Page 21 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Hold on there,” Vince said. “Joe and I want to buy you a drink for the great job you did with the redecoration. Place looks pure class. Joe, get the lady a drink!”

“That’s okay,” Elena said. “I’m good—”

“Come on!” Joe said, not wanting to be left alone with Vince. “Let us buy you a beer at least!” He pulled their three most expensive beers from the cooler and set them on the bar. “We got Heineken, Corona, Amstel even! What’ll it be? Have all three if you want.”

Elena stared at the three icy, sweaty bottles for what seemed to Joe an unusually long time. “I really … um … can’t,” she said, anxiously throwing her decorating materials in a bag. “But that’s really sweet of you. I have to go to a meet—to meet some friends. But that beer looks really good … I mean wet and all. Okay, I’ll check in later. Good luck tonight. Bye!” She blew a kiss to Joe and bolted out the door.

“Well, she was certainly in a hurry,” Vince said, puzzling his brow.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “I hope she’s okay, and nothing bad is going on.”

“Not really our business.” Vince slammed the limes on the counter. “Whatisour business is this bar, which is opening”—he looked at the merman clock—“in exactly one hour and forty-three minutes. Now, Joseph, do you think you can relieve at least some of my terror by showing me you’ve memorized the order of the speed rack?”

“Um, I think so …”

“Don’tthink, Joseph.Know!Now let’s see it!”

Joe stared at the bottles on the bar top as if they were nine brawny Irish thugs about to shove his head down a toilet. “Is it … rum, vodka, brandy …?”

Vince pinched his eyes like he was in pain. “What in Christ’s name am I going to do with you? Memory is a bartender’s most important skill.” His voice ached with frustration. “You need to remember customers’ names, what they regularly drink, whether or not they paid their tab, whether they earned a shot after their third drink—and you need to remember all that while you’re making two drinks and serving a third and setting up the goddamn speed rack like I taught you!” He slammed his fist on the bar top, causing Joe to jump.

“For Chrissake, Vince!” Joe snapped. “I swear to God I’m trying my best, but you’ve been running me like crazy and acting like a dick, and I’ve barely had any sleep in the last week, and I’m …” He stopped himself. No way did he want to cry in front of Vince.

“Okay, okay. You’re right.” Vince sighed and softened. “I’m being an ass. I’m sorry. The thing is, we just have to make sure we’re offering, hands down, the best bar service in the Pines.”

Exasperated, Joe looked around at the shabby bar. Even with Elena’s Herculean decoration efforts, she was right; the bar couldn’t be made into anything more than what it was: a booze-serving, sleazy shoebox.

“Why? Will it really matter that much?”

“It will, Joseph, it will. You see, Scotty Black—that same shoibag who made us do the load-in from the other side of the harbor this morning, the same putrid turd who lied about giving you a job out here—has been scheming to shut down Asylum Harbor for good.”

That must’ve been the “situation” he and Dory had been talking about. “But doesn’t he earn money from Dory renting the space?”

“He does, plus a percentage of the till. But he claims having an unpopular bar in the harbor hurts his other businesses. And there’s a clause in their agreement that says Scotty can cancel Dory’s lease if Asylum Harbor doesn’t turn a profit for at least two of the four months we’re open. So, my point is, it’ll take all our charm, looks, and outstanding service to convince these early season lads to stick with us through the summer. If we don’t, then Asylum Harbor closes, Dory’s heart breaks, and you and I will be out on the boardwalk begging for our supper. Now do you understand?”

Joe nodded.

“Good, good. That’s grand. But in order to provide top-quality service so we can stay open, you’re going to need to start remembering things, starting with”—he slammed a bottle from the speed rack back onto the counter—“how to set up the feckin’ speed rack like a bartender and not a bloody eejit!”

“Why you calling my buddy an idiot?” Ronnie called out from the doorway. He wore a sleeveless denim shirt unbuttoned to his belly button,Playgirlmodel style.

“I can’t talk now, Ronnie,” Joe called from the bar, not wanting to piss Vince off again. “We’re in the middle of something—”

“Just a quick flyby.” Ronnie tossed Vince one of his top-shelf seductive smiles. “Hey, Sid McVicious, you better be nice to my Joey.”

Joe watched as the Irishman narrowed his eyes to cold green slits, a wolf ready to devour a wounded deer.This is it,Joe thought.He’s gonna explode.

“Who the feck are you?” Vince’s voice turned into a low leonine rumble.

“The name’s Ronnie Kaminsky. I’m Joe’s happiness mentor and bodyguard. Who thefeckare you?” The Irish brogue attempt made Vince smile—something Joe barely ever saw.

“You can call me Vince, but what in Saint Agnes’s tit is ahappiness mentor?”

“It just means I guide people to become their best selves.” Ronnie sauntered into the center of the bar. “Really my main job is being Joe’s best friend.”

“Are ya now? I will say I’m surprised wee Joseph here has any friends other than the sparrows and bunnies singing circles around him in the meadows.”

“Don’t take my buddy for granted,” Ronnie said. “He may look like an adorable, furry Disney character, but he’s got a killer’s instinct.”

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