Eighty-Nine

EIGHTY-NINE

EVERY YEAR, ALLEN REESE waits until everybody else has thrown their Hamptons charity events to throw his own right after Labor Day, mostly just to show that he can. Like his party is the official end to summer.

This one benefits the charter school he started in Harlem.

"We like to wait until a lot of the riffraff has headed back to the city," he told the East Hampton Star last week. "Present company excluded, of course."

The party is always held on his back lawn. I've seen pictures, including one aerial view of his tent that looked like one of those domed football stadiums. When I tell Dr. Ben why I want a copy of the guest list, he manages to get his hands on one and passes it along to me. It looks like a convention of A-listers, from as far away as Hollywood. A to Z.

" A for assholes?" Jimmy asks.

"You know the deal. I'm just hoping to run into the one in particular."

"And you're confident you'll be able to crash this shindig."

"You make it sound so crass," I tell him. "I prefer to think of it as correcting an invitational oversight on his part."

"You going alone?"

"Now you really are being crass. I'd never even consider crashing a party like this without a date."

Ben Kalinsky and I make it as far as the parking valet at the end of Reese's drive.

The valet checks the list. Tells me there's no Smith on it. I ask if I can see for myself. He hands it over to me.

"There must be some mistake," I tell him.

The young man looks like an extra from the movie Magic Mike, the one with the hunky male dancers with no shirts on.

"Trust me," he says. "Mr. Reese doesn't make mistakes like that."

"Do me a favor, before we both make the mistake of you turning me away. Call inside and have somebody find Mr. Reese."

Dr. Ben Kalinsky is staring out the passenger-side window, perhaps toward Connecticut.

"And after they find him, what are they supposed to tell him?" Magic Mike asks.

"That Jane Effing Smith is currently the barbarian at his gate."

I smile. He frowns and walks away, talking into one of those Secret Service mics attached to the collar of his white shirt.

It takes about ten minutes, but he's back.

"Mr. Reese told me that I should tell you to come ahead," Magic Mike says.

"Sorry for the bother."

"I get paid the same whether people bother me or not."

I hand him my keys. As Ben and I head up the drive, he asks, "You're sure you saw Salvatore's name on the list?"

"Right before where mine never effing was."