Page 73 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Trey Winkle and the hot, sad hotel maid,” one of his friends mumbled to the other with a smirk. “Very E. M. Forster. Well done!”

“Rough trade is delicious,” the other friend slurred salaciously. “Then again, from what I’ve heard, Ron’s moonlighting does make him a little moreFanny HillthanMaurice.”

Ronnie didn’t get the literary reference, but Joe did, having heard Howie mention the erotic novel about an eighteenth-century English prostitute. While Trey and his friends laughed, Ronnie tried to feebly join in, thinking he was saving face, which made the whole thing worse. That did it for Joe. He pulled down the Grey Goose and set it on the sink, out of view. He filled the tumbler instead with the cheap Popov, some vermouth, and then squeezed his dirty bar rag into the mixture. He shook the tumbler with a flourish and poured its contents into conical glasses.

“Here’s your drinks, gentlemen,” Joe said, adding the olives. “Extra dirty.”

Then he handed Trey back only twenty dollars change from his hundred-dollar bill.

“Um,” Trey said, looking at the twenty. “This is my change? For three drinks?”

“Ah.” Joe quickly swiped the twenty back out of Trey’s hand. “That’s so nice of you to donate the rest to ACT UP,” he shouted loudly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind giving me some space. I do have other customers. So, ya know, make like your love life and beat it.”

Trey and his friends all looked as if a human-sized, brown-eyed Armenian pigeon had just shit on their heads.

“I’d watch yourself,” Trey said through a gritted smile. “I have no problem speaking to the management of this shitty little bar. I’m a homeowner in this community, and my partner sits on the Pines Homeowners Association Board.”

“Just forget about it, Trey,” Ronnie interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t be a dick.”

“A dick?” Trey snarled, his drunken eyes turning to rage, his voice rising to almost a shout. “That’s rich coming from you! They aren’t making hustlers as grateful as they used to … or as honest! Do we want to talk about that bag of party supplies you stole from me?”

Ronnie’s face turned the color of grenadine. Joe sensed that whatever Trey was saying was probably true. Still, he wanted to shove the lemon knife into his throat.

“That does it,” Joe snapped. “Get out!”

“We’ll go when we want, Falafel Crotch!” Trey snapped. “We paid a lot of money to be at this silly event. I’m sure Mr. Kaminski here got comped. Unless, of course, one of his hotel tricks paid his entrance fee in return for special service. Any deep cleaning duties lately, Ron?”

Before Joe could respond, a stainless-steel cocktail shaker full of white liquor and ice came rocketing across the bar, crashing on the countertop, and violently splashing its contents all over Trey and his friends. A second later, Vince reached across the counter with his flexed tattooed arm, grabbed Trey by the upturned collar of his lime-green Izod shirt, and held his face within an inch of his own.

“Look here, ya feckin’ chiseler!” he yelled loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “I think you should be careful talking shite about anyone on this island, considering most of us know how you got that house and your money. And you better make the best of it because rumor is your meal ticket is planning to ditch your saggy arse. Now, leave this establishment before I test out my new Doc Martens on those pretty capped teeth of yours. Get me?”

“Let go of me,” Trey hissed. “You have no right—”

“The hell I don’t!” Vince shoved the man so hard he fell back into the crowd.

“Just wait until I talk to the owner of this bar!” Trey yelled as he stood back up.

“I’m the owner!” The crowd parted as Dory stepped calmly up to Trey, a hint of a smile on her face. “Vince here is the manager. Whatever he says goes. Joe, hand ’em a takeaway cup for their drinks.” Joe did as she asked. “Now,” she said, sharpening her sweet, shining black eyes into deadly daggers. “Like the man said, get the fuck out ofourbar.”

Trey Winkle and company, red-faced and fuming, shoved their way out of the bar and down the steps.

“Sorry about that, Dory,” Vince said, finally cooling off.

“No apology necessary, honey. Those turncoat Reagan Republicans have always been trash. I’ve been fighting his racist partner on the homeowner’s association board for years. Now, Joe, turn up the music, and let’s keep this party going.”

Joe stooped to adjust the stereo volume, and when he stood up, Vince and Ronnie were whispering to each other. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but fifteen minutes later, after arranging with Fergal to cover for him, Vince walked Ronnie out the back door with his arm around him like he might never let him go.

37.The Truth

“In the time of the Great Darkness, we search for the truth. Upon finding it, we rejoice … except when we don’t.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #17

Joe lay on his bed and stared at the moon through the slats of the attic vent. His body vibrated with the day’s lingering excitement—Ronnie and Vince getting back together, the ACT UP benefit bringing in triple what they’d hoped, and Trey Winkle receiving the comeuppance he deserved. It was like Christmas, and every box under the tree was for him. The absolute best present, of course, was when Fergal kissed Joe in front of the entire bar,claiming himas his boyfriend. It was perfect.

Joe listened as the downstairs shower whooshed. He imagined Fergal’s wet body, water dripping off his eyelashes, his lips, down his hairy legs. Joe’s cock pushed against the cotton of his Fruit of the Looms. Fergal had kept him company the whole evening until he finished his shift. By eleven fifteen, Fergal had been so tipsy on Joe’s strong cocktail inventions that he’d missed the last ferry. And this time it was Fergal who suggested spending the night together—with no warnings about hard-ons keeping them awake. And despite Vince’s arbitrary superstition about fourth dates, their longing for each other appeared undiminished.

The sound of the shower stopped. Joe grabbed the phallic-shaped bottle of Pierre Cardin cologne and aimed it at his throat, then stopped. Getting a mouthful of perfume is never sexy. Was there a spot on his body he didn’t want Fergal to kiss? No, no there was not. Joe returned the bottle to its spot, unused.

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