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say about Mikey C? He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. A subtle but real y innovative guitarist who lives and dies by this band.
    His dedication is inspiring, real y. He makes fliers for al the shows, he designed us a website, and he’s polite and friendly to Winkles, which is more than I can say for myself. I respect Caelum. He’s a good guy and I hope we don’t lose him.
    Incidental y, Michael’s sister just moved in with me. Eliza.
    More on Eliza later.
    Angelo, our drummer, is the stereotypical rock star of the band. He drinks like a sailor on leave, has a penchant for wel -endowed co-eds, and bears a strong resemblance to a serial kil er named Richard Ramirez—you know, that goddamn Night Stalker guy. Believe it or not, this makes him a real hit with the ladies.
    The Michaels and I, along with my manager, Tony Feldman, had met with the tardy Winkle twice before. The first time, he came to a show and made us a bunch of promises that got our hopes up. Second time he took us to a big industry party and got us drunk. But Winkle’s eyebrows look like caterpil ars trapped in cocoons, and I’m pretty sure someone catching bugs over their eyes can’t be trusted.
    Needless to say, the guy gives off a bad vibe. Being around him inflames my pancreas like nothing else. But the multimedia company that employs him happens to be the same company my favorite band, the Drones, signed to. The Drones are Winkle’s big claim to fame. He discovered them in a garage in Fresno and a year later their first record went platinum. So did their next two. And they’re no walk in the park. They’re fuzzy How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59 PM Page 37
    guitars, feedback, and electronic experimentation, not the breezy pop music that’s been saturating the airwaves, so their success is no smal coup, believe me. Very little of the good shit ever makes its way into the mainstream.
    When Winkle final y walked in, he craned around the restaurant like an ostrich until he found me. As he approached the table, I detected a look of surprise on his face. Standing above us, he eyed the Michaels like they were part of a police lineup and said he didn’t realize we were al going to be there.
    The waiter came over to take our order. I wanted chicken fingers but he said they were on the kids’ menu and apparently you have to be twelve or under to eat strips of fried chicken. The guy even had the bal s to ask me how old I was. Winkle slipped him two twenties and a ten and said: “He’s fifty. Bring him his chicken.”
    After that, Winkle stood up and said—and this is his exact voice, like he has a dozen rocks in his throat—“Gentlemen, would you excuse me and Mr. Hudson for a few minutes?” He looked at me, and the little imprisoned caterpil ars straightened into one long chrysalis. “Let’s you and I go have a drink.” I gave the Michaels an iffy look and fol owed Winkle to the farthest corner of the bar.
    “You’ve got an incredible voice,” he said. “And some great songs. Real y powerful stuff.”
    I thanked him and tried to convince myself the bad feeling I had was just nerves.
    “I’m ready to offer you a deal,” he said. “Right here, right now.”
    My heart pounded like a bongo drum, the kind of beat you can feel from your head to your toes, and strangely enough, the first thoughts that ran through my mind involved my new roommate. I imagined sprinting up the stairs, bursting into the apartment to tel her the band had just signed a record contract. Her cheeks would be flushed like they’d been this
3morning from running. Her skin would be warm and salty. She would throw her arms around me and kiss me and then she would drag me to the ground and we would do it like dogs on the kitchen floor.
    “However,” Winkle said, knocking me out of my little insta-fantasy as I began anticipating some sort of ludicrous stipulation I desperately hoped I could live with.
    Then he goes: “We only want you.”
    My stare stayed total y