Chapter 18
18.
The Graveyard Girls
“When not dancing, practice your twirling, make love, read books, nap, have your best friend over to bake cookies and try on outfits.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #79
The Fire Island Pines Muscle-Up Gym was set on the large outdoor patio between the Flotel Motel and the back of the Promethean dance club. Half-rusted exercise equipment lay jumbled across the concrete as if it was the detritus from Jack LaLanne’s flooded basement. Joe lay on a bench finishing a second set of grueling chest presses while Ronnie stood over him like a drill sergeant.
“Okay, let’s go—one more set!” Ronnie barked. “No pain! No gain!”
“Come on!” Joe said, huffing and puffing. “Just give me a break for, like, five minutes.”
“No way. I’ll give you forty-five seconds.”
“Okay. Great,” Joe said, figuring how he might stretch the break longer. “By the way, I wanted to ask you how your plan to get revenge on Vince is going. What did you say a couple of weeks ago? Oh, right, you said, ‘I’m going to give him the lay of his life and then ignore him.’ If I’m not mistaken, you two have been sleeping together almost every night since.”
“Yo, keep it down.” Ronnie lowered his voice. “You’re the only one who knows about us, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Why? You seem to really like each other. And he’s been in a heck of a better mood since you two started dating.” Joe thought about how Vince had stopped yelling at Joe every time he hadn’t cut up enough lemons, and how Joe had even heard Vince humming a Lionel Richie song while wiping down the speed rack.
“We’re not dating,” Ronnie spat. “I already told you. Yes, Vince is way hot. But, face it: he’s gonna spend the rest of his life on this fucking island, scraping together some half-assed existence like the rest of the poor working slobs out here. That’s not who I’m looking for.” He then sped through his list of creative visualization on the topic of man of his dreams , including his age, height, penis size, and minimum annual income. “He’ll also inspire me and finance my motivational speaker business, and we will live together happily until he dies peacefully in my arms, after which I’ll meet someone else wonderful.” Ronnie gasped for air. “One thing is certain—come September I’ll have a deluxe one-way ticket off this island with a hot, rich daddy. If and when I set foot in the Pines again, it’s gonna be because I’ll be owning a house, not cleaning one.”
Joe scrunched his brow. “But what about Vince? Is he cool with keeping it casual?”
“Yes. We agreed—great sex, no emotional connection, and …” Ronnie trailed off, narrowing his eyes. “Wait a minute. I see what you’re doing. Think you’re so smart, huh?” He put on his drill sergeant voice again. “Back to work, wimp! Time to muscle up! Last set! Let’s go! One! Two!”
Joe rolled his eyes, grunted, and struggled the bar up and down six times until he let it slam back down into the rack with a groan. “That’s it. I’m done. This shit is too hard.”
“Come on!” Ronnie shouted. “Are you serious about this or not, Joe? Jesus Christ!”
“Did someone call my name?” a nasally voice droned loudly.
Looking over, Joe saw three men in dark sunglasses and dark club wear (clearly from the night before), standing at the gym entrance. One, the source of the voice, was a tall, large-boned man in his thirties, with dark curly hair and a cigarette clenched between his fingers, like an old-timey movie star. All three had grayish skin and were sweating profusely and chewing gum maniacally. The cigarette-smoking man gestured to his two companions, who followed him across the gym floor like zombie handmaids.
“Your day can get started now!” the chubby tall man announced. “The Graveyard Girls have arrived!”
Ronnie threw his bulging arms around the man and his silent companions. “Joe! This is Thursty, he manages all the bars for Scotty Black, and these two handsome gents here are his boys, they do everything at the Promethean, from bartending to running the lights and sound. They call them the Graveyard Girls because they work harder than anyone out here.”
“Something like that,” Thursty mumbled.
Joe offered his hand to shake, but the men appeared not to notice. He surmised the Graveyard Girls’ moniker might owe to the fact that the three men, completely clad in black, were the sort who stayed up all night getting high on coke and Special K and looked more like corpses than the staff of a beach resort.
“Man, oh man, these guys live the life, Joey,” Ronnie effused. “Every winter they work in South Beach or Key West and then spend summers up here working for Scotty Black. They save beaucoup cash since they never need to pay for a permanent place to live, and get to party for free!”
“Wow. That’s great,” Joe said, trying to fake excitement at what, in actuality, sounded a bit like drug-induced indentured servitude.
“We’re just a tribe of wandering gay Bedouins,” Thursty droned before dragging on his cigarette. “Although our caftans—when we wear them—are far more colorful.” The other two Graveyard Girls started to laugh, but no sound emerged from their gaping mouths, as if they were sealed behind an invisible pane of glass, which Joe found very unsettling.
Thursty removed his sunglasses, revealing disturbingly bugged-out eyes that raked across Joe’s body. “Mmm. Where did Scotty find this swarthy little sausage? Rounds? The Townhouse?”
“Huh?” Joe had never been to those notorious Manhattan hustler bars but still understood Thursty’s intimation. “Nobody found me anywhere. And I don’t work for Scotty Black. I work for Dory and Vince over at Asylum Harbor.”
“Oh, so you’re Falafel Crotch.” He and the other Graveyard Girls did another round of their creepy silent laughter while gawking at the front of Joe’s shorts.
“The name is Joe,” he said firmly, grabbing his towel as if to wipe his sweat, but letting it fall so the Graveyard Girls would stop staring at his bottom half.
“Whatever,” Thursty said. “I know Asylum Harbor doesn’t provide housing, so where are you living on those shitty tips? You should talk to Scotty and see if he has any work. It’s cold at night, sleeping on the beach.”
Joe clenched his jaw, but before he could snap out a response, Ronnie gave him a cautionary eyebrow raise. “Joe’s found a temporary place to stay for cheap. Unfortunately, it’s with these weird old house cleaners over on Picketty Ruff.”
Thursty’s already buggy eyes bulged from his head so far that he resembled a rubber novelty toy. “Howie, Lenny, and Max are your housemates?”
Joe was taken aback at how he instantly knew who they were talking about. “Yeah,” he said. “I moved in two and half weeks ago. Although I haven’t met Max yet. I might have to find a new place when he does move back in, but right now I’m staying in their attic.”
“The kid lives in the Picketty Ruff boys’ attic,” Thursty emphasized to the other two Graveyard Girls, who lowered their sunglasses, exposing their own buggy eyes.
“I keep telling him it’s a mistake,” Ronnie said with obvious disdain. “He needs to find a cooler place to live than with those geriatric housemaids, right?”
“Shh!” Thursty’s dime-sized pupils grew to fearful nickels. The sight unnerved Joe and made him wonder why Thursty would have such a reaction. “I wouldn’t be calling the Picketty Ruff boys maids ,” Thursty said. “Not if you’re smart. There are stories, but … never mind.”
All three Graveyard Girls exchanged anxious glances with one another.
“What kind of stories?” Joe finally asked.
After looking toward the back fence, Thursty walked a step closer to Joe. “Well …” He huffed his dead-cat-smelling breath into Joe’s face. “Unpleasant stories.”
Joe shook his head. “No way. Howie and Lenny are the nicest guys I’ve ever met.”
“Or that’s what they want you to believe,” Thursty whispered darkly. “Have you noticed how Howie is constantly offering people little potions or spooky voodoo charms?”
“Wait, seriously?” Ronnie exclaimed.
“Cork it!” Thursty hissed and gestured toward the Picketty Ruff side of the fence. “Sound travels like a bullet around here.”
“So, what’s wrong with Howie giving people good luck charms?” Joe said. “It’s not like they’re hurting anyone.”
“You think so, huh?” Thursty said.
“Tell ’em about Rehoboth,” the mid-sized Graveyard Girl mumbled through the keyhole of his K-hole.
“I don’t really want to hear any more,” Joe fumed. “Let’s get back to our workout, Ronnie.”
“Hold on a minute, Joe,” Ronnie said. “You should know the truth about those guys. So what exactly happened in Rehoboth?”
“If you must know …” Thursty lowered his voice again, but this time adding a Vincent Price–like pacing to his tale. “Several years ago, back in the late seventies—”
“I think it was the mid-seventies,” the shortest Graveyard Girl offered.
“Pipe down!” Thursty snapped. “I’m telling the story!” Then, sotto voce: “So, back in the mid-seventies, their little ‘gang’ was down in Rehoboth for the weekend and showed up at the Pink Alligator disco.”
“The Pink Alligator?” Ronnie said. “Never heard of it, and I’ve been to Rehoboth a dozen times.”
An angry whine trumpeted through Thursty’s nose. “If people would stop interrupting, they might find out why.” He took a breath. “Anyway, Max, Howie, Lenny, and the rest of their group go into the club all dressed in their wild outfits and start dancing in a little circle. Then one of them—I think it was Howie, but it might have been Max—hits on this cute little hunk of rough trade. But the rough trade isn’t having it. He calls him and his group a bunch of disgusting sissies or something. They complain to the manager. But the manager tells him, ‘This ain’t no drag club.’ Kicks them all out. They’re furious and an hour later they return. But this time they’re dressed in these weird robes, so the doorman doesn’t recognize them. Then they start doing one of their hocus-pocus, disco witch dances, spinning and flagging and chanting some weird shit—like an incantation.”
While Thursty yammered on, Joe shook his head to show his disbelief in the story. Disco Witches? Absurd. But at the same his head flashed to the image of Lenny doing his “exercise spinning” in the backyard. Gooseflesh crawled up Joe’s arms.
“So after about an hour, Howie and company leave again. Next thing ya know, people start smelling smoke. Sparks start bursting in the wiring over the dance floor. Suddenly, the entire club starts flaming harder than a croquet match between Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly! In just two hours the Pink Alligator is a pile of ash. A dozen queens were charred beyond recognition—including the rough trade who rejected Howie.
“They were accused of starting the fire?” Joe asked.
“Of course not.” Thursty pulled down his pruny eye bag with his pointer finger. “I’m just saying it seems a very big coincidence how that all lined up.” He suddenly looked at his companions. “Fuck, this conversation is completely killing my high.”
“Mine too,” the mid-size Graveyard Girl added.
“It’s like I’ve been saying,” Ronnie said to Joe. “Something’s not right with those guys—especially that Howie.”
“Stop it, Ronnie!” Joe bristled, lowering his voice. “That’s a bullshit story from an obvious drug mess.”
Thursty glared at Joe, but his flash of fury quickly converted into a cowering smile. “The little furball’s probably right.” An anxious quaver filled his voice, as he looked back toward Picketty Ruff. “I’m sure that story is just gossipy bullshit. We adore the Picketty Ruff boys, right, guys?” The other Graveyard Girls nodded their drug-addled bobbleheads. “Do send our regards to the boys for us.” Thursty put on his sunglasses and indicated for his friends to do the same. “We better go take our energy vitamins and get ready to work a triple today. Let’s go, girls. We’ll sleep next week.” Thursty turned the Graveyard Girls around one by one and gave them a stumbling shove toward the gym’s exit.
Once they were gone, Joe could no longer contain his anger. “How can you suck up to guys like that?”
“Look, I know,” Ronnie said with a shrug. “They’re total douchebags. But I’m trying to make friends—for both our benefits. If you wanna be on Scotty Black’s good side, you gotta be on the Graveyard Girls’ good side.”
“But all that bullshit about Howie burning down that club? That’s some first-rate defamation shit, if you ask me.”
“Whatever.” Ronnie raised his eyebrows and pointed to the back fence. “But it proves my gut reaction about Howie and Lenny wasn’t totally wrong. Something is off with those guys.”