Joe pulled on a T-shirt and gym shorts, but as he was headed downstairs, he stopped at the padlocked crawl space and got on his knees to peek through the crack in the door. He saw nothing but shadows and a glint of light on the floor. He pressed his nose against the space under the door and sniffed. Beyond the usual scents of cedarwood, dust, and cardboard boxes, he detected a faint, familiar, smoky odor. If only he could get inside.

“What are you doing?” Howie’s voice cried out. Joe’s body jolted. He then realized Howie was yelling at Lenny downstairs, from the base of the ladder. “We don’t have a lot of time!”

Joe jumped up and quickly clambered downstairs. Howie was indeed in more of a dither than usual, scribbling a list on the back of an envelope and wearing his shockingly “hetero” “ready-to-go-over-to-the-mainland” Mets cap and jacket. “Breeder drag,” Lenny had once called it.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Howie said to Joe. “How was the bar last night?”

“Great.” Joe grabbed the bagel that Lenny had obviously left out for him. “It was packed. Vince even sounded optimistic about us staying open. What’s going on? Did something happen?”

“I’m afraid Lenny and I have to scoot over to Sayville to do some shopping for a last-minute soirée Dusty Jacobson decided to throw Monday night.”

“On Memorial Day?” Joe asked. “One of your high holy days?”

“Indeed it is,” Howie said glumly. “Alas, there’s an even higher and holier day that we callpayday. The gig will cover expenses for a month. Stores are closed Sundays, so we have to head over today. The Great Goddess Mother will understand. We need last minute decorations for a sexy merman theme. Which means nets, glass balls, and a mermaid costume that can fit a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound Bulgarian stripper—I’ll need to whip that up myself of course. Oy! Johnny Weissmuller meets Esther Williams madness! We’ll be back in about three hours, so hold the fort down—”

“Howie, enough with the blabbing!” Lenny said, rushing from his room. “We don’t want to miss the boat!” He turned off the stereo and carefully returned the cassette to the shelf. “Joey, I left you some meatballs and gravy in the fridge for your dinner. But like I keep saying, now that we’re stuck with you for the summer you gotta learn to cook for yourself. Capeesh?”

“Got it,” Joe said.

“Good,” Lenny said, rushing out the door. “But don’t cook anything until Wednesday, ’cause I’m gonna roast a leg of lamb—”

“Lenny!” Howie screamed at the screen door. “The boat!”

A moment later the house was deathly quiet. Joe suddenly realized it was the first time he’d be completely alone in the house for that long—no disco music, no housemates watching his every move, no threat of a surprise return. Joe’s limbs began to tremble with excitement. If he was going to find out what was inside the crawl space, that three-hour window was the time.

“The one thing we ask here is that we all respect one another’s private spaces,” Howie had told him the first day he had moved in. If they discovered him prying, he might be kicked out. But he needed to find out what they were hiding in there. Was it proof that could confirm or deny the Graveyard Girls’ horrific accusations? And if Joe was going to be called a Picketty Ruff boy, wasn’t it only fair he knew the truth?

The only thing was, to get into the crawl space, he’d need a key.

20.Saint D’Norman

“All that we are is within the twirl, all that we see is within the twirl, all connection is within the twirl. Praise the Great Goddess Mother! The sacred twirl will open your eyes, but only if you’re looking inward. If you look outward, you will fall.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #7

The last time Saint D’Norman had visited the clinic about a sick stomach, his new doctor, a young, straight GI resident, was not very friendly and seemed uncomfortable seeing a patient with AIDS. Then, without even touching him, he offered some rote advice about avoiding coffee, alcohol, spicy foods, and any strenuous activity. When Saint D’Norman asked if that included dancing, the doctor said, “Yes. Why would someone your age and condition be out dancing anyway? It’s time you stayed home and rested.” Then he showed him the door.

On his way out, Saint D’Norman flashed his smile at the young resident, and said, “No dancing, huh? Kiss my ass, you arrogant, know-nothing, latex-loving motherfucker. You’re fired.”

As a flamboyant child raised in the less than accepting neighborhood of 1960s South Central Los Angeles, dancing was little Donny Norman’s way of mentally escaping from a world in which he just didn’t fit. When he was seventeen, he’d finally escaped for real, with a cross-country bus ticket, all the way to Greenwich Village and the dance floors of Manhattan. There he met his truefamily and turned into the fabulous Saint D’Norman, the snapping, popping, bumping, twirling disco witch sensation.

Off the dance floor, he became a registered nurse. He had always had a gift for healing, inherited from his West African great-grandmother, and Cherokee great-great-grandfather. The most vital thing he learned during his decades of nursing was that losing hope was one of the worst things that could happen to a patient. No way was he going to let any doctor (or Miss AIDS herself) make him lose hope—or the chance to dance.

When the crisis first started, the ravaged bodies of three of Saint D’Norman’s former lovers walked into the hospital where he was working. Seeing them there, looking like that, told him all he needed to know—he had the virus too. He vowed to do his darnedest not to get sick himself, and for the next five years he kept that promise. Dance, he believed, was one of the practices that kept him strong.

But just being infected with the virus still took its toll, even before he got any of the opportunistic infections. First, he lost his job at the hospital, then his beloved West Village apartment, and finally even his ability to afford a summer share in the Pines. Without a place on the island, he couldn’t help with the coven’s most important summer work, and with so many sick or dying, they needed him desperately. Lucky for everyone, Dory had been more than happy to offer Saint D’Norman a free place at her house on Ocean Walk. Not wanting to feel like a parasite, Saint D’Norman “volunteered” (with pay) to work as Dory’s off-the-books major domo. He loved feeling useful again, and the more than decent pay allowed him to venture into the city to buy sparkly new dance outfits, although the opportunities to wear them had grown fewer. But like Max always told him, a disco witch always needed to be prepared. This was why Saint D’Norman decided to wear a shimmering turquoise caftan for that afternoon’s twirling practice.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” he said to the empty deck as he pressed “Play” on the high-end boombox Dory had given him. A moment later “Boogie Wonderland” by Earth, Wind & Firestarted to fill the warm air with pure bliss. Then, as he had been taught so long ago, Saint D’Norman crossed his arms over his upper chest and slowly began to spin in a counterclockwise direction, gradually raising his arms, his right palm lifted toward the heavens, his left palm downward toward the earth. Besides reinvigorating his attitude and getting exercise (fuck that doctor!), Saint D’Norman was using the sacred twirl to see if he could hook up a connection to the Great Goddess Mother. He was hoping to gain the clarity Howie had been seeking with that lame-ass, long-distance-boogie spell he’d tried over the phone.Howie-girl needs to do some spinning herself and clear that too-busy-for-her-own-good head of hers.

After a few minutes of spinning, some flickers began behind his eyelids. A memory was trying to push through. He put his twirl into high gear, spinning like a dreidel on the ball of his left foot. Bit by bit, word by word, the memory started to grow brighter until it was like a billboard in front of his face.Max’s rubric. There it is, clear as day.

Saint D’Norman stumbled out of his spin. He knew Howie and Lenny were about to head over to Sayville on the 1:55PMferry. He had just enough time to catch them and tell them everything.Just wait until those queens hear this!

21.Howie’s Room

“Disco Witches respect the private spheres of their brothers and sisters. Unless granted permission, no one wants someone else’s dirty fingers on their magic wands.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #86