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Dominic Barbara. Once Long Island’s bad-boy, high-pressure lawyer. Tarnished clients like — remember Joey Buttafuoco?

Lindsay Lohan daddy Michael Lohan? Hot for 10 minutes Jessica Hahn, who heated up the Rev. Jim Bakker, who was convicted of fraud?

Dominic then went south himself, and his license was suspended. Accusations of theft, extortion. Lawsuits with the ex-wife.

Those D.B. initials stood for drugs and booze. Bad stuff. Put him up for canonization, he’d have stolen the wafers.

Long back he came to my table at Campagnola restaurant. I responded by throwing something at him.

Now, years, headlines and two rehabs later, he’s back. This attorney-at-low’s lifetime addiction is publicity. He’d exhume his dead mother for a plug in a newspaper. But the man called. I listened.

Dominic: “This Washington stuff about lawyer Michael Cohen? See, I know this guy. Before he met Donald, he worked for me.

“Cohen was involved in the taxicab business. He heard me on Howard Stern’s show and came to me. He became an associate at my firm four to five years. He was listed on my stationery. He helped on divorce and criminal cases.

“Look, I grew up around Donald. We were 8 years old playing in Jamaica Estates. I lived three blocks away. When we were about 10, playing basketball, he came to the game wearing a sports jacket.”

OK, Dominic, what’s your endgame since you’ve been marked absent for centuries. What do you want?

“I want to help the president. Our country should not be held hostage to anything Michael Cohen says.”

Please. If Dominic’s larynx lay on a lie-detector test, it might strain credulity to believe his every word. What with Putin, China’s Xi, cranky Angela Merkel, North Korea’s pygmy, immigration and the Supreme Court, not sure the president of the United States, commander in chief of the Armed Forces, leader of the free world is rushing to phone him.

However, I only say: I listen. I hear. I’m a reporter. I’m reporting. It’s what I do. If anyone in that White House itches to reach Dominic — who now answers his own phone — and hear what he might offer — go! Lotsa luck.

Fête praises rosé

Jon Bon Jovi’s son Jesse just went to the opening of the Melting Pot of Red Bank in New Jersey. I know you’re dying to hear the town’s Mayor Pasquale Menna proclaimed Jesse’s special sip “the official rosé of Red Bank.”

Jesse’s college football mate Quenton Nelson, now Indy Colts first-round draft pick offensive guard, showed as did the Amazing Kreskin and Danielle (Real Housewife of NJ) Staub.

Bits & pieces

The archdiocese, into a doc for the 90th anniversary of Al Smith’s run for president, has its director of marketing (who knew they had one?) doing interviews around the country . . . Prices at Gwyneth’s new Sag Harbor store do not sag. T-shirts that say Oyster, Clambake or Lobster Roll cost $125.

Tab memory

We just lost Tab Hunter. In 2015, when his “Tab Hunter Confidential” documentary came out, he told me why he’d even written an autobiography. It detailed homosexuality, and the movie colony’s subsequent demands for sexual favors. “I was a nervous wreck. Shaking like a leaf so bad I thought never would I get a job.

“All’s hoopla. Glossy parties. You have to believe that under that crap there really is a pony. I wrote about it because someone else wanted to tell what happened when I got to Hollywood. So better it comes from the horse’s mouth than from some horse’s ass.”

Third Avenue barbershop sign: “Due to my unsteady hand, I’m no longer giving neck shaves.”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.