Page 7 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Unlike the predominant natural wood tones or pale neutrals of the other houses in the Pines, 44 and¼Picketty Ruff was the color of dried blood. To approach the front door one had to cross a ten-foot bridge over a moatlike drainage ditch and pass through a small gate that slammed closed like a gunshot, scattering the crows sitting in the nearby holly tree. On the front door was an ornate wreath with a laminated photo of Edith Piaf at its center.

Before Joe could even lift his hand to knock, he heard Howie’s voice sing out from within, “Joe’s here!” A second later the door opened to reveal Howie in a flowery caftan, beaming. “Come right on in, Joe! Take a seat. Relax—I’ll make us a snack.”

At first, the house’s decor reminded Joe of his late Aunt Vartu’s with all its mismatched 1970s colonial-style furniture and too many tchotchkes. But then he started to notice the differences, like the arty male nude photos and how the wall hangings and bric-a-brac, like much of the jewelry Howie wore, were mostly of religious icons from around the world: the elephant god Ganesha; the emaciated, fasting Buddha; one that looked half bird, half human; a bevy of extra-bloodyChristian martyrs; a goddess with snakes clutched in her upraised fists; and many more. Along with all this religious Grand Guignol kitsch, the stereo was blasting a cassette of 1970s-era disco music.

Lenny sat on a shabby, flower-patterned sofa, his eyes glued to Joe since the moment he walked in.

“Nice music,” Joe lied, hoping to make a good impression.

“Do you like it?” Howie hollered from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Joe lied again. “It’s great dinner music.”

“It’s actually morning music,” Lenny corrected. “We’re just starting late today.”

“Oh,” Joe said. “Wow, that’ll sure wake you up.”

“That particular track is ‘La Vie en Rose’ by Grace Jones. DJ Robbie Leslie finished his set with it at the 1978 Black Party at approximately eight thirty in the morning.”

“Wow.” Joe’s eyes widened. “You remember that?”

Lenny raised one eyebrow. “I remember everything.” He gestured to the shelves of bookcases lined with hundreds of homemade cassette tapes. “We keep bootleg recordings of all our favorite dance parties.”

To demonstrate his enthusiasm and hopefully get on Lenny’s good side, Joe looked through the cassettes, nodding and mmm-hmming. Unlike Elliot’sLove Songs 1, Howie and Lenny’s mixtapes were decorated with colorful ink drawings and handwritten calligraphic titles likeBeach Mix, 1979;DJ Roy Thode, the Saint, Opening Night, 1981; andDJ Leslie, the Saint Finale, May 2, 1988; that particular tape’s insert had hand-painted gold stars, moons, and a gravestone that said “R.I.P.”

“You really went to all those parties?” Joe gushed. “That must’ve been something else.” He felt slimy, faking it like that. The truth was, he had been totally clueless about music until he’d met Elliot, whose passion for the topic had been infectious. Joe found himself liking anything Elliot liked, from blues to contemporary rock, to world music and folk. Rikki Lee, Joni Mitchell, Pat Metheny. But when it came to dance music, Elliot had decidedly been of the “disco-sucks” school of thought. Joe had followed suit. But at that moment, to avoid sleeping on Ronnie’s cold floor, he’d need to feigndisco fandom. “This collection is seriously rad. All the greats. I really appreciate you letting me crash here.”

“Who said we’d decided?” Lenny snipped. “Me and Howie have to have a little discussion first.” He lowered his voice, leaning in toward Joe. “You know, our best friend, Max, will be coming out here eventually, so don’t even think about trying to steal his spot. Capeesh?”

“I’m not here to steal anything.” A ball of fear filled Joe’s stomach. If he lost this opportunity, he’d be condemned to Ronnie’s pneumonia-inducing floor—and even that wasn’t a guarantee. “It would just be temporary. I promise.”

“That’s what they all say.” Lenny’s nasally whisper rose in irritation. “I know how you pretty boys like to roll.”

“Pretty boy?” If he hadn’t been so desperate, Joe would have laughed out loud. “I have no idea what you think I’m trying to do, but—”

“Oh, sure, play dumb, but if you think you’re gonna—”

A large metal spoon smashed into the sink, startling Joe while Lenny fell silent. Howie rushed into the living room, his maroon bathrobe flying behind him, slamming down a plate of Hickory Farms cheese logs, grapes, and Ritz crackers on the coffee table.

“Leonardo Gennaro Vincenzo D’Amico!” he shouted, wagging his finger. “You’re being your mother again!”

Lenny shrugged, scrunching what little neck he had, looking guilty. “I was just—”

Howie put his hand up to silence him. “As I said. You and I will talk and then decide. Meanwhile, Joseph darling, just ignore our bad seed here. She takes time to warm up to folks—”

“Said the necrophiliac,” Lenny muttered.

Joe laughed, more out of nerves and a desire to win him over.

“Don’t bother humoring him,” Howie said. “Lenny’s Sicilian. He hates change.” Then, to Lenny, “Joe wouldn’t be staying in Max’s room anyway. Both of you, follow me!”

Howie opened what looked like a closet door between the kitchen and bathroom and pulled down a ladder. As he climbed, he hummed the melody to “Try to Remember” fromThe Fantasticks, singing out the words, “Follow, follow, follow!”

Remembering Ronnie’s warning, Joe wondered if cannibals sang show tunes.

“Go on, no point in wasting time,” Lenny said in an ominous whisper—or that’s how Joe heard it. “Follow, like she just sang. Howie always gets his way.”

Joe warily climbed up the ladder. As soon as he stepped into the attic, he was instantly hit with a burst of sauna-hot air. It smelled of cedar, dusty old insulation, and something else he couldn’t name but vaguely recalled smelling before. There were shelves and boxes everywhere, and the walls and beams were covered with framed vintage photographs.

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