D

My nephew D with his beautiful assistant, Nathalie, at the Cafe d'Este in Nice. They both had wonderful things to say about working for the most famous couple in the world, she in her native Italiano and French and he in between mouthfuls of fried squid. We had more desert than ten people should have in a month. Great fun on the first "official" day of summer 2008!

Chapter 73

"Does he have the balls", was the question du jour. Everyone familiar with the situation was asking this, himself included. It wasn't so much the danger, sure he could break some bones, get stitched back together, or spend a day or two convalescing with some synthetic pain numbing narcotic, it was more the outlandishness of the idea. And what it represented in the long term for the project.

The risk factor was huge. He would be putting all his chips (as equity) on red five, trusting that every bit of effort, sweat, planning, partnering, time and energy would be enough to manipulate the outcome in his favor (the payoff). It was time to let 'er ride, he figured, go for broke, shit or get off of the pot, let this simple, yet grandiose, single move validate the project. All that he had. All that he was, all that he would ever be. One move. Now. Here.

Did he have the balls?

The skinny blond was nervous, watching him smile at the set-up. He was growing into the part, accepting the drama much the way a climber sets a piton and tests its strength. She had an investment of another type altogether, needing him to win in order to delay an outcome that was to everyone but her, obvious and inevitable. Her last cigarette was ten years ago, but right now her fingers reached nervously into her Louis Viton handbag searching for a smoke.

Time.