Page 54 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“I already have!” Joe snapped. “So can we just stop talking about him!”

“Sure, sure,” Ronnie said. “Take a chill pill.”

As they continued down the Boulevard, Joe couldn’t stop thinking about how lame he had acted with Fergal.I should have just pretended like I barely remembered him. Or maybe I should have said something like, “Hey there, Fergal. What’s up? Good to see ya. Nice day for a jog. Me? Well, I’m just headed to another swanky party, and I haven’t even noticed how much you hate me, or that you’re not wearing a shirt and you look so goddamn cute in those jogging shorts with those sexy, sweaty hairy legs, while I’m standing here barely able to speak in this douchebag mint-blue polo that I nearly bankrupted myself to buy and …” Ugh!Joe wished he hadn’t ever agreed to go to the stupid party. Then he never would’ve run into Fergal. He should have just stayed up his attic room and slept. Butfive minutes later, when they arrived at the massive gateway to the Taj MaHomo, his attitude shifted.

“Holy shit,” Joe said, his eyes widening at the sheer size of it.

“Not bad, huh?” Ronnie said proudly. “Remember, class acts say things like, ‘You did a lovely job’ or ‘I saw a chaise like that at Bloomingdale’s.’ ”

The huge property was surrounded by extremely tall bamboo trees and a twelve-foot-high wooden fence, creating a lush and mysterious barrier. The only hint of a house seen from the boardwalk was the Japanese-style wooden shingles atop a widow’s walk that towered over the other surrounding houses.

Ronnie announced himself through an intercom. A moment later the door opened automatically. The verdant bamboo garden surrounded a massive, three-story beach mansion, most of which was made entirely of glass, with a central core created from (according to Ronnie) aged koa wood from the Big Island of Hawaii. It was the most beautiful and elegant house Joe had ever seen. Wooden walkways through the trees crossed a series of artificial waterfalls and small ponds roiling with hundreds of koi, their bodies speckled orange, white, and black.

“Wow!” Joe said. “This is incredible. Or, should I say, um, he did a lovely job.”

“Yeah,” Ronnie said, the color draining from his face.

“Are you okay?” Joe realized that since Trey had been staying at a friend’s condo during construction, Ronnie hadn’t fully understood until then just how opulent the house would be or just how rich of a “rich boyfriend” Trey actually was. But now, he did. Trey was really, really,reallyrich.

“Yeah … I mean it’s a nice place,” Ronnie said, his voice catching nervously. Then, back to his old bravado. “I’ve seen bigger.”

“I haven’t,” Joe whispered.

They followed the little wooden path around the house to the sprawling back deck that featured an elegant, cerulean-tiled pool. Although he saw no sign of recognizable celebrities (unless Frankie Fabulous qualified, since he was everywhere) there were plenty of pastel-wearing, Rolex-sporting men in their forties and fifties wholooked like they might have starred in aftershave commercials in their youth. He and Ronnie were the only working stiffs at the party—minus the guys actually working, who all had been shipped in from Manhattan. Then Joe noticed something strange.

“Ronnie?” Joe whispered. “Everyone is staring at us and whispering.” He glared at his friend. “We were actually invited, right?”

“Yes, wewereinvited,” Ronnie said. “Geez. We’re just younger and good-looking. They’re older and richer. Just act like you don’t notice and be cool. That’s it.” A minute later he elbowed Joe’s arm. “Don’t look, but that guy by the giant fern works for the mayor of New York City. Isaiddon’t look. The guy talking to him is this big artist out in the Hamptons, and the one over by the punch bowel is …”

As Ronnie kept pointing out the bigwigs, Joe did his best to both look and not look. “What about him?” Joe tossed his chin toward a shorter man holding court with a bevy of men surrounding him. “Who’s that guy?”

“Are you serious? He’s that record producer who’s, like, best friends with Tom Cruise and John Travolta. Worth millions. We flirted once. But he was dating this hot Olympic diver.”

Ronnie explained that the men at the party were the sort who spent their summers visiting each other’s newly renovated beach houses for supper parties, or pool lounging, rarely rubbing elbows with the less affluent renters—certainly no bartenders or hotel porters. Catching himself staring too much, Joe looked over at the catering table piled high with shrimp cocktails, caviar, giant wheels of cheese, salamis, quiches, olives (with and without pimentos), and tropical fruits. Nothing had been touched. It seemed to Joe as if everyone was waiting for some elegant bell to ring so they could dig in.

“Jesus!” Joe whispered to Ronnie. “Look at that spread. I’m starving.”

“Don’t you dare.” Ronnie grabbed Joe’s wrist. “We can’t eat until everyone is eating.”

“Can’t we grab just one shrimp or something—”

“Trey!” Ronnie cried out, waving his arm to someone several feet behind Joe.

“Ronnie!” the man called back, with a jovial New England drawl. “There you are!”

“Remember,” Ronnie hissed at Joe, “don’t gush and don’t touch the food.”

Trey Winkle bore little physical resemblance to Ronnie’s description. Sure, Joe conceded, he was handsome enough, with perfect, Vitalis-slick, salt-and-pepper hair, blindingly white teeth like sculpted Chiclets, and a surgically perfect nose, but there was an uncanny quality to him. While Trey was reportedly in his mid-forties, he looked to Joe like some high school class president done up in old-age makeup for the Spring production ofArsenic and Old Lace.

“There they are!” Trey greeted Ronnie with a firm handshake and lingering kiss on the cheek. It was as if he wanted to demonstrate possession but didn’t want to be tawdry about it.

“Trey, this is my best buddy I told you about.” Ronnie slapped Joe on the back as if they were football players in a Catalina porn video. “Joe Agabian.”

“I certainly have heard a ton about you!” Trey gushed, shaking Joe’s hand firmly. “But Ronnie didn’t do you justice. Look at that sexy smile—and those eyebrows! He says you’re from Philadelphia?”

“Well, really I grew up just outside Philly,” Joe said.

“You don’t say!” Trey said. “The Main Line?”

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