Leave Nothing to Chance

Several days earlier...

Chance decided on a whim to fly to Paris. His latest case had been solved when the suspicious younger wife of a Fortune 100 CEO hired Chance to track her husband's whereabouts. As in some cases these days, it takes two awful people to make one bad marriage. She ended up being the husband's "swipe right" based on an inflated, hard-to-resist profile she had put forth on several dating apps, hoping to meet someone other than her current spouse. Turned out that the online version of this couple was too hard to resist for either party. When their fake profiles decided to meet in person, the resulting fireworks were the kind that got Chance's contract terminated, albeit with a hefty fee for early cancellation.

"Whatever passes for love these days," thought Chance as he booked his flight to Paris while Rupert Holmes', "Escape (The Piña Colada Song)" played in the background.

Chance was done with digital humanity for the time being and decided to recharge his batteries in the City of Lights and Love. In addition to the aforementioned case, Chance had just finished a week of escorting VIPs in an armored limo, securing the entire floor of the Four Seasons Las Vegas for a Saudi prince and his entourage, negotiating a cease-fire in a Columbian jungle and providing security for the Segal bar mitvah, one of the most sought after invitations of the season, based on the collection of old Hollywood studio heads, venture capitalists, rising actresses and power couples of both the silver screen and business.

Chance was the sole proprietor of The Syndicate Corporation, Inc. ™, which offered a multitude of services, including corporate security, private investigation, and event planning. He was a firm believer that charging exorbitant rates for his services implied a level of expertise and professionalism, and made the clients feel better about hiring him, regardless of the outcome. As a result, he was on speed dial of heads of state, captains of industry, several competing drug cartels and the social A-list. His billing practices also allowed him to purchase first class airline tickets on a whim, which is how Chance found himself in Virgin Atlantic's Upper Class lounge on Thursday evening, waiting for his flight to depart out of San Francisco.

Although some travelers beg off alcohol and its dehydrating effects before flights, Chance preferred to board his flights after satisfying the minimum requirement of drinks at most comedy clubs. Tonight was no different.

"I'll have a Sapphire martini, up, two olives," Chance said, hopefully within earshot of the bartender, as he slid into a semi-backless chair that was designed for snazzy photographs of empty lounges devoid of people. That was the problem with most design, Chance thought. It consistently overlooked the end user as the prototype made its way through manufacturing and onto the pages of Architectural Digest. It was also close to heretical to rip off Eames' designs and pay bulk prices to the lowest bidder for a knockoff that Eames would never have approved.

"A Sapphire man," said the red-rimmed, paunchy traveler to Chance's right.

"I thought it was befitting the bar and what I expect will be a martini made with indifference," Chance said, hoping that his authoritative economy of words would send a verbal cue that conversation would be limited.

"You're a snob," said the traveler, as one might say after a few belts under the belt, mostly as an observation and not as a harsh accusation with malice behind the description.

Although this was the first class lounge, Chance surmised that this guy was using the last of his credit card miles before making his way home to Des Moines. Chance studied him for a beat longer and responded, "I am a situational drinker and believe there is a perfect cocktail for every situation. The martini, which is appropriate for almost any occasion except when the power is out or you're at a funeral, has arcane sub-levels to how and what you order. The martini is a celebration of evening shadows and stars. If I was in the hands of my regular barman I could request a martini, confident in the proper application of vermouth and precise chilling of the cocktail, which needs to be stirred, not shaken, despite the preference of James Bond." Chance grimaced as he glanced over at the bartender, who was currently dispensing a pre-mixed margarita out of the bar gun. "Clearly, I am not in the care of my man. I'm not entirely confident that my martini won't share a few dashes of lime sour mix or whatever drink is made before mine. In cases like this, Bombay Sapphire's forward qualities of juniper berry and coriander can atone for a multitude of mistakes. Sapphire is a solid, dependable brand wherever I am in the world. Like a Four Seasons hotel or Robuchon restaurant, the location may change yet I am always assured of the quality."

"I take it back," said the traveler as he paid his bill and brought out a travel pillow in preparation for his return to the Hawkeye state, "You're an opinionated snob."

"I should hope so," said Chance, as he watched the bartender carelessly splash a few measures of gin and some vermouth into an ice-filled pint glass and start to tepidly shake it. "A snob without opinions is a bore."

The bartender made his way down to Chance's seat and placed the martini in front of him with a flourish designed to distract from the product, sort of like an ornate hotel lobby that fronts shoddy guest rooms and poor plumbing. Chance could see floating shards of ice covering the top of the drink and a bluish slick of oil from the olives.

"What is that?"

"Your martini, sir."

"No, I don't think so."

"You ordered a martini, up, two olives?"

"My good man, although that technically may be gin in a martini glass, that is most assuredly not a martini," said Chance as he stood up, removed his suit jacket and placed it on the now empty seat next to him. "Now, lead me to the vermouth and allow me to demonstrate how one makes a proper martini."

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