“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.”
Inés 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.”
Inés 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 heard what Ortega said. Don’t go to El Rojo.”
The sun was like a hammer on Inés’ back, trying to pound her into the dust. But it meant she could see the other man’s face, broad and pocked with the occasional scar, seamed where he squinted against the light. “If he’s cheaper, I have to. Notold me it would be this expensive.”
The man—another coyote—shrugged and pulled sunglasses from his pocket. “Can’t help it. With all the new laws, it’s a lot riskier for us, and you need documents on the other side. Look, I’ll take you for twenty.”
Inés shook her head. “I don’t have twenty, either.”
“Then stay here a while. There’s jobs—not good ones, but if you’re patient you can save enough to get across. Safely. El Rojo … he isn’t safe.”
None of it was safe; even the honest coyotes could get a migrant killed. “I don’t have any choice,” she said.
With the man’s eyes hidden by the sunglasses, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought he gave her a pitying look. “Go with God, then. And be careful.”
Caution had gone out the window when Javier died. Shading her eyes against the desert sun, Inés went in search of La Puerta de Oro.
It lay in Mexicali’s Chinatown, its garish red and gold faded by the elements. The interior was blindingly dark, after the street outside. “Shark-fin tacos,” she said once her eyes adjusted, and the hostess jabbed her thumb toward a table in the back corner.
Two men sat there, both facing the door. The bigger one grinned as Inés approached, licking his lips in an exaggerated gesture, but it was the skinnier one she watched. He had a predator’s eyes.
She cast her gaze down when she got to the table. “I want to get across the border,” she said. Quietly, but not whispering. “I heard El Rojo could take me.”
“I can,” the smaller man said. He was wiry more than slender, hardened to rawhide by the desert sun. Other Mexicali coyotes took migrants in secret truck compartments, sneaking them across into Calexico or up to State Route 7, then onward to San Diego or Phoenix. El Rojo, according to rumor, went a more dangerous route, through the Sonoran Desert. Less risk of being caught by the Border Patrol, but more risk of dying, whether from thirst or the guns of militia. Or coyotes, of the four-legged kind.
Inés sat, eyes still downcast; the last thing she wanted was for him to take her stare as a challenge. “I can pay ten thousand.”
The bigger fellow laughed, a barking sound in the quiet of the restaurant. “That and a bit more will do, girl,” he said, laying one hand on her knee as if she might not catch his meaning.
She controlled her revulsion; pulling away too fast would make her look like prey. It was the other man who mattered, anyway. El Rojo, the red one. There were many possible explanations for the nickname, few of them reassuring.
His method of bargaining showed a sharp mind. From money, he would switch without warning to questions about Inés: where she was from, why she was emigrating, what kind of work she thought she would find. She told him she came from Cuauhtémoc in Chihuahua, and had a brother who crossed at Nogales two years ago; if she could get to Albuquerque, he knew a man who could get her a job as a maid. Seventeen thousand, El Rojo said, and if she was coming from Cuauhtémoc and going to Albuquerque, why had she come to Mexicali? A man had brought her this far, promising help, Inés said, but he’d tried to rape her; she would pay fifteen thousand and no more.
El Rojo smiled, thin, lips closed. “That’ll do. Half now, half when we get there, and Pipo here will show you to your room.”
“My room?” Inés asked, alarm rising in her throat.
Now he showed a glint of teeth. “I’m your coyote now. Full service, from here until your trip is done. Wouldn’t want you getting picked up by the cops.”