Party Central: Promoters Andrew Sasson, Noah Tepperberg, and Jason Strauss working the crowd at Jet East.   (Photo: Nathaniel Welch)

“That’s not true,” says Goldstein. “I had him at my party first.”

“It is so true,” says Heller. (According to Ronson, “It’s very sweet of them to fight over me, but I think Mike discovered me.”)

Far from resting on his Ronson-D.J. laurels, Heller recently passed the bar and joined forces with his dad, Son of Sam lawyer Mark Heller. “I hang out in clubs a lot,” says Mike, “because a lot of people who need lawyers go out a lot, you know?” He has personally represented Greg Todtman, the Bachelorette finalist recently arrested at JFK for cocaine possession, and Josh Sagman, the oxygen-bar founder and Hamptons-share-house landlord featured prominently in Barbara Kopple’s documentary last year; the town looked upon the latter mission none too kindly. “I also started the number 1-800-LAWYER-911, ’cause, you know, there was already a 1-800-LAWYERS, but the 911 is kind of cool because that’s how we used to page each other when we were kids,” says Heller. One cannot help but notice, however, that there are a couple too many numbers in 1-800-LAWYER-911. “Well,” says Heller, screwing up his little face, “dialing the extra 11 doesn’t do anything.”

Samantha and Charlotte Ronson show up as an exogamous D.J. starts to spin old-school rap. The lights dim on the lingering diners in Bamboo, heralding a night of Cristal-swilling and sushi-nibbling, but less model-on-banquette dancing than had been hoped for: “This guy’s job is to bring out the girls, which he didn’t really do this weekend,” says Ural, amicably slinging an arm around a crestfallen guy in an orange velour sweatshirt. Middle-aged patrons flag down waiters for their checks; Jerry Della Femina and Judy Licht gather their belongings and move slowly toward the door. Even they know all about the “boys” fighting for a piece of the summer-nightclub pie. “All the atoms have split off from each other,” says Licht, her eyes growing even bigger than their usual saucers. “It’s the war of the lists.”

“It’s each man for himself in the Hamptons,” says Heller, flexing his pecs. “Survival of the fittest.”

“It’s each man for himself in the Hamptons,” says Mark Heller, who resembles a very young, very small Michael Douglas. He flexes his pecs. “Survival of the fittest.”

Operating a nightclub in the Hamptons is not a terribly lucrative endeavor. A successful club can make about 75 grand on a warm-weather Saturday night, but the season lasts only sixteen weeks, or, more important, sixteen Saturday nights. The nightly take is, however, secondary to the real prize. Post-Puffy, the Hamptons have increasingly become a playground for downtown hipsters as well as uptown society; a presence at the beach is now essential for those promoters catering to Manhattan’s “high-end.” “You’ve got to maintain your crowd from spring to fall,” says Heller. “You can’t have Nicky Hilton in the Hamptons wondering where to go out at night.”

After all, lists with names like Nicky Hilton are what nightclubs these days are all about. Tepperberg and Strauss are famous for welcoming the Hiltons to the nightclub scene long before their 21st birthdays; celebrities they can produce include Britney Spears, Derek Jeter, and Chelsea Clinton. Akiva and Sartiano’s crowd is a bit, well, cooler: Taye Diggs, Guy Oseary, Jay-Z, and a wide spectrum of English-as-a-second-language models, including Akiva’s girlfriend Carmen Kass, who stands a head taller than him. (“Carmen and I don’t even like to go out that much,” says Akiva. “There’s nothing more fun than staying at home and playing chess.”) Goldstein, Ural, and Heller’s list is composed almost entirely of city brats: David Lauren, Shoshanna Lonstein, Hard Rock heir Harry Morton. Goldstein’s coup last year was bringing Gwyneth Paltrow and Renée Zellweger to the Star Room. Everyone shares Tara Reid.

With this new generation of nightclub promoters, the dream isn’t about getting the big names in the door to foster a festive atmosphere, or even simply to secure a star-studded shot for the paparazzi. In fact, these guys would rather not be called promoters at all—they see themselves as “entrepreneurs.” Promoters have long been considered the bottom of the nightclub food chain, as con men and degenerate modelizers trying to make a quick buck; the conviction of Limelight promoter Michael Alig in the murder of Angel Melendez in 1996 didn’t help matters.

These days, thanks for the most part to guys like Tepperberg and Strauss, promoting is much more legit. “Noah and Jason are businessmen, not indulgent nighttime people,” says Ian Schrager, who hired Tepperberg and Strauss last year to throw New Year’s Eve parties at the Delano and the Shore Club. “They’ve brought originality into the business: promotion, marketing, even the idea of bottle service, which wasn’t around when I was in clubs. I can see them building what they’re doing now into something bigger and better in the coming years.”

“It’s a really clean scene now, because everyone’s about branding,” says Resort operating partner Jonathan Cheban, a diamond-studded dog tag hanging low on his shirt as he stands in front of the club on watch for celebs. Earlier, he had called to report last night’s appearance of some notables on his list, Ashley Simpson (sister of Jessica!) and Linda Lopez (sister of J.Lo!).

“Show business without the business is just a show,” says Sartiano, sipping a Coke.