Page 4 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Dragging his duffel over to the lone pay phone in the harbor, he picked up the receiver before realizing he had neither change nor aphone number he could call. If Ronnie even had a phone; it was unlikely he’d be listed in any directory yet. Hanging up, Joe looked back toward the landing, wondering when the ferry would return to the mainland and whether he should return with it. Just then, he saw two funny-looking older men arrive at the dock and begin loading boxes into their two extra-large wagons. The taller of the two wore an old-fashioned maroon bathrobe and a Yankees baseball cap decorated with fake flowers on the brim. His long silver hair was tied in a ponytail that hung from the back of his cap. His wrists, fingers, and neck were heavily adorned with silver jewelry, including what looked like an entire catalog of religious icons—an Irish cross, a Hamsa, an ankh, a ying-yang symbol, a tree of life, and a winged heart with an Islamic crescent moon and star in its center. His shorter friend resembled a pint-sized member of the Village People, wearing black leather chaps and vest, with just a rim of dark hair around his bald pate and a little mustache dyed coal black.

The man in the maroon bathrobe looked at Joe with an overly familiar gaze. “Young man! Are you okay? You appear lost!”

He had a warm singsongy voice with an accent that was distinctly New York but with an almost fake mid-Atlantic twang—Katherine Hepburn if she had been born in Queens. His warm and silly presence instantly made Joe feel calmer.

“I’m okay!” Joe said as he walked ten paces closer so they could stop yelling. “Where are all the people?”

“It’s too early in the season,” the funny tall man said. “In just a few weeks, you won’t recognize the place. Is it your first time?”

“It is.”

“How wonderful! I’m Howard Fishbein, but everyone calls me Howie.” He pointed to his little bald friend. “This is one of my housemates, Lenny D’Amico. Beneath his tough leather-man exterior is a very small, wounded heart of gold … with a stent.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Joe Agabian.”

Howie whispered something to Lenny, who angrily whispered something back. Then Howie said to Joe, “Are you absolutely sure you don’t need help?”

Joe scanned the harbor again. Still no sign of Ronnie or the hot Gladiator Man—or anyone else for that matter. “Um … I guess Icoulduse some help. You wouldn’t know a guy named Ronnie Kaminski, would you? He moved here last week?”

“You mean the tall hottie with long blonde hair?” Lenny asked with a voice like a nasally Brillo pad. “The one who dresses like a college jock and looks like a Chippendales stripper?”

“That’s him.” Joe laughed. “He’s bartending at the Promethean—”

“You must be mistaken,” Howie said. “If it’s who we think, he’s cleaning rooms over at the Flotel.”

“The Flotel?” Joe said, perplexed as to why they’d ask a bartender to clean. “Is that a different bar?”

“The FlotelMotel,” Lenny said. “Your buddy is the housekeeper. We saw him picking up cleaning supplies yesterday at Mulligan’s Grocery. Howie and I clean houses out here too—among other things.”

Anxious bees swarmed inside Joe’s chest. “But he’s supposed to be bartending.”

Howie squinted his eyes again. “Bluish-indigo … hmm. Curious.”

“What’s wrong?” Joe looked to see if anything was on his shirt.

“Oh, nothing,” Howie said, looking like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “By the way, Joe, what age would you be?”

Joe had no idea why Howie was asking him his age or looking at him so strangely. He almost blurted out his real age, but then, with the island being so small, he thought it best to continue with the lie he had told Ronnie. “I just turned twenty-four in March,” he said.

“No, that doesn’t feel right.” Howie shook his head at Joe’s response. “So strange.”

“I told you,” Lenny mumbled to Howie, then nudged Joe’s arm to get his attention. “So, you gonna be working out here too?”

“Yeah. We both came out here from Philly to bartend at the Promethean.”

“Two hot cheesesteaks fromPhilly, huh?” Lenny imbued his words with extra salaciousness and then snorted. “I’ll tell the island medic to stock up on penicillin.”

Howie shot him a withering look. “Let me apologize for my crude housemate. He’s a bit like the tiniest of kidney stones—can be extremely painful but eventually will pass. As for your friendRonnie, check the Flotel, room number one around back. That’s where the porter usually sleeps.”

“Which hotel is the Flotel Motel exactly?” Joe asked.

“There’s only one hotel, my dear.” He pointed down the left side of the harbor toward a shabby, three-story, cinder-block structure painted blue and white. “You can’t miss it.”

“That’s a hotel?” Joe grimaced. “It’s pretty … um …”

“Bleak?” Howie said, nodding. “With all the charm of a lobotomy.”

“The greedy bastard who owns it still charges a fortune,” Lenny added.

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