“God, Paco, you don’t have to bribe me.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
Montserrat had been working at Antares for the past seven years. She’d never made it into the two big film studios, but you had to be the son of someone to edit at a place like that. Positions were passed down through the STPC and STIC like knighthoods. Now that Estudios América was being dismantled, the movie business was even more of a mess than before, and competition for positions was cutthroat. Antares had been, when you added all the pluses and minuses, not that bad.
Not that bad, that is, until the previous year, when the company had hired a new sound editor. Everyone loved young people and despised old ones. Help wanted ads always specified “35 and under,” sometimes even “30 and under.” Samuel, the newest member of the team, was definitely under thirty. Mario had funneled a bunch of assignments to Samuel, in part because his youth meant he was one of their lowest paid employees. Antares saved money with Samuel. And, as a result, Montserrat had been pulled from several projects. She’d gone from working five, sometimes six days a week, to three, and she was sure Mario was going to cut her down to two by December. Maybe they’d end up assigning this job to Samuel.
Crap, she needed to make more money. Her sister didn’t ask her for anything, but Montserrat knew she was hurting a little. She had been working only part-time for half a year now; the cancer treatments were too exhausting for her to manage her usual workload at the accounting firm. Montserrat tried to chip in when she could.
“Follow me,” she muttered, looking at her watch. She’d be late if she didn’t step out now.
Paco and Montserrat walked down a long hallway decorated with wall-to-ceiling mirrors and back toward the reception area. The mirrors were supposed to be “wall art” and lend an air of class to the joint, but the results were more tacky than elegant. The reception area was the only part of the studio that looked semi-decent. Instead of shabby, patched-up furniture, the room boasted two black leather couches. Behind a big desk a big sign with silver letters said “ANTARES” all in caps.
Candy was behind the desk. She had bright yellow neon nails that week—she changed them often—and smiled at Montserrat happily. Candida, who liked to go by Candy, handled reception and all manner of assorted tasks. She was the person who kept track of who was using which editing bay at any given hour of the day. She wasn’t supposed to schedule anything until Mario said so, but Montserrat sometimes skipped the queue.
“Candy, is Mario back from that business lunch yet?” she asked, hoping the answer was yes but the receptionist shook her head.
“Nope.”
“Crap,” Montserrat said. “Okay, this is what we’ll do: Candy, can you slot me in for some night work tomorrow? Put me for the whole week, beginning at seven in my usual room. I need to work on Paco’s latest picture.”
“Oh, what’s it called?” Candy asked, looking at Paco with interest.
“Murder Weekend,” Paco said proudly.
“Sounds cool. But, Montserrat, I need to know the pricing, the green form—”
“Put it down before someone grabs the time slot,” she said. “I’ll show it to Mario later and fill in the green form.”
Before Candy could ask another question, Montserrat waved them a curt goodbye and stepped outside.
She shook her head, thinking about the long nights that awaited her. Too many people thought they could skimp on the audio portion of a shoot. Then they ended up with ambient noise, cutoff tracks, or low sound quality. They often expected miracles, too, from their sound editors, and Montserrat had to deliver those miracles for a measly amount of cash. She wasn’t even on staff, for God’s sake. Mario didn’t believe in hiring people full-time because it was cheaper and easier to keep them coming in by the hour. That way, when he didn’t need someone, as he had with Montserrat lately, he could cut them off without sweating it.
The problem was that Montserrat liked editing at Antares. A full-time job for a TV show would be steady money, but it also meant she’d have to work with a lot more people. Two audio editors in the same room, and then maybe the lead editor and the director giving notes while they worked. She knew someone who had made the switch to working as a sound recordist because it at least meant less insane schedules, but she despised sets, with all their technicians and actors. Small productions, low-budget flicks, these appealed to her because she often worked alone, no need for a gigantic team of ADR experts, foley artists, and music supervisors to suffocate her. People. She didn’t wish to deal with people, although sometimes she feared she’d end up with a vitamin deficiency from spending all daylight hours inside, and she’d start talking back to the characters on screen, like an editor she knew did.
Montserrat wondered if she shouldn’t poke her head around the set of Enigma. Cornelia could introduce her to her contacts, or there might even be an opening with Cornelia’s TV show. She hated the idea of a desk job, but maybe there was freelancing she could do on the side to augment her paycheck. Research. Administrative work. Something other than audio editing, because audio was uncertain: canceled gigs, clients changing their minds, or the composer scoring a film being late, which meant hurry, hurry, hurry.
No one cared about the audio, anyway. People noticed only when you fucked it up, not when you got it right. It was a thankless job that had her sometimes catching three hours of sleep on one of the couches around Antares so she could keep working through the night.
Montserrat made it into the restaurant on time and took a booth, ordered a coffee and a slice of pie. Tristán arrived twenty-five minutes later. His coat was a lush plum color with big buttons and a wide belt.
His hair looked a little ruffled, and he was wearing his sunglasses, which he took off with practiced theatrical panache as he sat down at the table. “Well! They were out of Benson and Hedges at my usual newspaper stand, so I had to walk around.”
“I thought you were a snob who only bought imported cigarettes.”
“I’m trying to save money this month. Dunhills are out of the question for a few weeks,” he said, taking out his lighter and a cigarette. “You’ve been waiting long?”
“Yes,” she said. “You shouldn’t smoke.”
“Keeps me thin, and I have to have at least one vice.”
“Maybe, but we’re sitting in the non-smoking section,” she said, pointing to the sign behind him.
Tristán looked around and sighed. “Now why’d you seat us here?”
“Because it’s full in the smoking area and they said there’s no way we’re getting in there.”
“Maybe I can ask for us to be moved,” he said and raised his hand, trying to attract the attention of a waitress.
“Please don’t,” she said, poking at the slice of pie she had almost finished eating. She’d assumed he’d be late and had been wise enough to order quickly.
“Miss?” he said.
A waitress turned around. He threw her his careless, sixty-watt smile that was all teeth. The smile had a success rate of 70 percent. The waitress approached him, notepad in hand.