Page 33 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Thursty’s already buggy eyes bulged from his head so far that he resembled a rubber novelty toy. “Howie, Lenny, and Max are your housemates?”

Joe was taken aback at how he instantly knew who they were talking about. “Yeah,” he said. “I moved in two and half weeks ago. Although I haven’t met Max yet. I might have to find a new place when he does move back in, but right now I’m staying in their attic.”

“The kid lives in the Picketty Ruff boys’ attic,” Thursty emphasized to the other two Graveyard Girls, who lowered their sunglasses, exposing their own buggy eyes.

“I keep telling him it’s a mistake,” Ronnie said with obvious disdain. “He needs to find a cooler place to live than with those geriatric housemaids, right?”

“Shh!” Thursty’s dime-sized pupils grew to fearful nickels. The sight unnerved Joe and made him wonder why Thursty would have such a reaction. “I wouldn’t be calling the Picketty Ruff boysmaids,” Thursty said. “Not if you’re smart. There are stories, but … never mind.”

All three Graveyard Girls exchanged anxious glances with one another.

“What kind of stories?” Joe finally asked.

After looking toward the back fence, Thursty walked a step closer to Joe. “Well …” He huffed his dead-cat-smelling breath into Joe’s face. “Unpleasant stories.”

Joe shook his head. “No way. Howie and Lenny are the nicest guys I’ve ever met.”

“Or that’s what they want you to believe,” Thursty whispered darkly. “Have you noticed how Howie is constantly offering people little potions or spooky voodoo charms?”

“Wait, seriously?” Ronnie exclaimed.

“Cork it!” Thursty hissed and gestured toward the Picketty Ruff side of the fence. “Sound travels like a bullet around here.”

“So, what’s wrong with Howie giving people good luck charms?” Joe said. “It’s not like they’re hurting anyone.”

“You think so, huh?” Thursty said.

“Tell ’em about Rehoboth,” the mid-sized Graveyard Girl mumbled through the keyhole of his K-hole.

“I don’t really want to hear any more,” Joe fumed. “Let’s get back to our workout, Ronnie.”

“Hold on a minute, Joe,” Ronnie said. “You should know the truth about those guys. So what exactly happened in Rehoboth?”

“If you must know …” Thursty lowered his voice again, but this time adding a Vincent Price–like pacing to his tale. “Several years ago, back in the late seventies—”

“I think it was the mid-seventies,” the shortest Graveyard Girl offered.

“Pipe down!” Thursty snapped. “I’m telling the story!” Then, sotto voce: “So, back in the mid-seventies, their little ‘gang’ was down in Rehoboth for the weekend and showed up at the Pink Alligator disco.”

“The Pink Alligator?” Ronnie said. “Never heard of it, and I’ve been to Rehoboth a dozen times.”

An angry whine trumpeted through Thursty’s nose. “If people would stop interrupting, they might find out why.” He took a breath. “Anyway, Max, Howie, Lenny, and the rest of their group go into the club all dressed in their wild outfits and start dancing in a little circle. Then one of them—I think it was Howie, but it might have been Max—hits on this cute little hunk of rough trade. But the rough tradeisn’t having it. He calls him and his group a bunch of disgusting sissies or something. They complain to the manager. But the manager tells him, ‘This ain’t no drag club.’ Kicksthemall out. They’re furious and an hour later they return. But this time they’re dressed in these weird robes, so the doorman doesn’t recognize them. Then they start doing one of their hocus-pocus, disco witch dances, spinning and flagging and chanting some weird shit—like an incantation.”

While Thursty yammered on, Joe shook his head to show his disbelief in the story.Disco Witches?Absurd. But at the same his head flashed to the image of Lenny doing his “exercise spinning” in the backyard. Gooseflesh crawled up Joe’s arms.

“So after about an hour, Howie and company leave again. Next thing ya know, people start smelling smoke. Sparks start bursting in the wiring over the dance floor. Suddenly, the entire club starts flaming harder than a croquet match between Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly! In just two hours the Pink Alligator is a pile of ash. A dozen queens were charred beyond recognition—including the rough trade who rejected Howie.

“They were accused of starting the fire?” Joe asked.

“Of course not.” Thursty pulled down his pruny eye bag with his pointer finger. “I’m just saying it seems a very big coincidence how that all lined up.” He suddenly looked at his companions. “Fuck, this conversation is completely killing my high.”

“Mine too,” the mid-size Graveyard Girl added.

“It’s like I’ve been saying,” Ronnie said to Joe. “Something’s not right with those guys—especially that Howie.”

“Stop it, Ronnie!” Joe bristled, lowering his voice. “That’s a bullshit story from an obvious drug mess.”

Thursty glared at Joe, but his flash of fury quickly converted into a cowering smile. “The little furball’s probably right.” An anxious quaver filled his voice, as he looked back toward Picketty Ruff. “I’m sure that story is just gossipy bullshit. We adore the Picketty Ruff boys, right, guys?” The other Graveyard Girls nodded their drug-addled bobbleheads. “Do send our regards to the boys for us.” Thursty put on his sunglasses and indicated for his friends to do the same. “We better go take our energy vitamins and get ready to worka triple today. Let’s go, girls. We’ll sleep next week.” Thursty turned the Graveyard Girls around one by one and gave them a stumbling shove toward the gym’s exit.

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