Ninety

NINETY

DESPITE A CROWD BEHIND his house that looks more suited for a concert on the Great Lawn in Central Park, Allen Reese manages to spot me before I spot him.

He's wearing a navy linen blazer with a crest that looks like it was lifted from King Charles, white pants, and a pink shirt buttoned a couple of buttons too low, as if he's as proud of his chest hair as anything else belonging to him.

He acts incredibly pleased to see me, but then I know he's required to bullshit people for a living, and at a high level.

"I would have invited you," he says after I introduce him to Ben, "but I could have sworn you didn't like me."

"I heard that anybody who's anybody is here, and tonight suddenly started to feel like a college party with all the cool kids."

He shows me an ungodly amount of teeth as white as his pants.

"Well, I know that's a load of crap."

I flash him some teeth of my own. "Coming from you, that's a huge compliment, Allen."

"I'm assuming you're not here because you want to write a check for my school."

"I will if you promise Bobby Salvatore doesn't get a cut."

He's still smiling. But I know that's bullshit, too.

"You crash my party and you give me grief?" Reese asks.

"I apologize. That was out of line."

"Another load of crap. Hell, you're already on a roll."

Over his shoulder I can see John Legend's band starting to move around on a stage set up at the end of the property, the tent open behind them, the Atlantic as the backdrop.

"Has Mr. Salvatore arrived yet?" I ask. "I'm hoping to run into him."

"Might I ask why?"

"Well, sure, you could ask."

He makes a half turn, as a way of taking in the view on his big night, with a star attraction I'm sure is costing him the going rate, in excess of seven figures.

"I haven't seen Bobby yet," Reese says. "But while you wait for him, do me a favor and try not to bother the decent people."

And makes his way into the crowd, in the general direction of Serena Williams.

"Why do you think he even allowed us to come in?" Ben asks.

"He was curious about my real reason for being here."

"Isn't curiosity supposed to kill the cat?"

"Not on your watch, doc."

He grins. "What about fat cats?"

We do our share of mingling under the big top as my eyes keep searching for Salvatore. Ben recognizes more people than I do. I see Steve Cohen, the owner of the Mets, talking to Jerry Seinfeld, an even bigger Mets fan than I am, if such a thing were even possible. Ben begs me not to go over and tell Cohen my thoughts on improving the team for its stretch run.

As I take in the whole scene, I wonder how many parties just like this one there are Out Here every summer, and how many of the same people attend them, summer after summer and year after year.

It must get so exhausting being special.

"So this is how the other half lives," Ben says.

"Well, the half of 1 percent maybe."

We are each carrying around a flute of champagne. Ben turns out to be much better at spotting celebrities than I am, even the B-listers.

I still haven't seen Bobby Salvatore.

We've been under the tent for over an hour, and I've just told Ben it might be time to head back down to the road and get my keys from Magic Mike when my phone buzzes.

JIMMY .

"Hey," I say.

"It sounds like you ended up getting into the party."

I tell him I did but am fixing to leave without getting the opportunity to chat with Bobby Salvatore about being arrested by Anthony Licata when he was a teenager, and how perhaps that forged a lifelong relationship.

"It's why I'm calling," Jimmy says. "Bobby's not coming."

"And you know this how?"

John Legend's warm-up singer is at the microphone now and into his first song, so I can't hear what Jimmy says next. I tell him to hold on while I move behind one of the bars and crouch down.

"I didn't hear the last thing you said."

"Somebody just blew up Salvatore's boat about a mile off Montauk," Jimmy says. "With him on it."

"Any other passengers?"

"Just one."