Page 85 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Complete shit show!” Lenny said.

“What are you talking about?” Howie felt for the bump on the back of his head.

“He doesn’t even know?” Saint D’Norman lifted the pendant flashlight from around his neck to examine Howie’s eyes. Did he have dizziness? No longer. Did he have a ringing in the ears? Nausea? Blurry vision? Fatigue or drowsiness? No. No. Just a teeny bit. No and no.

“I’m fine!” Howie demanded, though he still couldn’t recall why he had such a sense of urgency in his guts. “Tell me what happened at the party.”

Saint D’Norman gave the other two the head nod, clearing the patient.

“It started out lovely.” Dory widened her eyes for emphasis. “But then that flimsy dance floor they put up over the pools collapsed, sending the entire crowd into the toilet.”

“Oy! The way those queens were screaming,” Lenny added, “you’d think someone filled their poppers with pepper spray.”

“How awful,” Howie said, as images of splashing queens conflicted with the lost information he was trying to drag from his mind meat.Something about wings. Was it about a butterfly? A mourning dove? Did I feel the need to buy wingtips?

“They say no one was seriously injured,” Saint D’Norman muttered as he examined Howie’s head bump.

“But they stopped the party just when everyone’s X was peaking,” Lenny added. “Talk about a tragedy. Scotty Black is opening the Promethean early for the after-party.” Lenny arched his one eyebrow. “The greedy bastard upped the entrance fee by five bucks. We were on our way to Chrissy Bluebird’s for drinks, but—”

“But then Saint D’Norman found out some incredible news!” Dory almost squealed, which was unusual for her since she was not a woman who ever,eversquealed. “That’s why we came to find you!”

“Tell me later.” Howie pulled himself to standing with Lenny’s help. “There’s something very important I need to tell you … but I can’t quite remember … Where’s Joe? I think it has to do with Joe.”

“Just fuckin’ shut up for a minute!” Lenny lifted his palm to Howie’s face. “Listen to Saint D’Norman for one friggin’ minute! Please!”

“Fine,” Howie groaned. “Go ahead. But please be quick.”

Saint D’Norman, burdened with a dozen silver chains around his neck, asked for a chair. To lighten his load, he removed his dazzling, five-pound, rhinestone-studded fez.

“The weight of fashion is just too much for me nowadays.” Saint D’Norman sighed and fanned himself. “Perhaps I should have worn a veil instead of the fez.”

“Saint D’Norman, darling”—Dory patted the frail man on the back—“tell Howie about your vision.”

“Ah, yes …” Saint D’Norman wet his teeth with his tongue, which he tended to do when he knew a long explanation was needed. “Well, because I wanted to go to the Promethean tonight, I left the Morning Party early to take a disco nap, so I unfortunately missed the whole floor-collapsing fiasco. But during my nap I kept waking up to take a pee. I’ve got a bladder the size of a Japanese beetle’s. On the way to the toilet, I was hit with a necromanticnausea. You know the sort. Someone from the other side was trying to contact me.”

Howie, suddenly curious, momentarily ceased searching his foggy brain and sat in the chair across the table. He knew never to ignore one of Saint D’Norman’s intestinal telegrams from the netherworld. Before the plague years, he had been considered the Ma Bell of necromancy. “So who was it?”

Before Saint D’Norman could speak, Lenny blurted, “It was fucking Lucho!”

“Lucho?” Howie’s voice cracked.

Lucho, the poor beautiful young man they had lost to the Great Darkness in Provincetown so many years before, the failure that had haunted all their dreams—especially Lenny’s. That Lucho had made an appearance at all was staggering (those taken by the egregore were usually never heard from again), but that he had contacted Saint D’Norman during a disco nap at almost the very moment the dance floor at the Morning Party was collapsing—it couldn’t be just a coincidence.

“Did he say anything about Joe?” Howie cried as bits of their recent conversation started to flicker in his mind.

Saint D’Norman shrugged. “He mentioned someone that might have been Joe, but it wasn’t clear. You know how gay men are, describing everyone as ‘hot.’ But he did say whoever it was, they were the chosen one, and that there is indeed an egregore on the island, so we need to be alert.”

“Maybe Joe’s with Ronnie,” Howie said, stumbling to get up. “Help me up!”

“Why are you getting agita about Joe?” Lenny said, pushing Howie back down. “He doesn’t match the rubric. He’s too young and has the back skin of a Gerber’s baby.” Lenny turned to Saint D’Norman. “Check his heart again.”

As Saint D’Norman pressed his ear to Howie’s chest, fireworks went off inside Howie’s head, obliterating the last vestiges of mental clouds. It all came back to him. His conversation with Joe, the packed suitcase, Joe’s lie about his age. The tossed-away mixtape case. The fanny pack snap. The photo of Elliot.The winged heart.

“He lied!” Howie touched the wound on his head again. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! He matches the rubric completely. He lied about his age. He’s really twenty-nine.”

Saint D’Norman gasped, as did Dory and Lenny (but more subtly).

“Motherfucker,” Lenny said. “But what about the—”

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