How to Kill a Rock Star by Tiffanie Debartolo Page B

bogus attention from Winkles who wouldn’t appreciate musical rectitude if it spit in their faces.
    “Welcome to America,” Doug would have said.
    I set my martini glass down so hard its base cracked and water spil ed over the sides, soaking my napkin. “I need air.” Outside, there was a deli next to Rings of Saturn.
    Through the window I watched a swarthy, heavily bearded man shoving a pastrami sandwich into his mouth, taking bite after bite before he finished swal owing what he was chewing. He had a glob of mustard on the tip of his nose and bits of meat stuck to the hair on his chin.
    As the man washed down his food with gulps of soda, I knelt on the ground, let my head fal to my hands, and stayed like that until Vera found me ten minutes later.
    “Hmm,” she said. “Kneeling Mecca-style outside the club. Not a good sign.”
    I rose, brushing dirt from my skirt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    Vera looked cautious. “Tel you what? I said he was talented.”
    “ Talent ? That’s not talent . Talent is Liza Minnel i tap-dancing and singing at the same time. What I just saw was devastation. Dying man on the cross. Salvation in B minor.
    An ejaculation of truth.”
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake, it’s music. It’s supposed to be fun, not devastating. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ rol , remember?
    Whew-hoo. And don’t get any crazy ideas about Paul. He’s the last thing you need.”
    I fol owed Vera backstage, where Paul and the Michaels were huddled together in the corner, extol ing each other’s How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 88
    8triumphs and picking apart their mistakes like a gang of school chums after a dodgebal game.
    I avoided making eye contact with Paul. I wasn’t ready for him. Not with so many people around. I waved to Michael and waited until he came to me.
    “I’m going to try and get Sonica to let me write about you guys,” I said. “If I have to sel my soul, I wil .” I eyed Vera and then refocused on my brother.
    “You are not quitting this band. No way. I’l get another job if I have to. I’ll support you.”
    Vera was not happy with me. She left the room in a huff.
    But Michael’s face, usual y phlegmatic, had ignited. “ Sonica would be huge .”
    A wel -dressed man approached me. He had threadlike black hair, skin the color of a raw pork chop, and was a few pounds shy of being cal ed stocky.
    “Hey, Peepers,” the man said, kissing the top of my hand.
    “How much do you want for your soul?” I turned to Michael and said, “Did he just cal me Peepers ?”
    “Watch it, Feldman,” Michael said. “This is my sister.”
    “Sister?” Feldman said. “You never told me you had a ravishing sister with Sonica connections.” I immediately had misgivings about Feldman, as I would have misgivings about anyone who dubbed me Peepers. And something about the way his eyes spun around the room reminded me of a propel er. I’m terrified of propel ers. If I’m watching a TV show and there’s a helicopter in the scene, I have to change the channel.
    “Peepers,” Feldman said again, trying to hand me a wad of bil s, “you would do us a big favor getting us mentioned in Sonica .”
    I gave Feldman a look and shoved the money back at him.
    “Come with me.” Michael took my arm. “I want you to
meet the band.” We went into the dressing room. “You already know that guy,” he said, pointing at Paul, who was slumped on a chair, wiping his face with his shirt, staring at the floor and looking spent.
    Michael introduced me to Burke and Angelo, and Burke monopolized the conversation campaigning for basil as a tasty additive to ice cream.
    “Think about it,” he said. “It’s an herb. And mint is an herb. And mint makes a hel of a combo with chocolate.”
    “Chocolate Pesto Chip,” I said. “I think you might have something there.”
    “You’ve gotta meet my girlfriend,” Burke said, galvanized.
    Burke’s girlfriend, Queenie, was a tiny, streetwise girl, with