)
I hope that’s not the case. I’m not out to harm anyone. When she comes back to bargain, I’ll be happy to bargain.
She knows who makes a star.
COYOTAJE
by Marie Brennan
The coyotes of Mexicali were bold. They did their business in cantinas, in the middle of the afternoon; the police, well-fed with bribes, looked the other way. Day by day, week by week, people came into Mexicali, carrying backpacks and bundles and small children, and day by day, week by week, they went away again, vanishing while the back of the police was obligingly turned.
If the people could afford it. “The price is twenty-five thousand pesos,” the coyote repeated, and drained the last of his beer. “If you can’t pay, stop wasting my time.”
Ines bit her lip, looking down at the scratched Formica tabletop. “I don’t have twenty-five thousand. I only have—” She stopped herself before saying the number. Mexicali was far from the worst of the border towns, but it was bad enough, if you went looking for the wrong people.
The coyote shrugged. “Try El Rojo. He might take you for less. Especially if you have something else to offer.” The quick downward flick of his eyes made his meaning clear.
“Where can I find El Rojo?”
“La Puerta de Oro, in Chinesca. Ask for shark-fin tacos.”
Ines nodded and got up. She heard footsteps following her as she left the cantina, and whirled once she was through the door, prepared to defend herself.
Her pursuer held up his hands, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Relax. I only followed because I
