I WAS FEELING A LITTLE NUTS, so I drove back out to the scene of the crime. The surf was down considerably, and it was still too rough for my brother to have considered swimming in it. Then I checked in on my father and grandfather. They were doing so bad, they were both in bed by 9:30. Dana had left a couple of messages for me.

I didn't get to the Memory Motel until after ten. By then almost every charter member of our highly exclusive club of born-and-bred townies was crowding a small round table at the rear of the bar.

Let me introduce you.

At the back of the table, under a chipped mirror, was Fenton Gidley. Fenton grew up four houses down from us, and we'd been best friends since before we learned how to walk. At six-three and 245 pounds, Fenton was a little bigger than he had been back then. He was offered a boxful of scholarships to play college football – Hofstra, Syracuse, even Ohio State. He took over his old man's fishing boat instead, heading out alone from Montauk Point for days at a time to hunt giant swordfish and tuna, which he sold to the Japanese.

On his left sat Marci Burt, who has planted and shaped shrubs for Calvin, Martha, Donna, and a handful of other less-fashionable multimillionaires. She and I were an item once – when we were thirteen. On Marci's right sat Molly Ferrer, who taught fourth grade and moonlighted for East Hampton 's Channel 70. Like Fenton, Marci and Molly were former classmates of mine at East Hampton High School.

Everyone at the table was sporting a surprisingly trendy coif, thanks to the man with almost no hair sitting opposite them-Sammy Giamalva, aka Sammy the Hairdresser. Sammy, who was five years younger than the rest of us, was Peter's best friend. Growing up, Sammy spent so much time at our house that he was like a member of the family. He still was.

When I arrived at the Memory, they each got up to lay a hug on me, and before I emerged from their warm, sad embraces, the final member of our crew and the most sincere person I know, Hank Lauricella, walked in.

Lauricella, a full-time chef and part-time EMS volunteer, was the one who got the call about Peter's body on the beach. The small, scarred table now held my five most dependable friends on the planet. They were as angry and as confused about Peter's death as I was.

"Accident, my cute behind," said Molly. "As if Peter, or anyone else, would go swimming in the middle of the night in that surf."

"What Volpi's really saying is, Peter did himself," said Sammy, the first openly gay person any of us ever knew. "We all know that didn't happen."

"Right. All this time we thought he was having more fun than the rest of us combined," Fenton said. "He was actually crying himself to sleep."

"Then what did happen?" asked Marci. "Nobody would want to hurt Peter. Maybe slap him upside the head a couple of times."

"Well, something sure happened. Except for Jack, none of you saw Peter's body," said Hank. "I sat next to Peter in a space smaller than this table for four hours that night. He looked like he was stomped to death. And Frank Volpi never even looked at him. Never stepped inside the ambulance."

"Volpi doesn't want to go near it," said Fenton. "He's scared shitless it goes right back to the folks who own him and the rest of this little village of ours."

"So maybe we all have to start asking around. Talk to anyone who might know something," I said. " Because obviously no one else cares."

"I'm for that," said Molly.

"I know just about everybody who worked at the party that night," said Fenton. "One of them must have seen something."

"And moi," said Sammy. "I'm really good at poking around for dirt."

We held up our beers. "To Peter."

THE TABLE SUDDENLY FELL SILENT. The change couldn't have been more pronounced if we had been union workers plotting a strike and someone from management had just stuck his head in the door. I turned and saw Dana at the bar.

Actually, the Memory isn't much of a bar. It's not much of a motel, either. Eighteen rooms with unobstructed views of John's Drive-Inn and the Getty station. Its one claim to notoriety is that back in the days when there were these big round black things known as records, a rock 'n' roll band by the name of the Rolling Stones stayed there once and wrote a song about it. The record it's on, Black and Blue, came out in 1976, and the cover is tacked on the wall along with the copy of the notes from the recording session.

We spent a lonely night at the Memory Motel,

It's by the ocean (sort of),

I guess you knew it well.

To be fair, the Memory also has a pretty great sign – the name spelled out over the entrance in jet black Gothic type. In any event, Dana, even dressed as she was that night in old blue jeans and a T-shirt, stood out as much as if Mick Jagger himself had shimmied in. I got up and went to the bar.

"I thought you might be here," she said. "I called your house a bunch of times. I had to go into New York this morning."

We found two seats at the end of the bar next to a middle-aged man doing a beer and a shot. He had an old St. Louis Cardinals hat pulled down low over his face.

"They really like me, don't they, Jack?" Dana said, and snuck a look at my friends.

"In their own quiet way."

"I'll go if you want me to. Really, Jack. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you?"

"Nope. That's why I'm glad you're here." I leaned in and kissed her. Who wouldn't? Her lips were so soft. Her eyes weren't just beautiful, they showed off how whip smart she was. I think I'd had a crush on Dana since she was about fourteen. I still couldn't believe that the two of us were together. My friends hadn't given her a chance yet, but they'd come around once they got to know her.

I emptied my wallet on the bar, waved good-bye to the crew, and escorted Dana out of the Memory. Instead of walking toward the street and her gleaming SUV, she led me away from the curb under an overhang to the end of the stone walkway.

Then Dana fumbled with a key until room eighteen lay open before us in all its splendor and possibility. "I hope you don't mind," she whispered, "but I took the liberty of reserving the honeymoon suite."

WHAT THE FIXER REALLY WANTED was a Tanqueray No. Ten martini with a twist. By the time the bartender at the Memory stopped ignoring him, he had lowered his sights to a Budweiser and a shot of tequila.

By then he had found an empty, torn red-leather stool at the center of the bar, and with his vintage St. Louis Cardinals cap pulled down, he sipped his Bud and watched.

An occasional twist of his head gave him a view of the plotting mourners at the back table. Their faces were so sincere and open that he wondered how he and they could be members of the same species.

After a while he started working his gaze around the table, gauging who would give him the hardest time. The unshaved guy in the old jean jacket had the most size, about six-three and 250 pounds, he estimated. And he carried himself like an old ballplayer. The bitch who had arrived in the maroon Porsche looked tough. And, of course, Mullen could be dangerous, particularly in his current state. He was undoubtedly the smartest in the group, and the boy was hurting.

By the time the Mouseketeers were done drinking, laughing, and crying, he'd been sitting on the stool for almost three hours and his butt was numb. He watched Lauricella and Fenton leave in Lauricella's van, and Burt tear off in her Porsche. He was about to follow Molly Ferrer home for a little reconnaissance when he saw Dana and Jack slink out of the bar and into the darkness. "A hundred-million-dollar girl in a sixty-dollar-a-night motel," he muttered.