Of course, most men were lesser, because at six foot five inches and three hundred and twenty-six pounds, Reggie Carney towered over the city, larger than life as a man...and as a New Orleans Saints offensive guard. “I don’t like this crap the designer brought in. Too old-school twenties. Freakin’ feathers? Looks shitty,” Reggie said, picking up a peacock feather lying on the aged bar now shiny with a new patina. In his hemp hoodie and brown cords, he reminded Dez of a fairy-tale giant...holding a feather. “You hired her,” Dez muttered, trying to pull an errant nail from the corner of the restored bar with a hammer. The contractor had missed it and the metal head would definitely snag clothing. Reggie was supposed to be a silent partner...who hadn’t gotten that memo. But since the scourge of NFL defenses was on the money in regards to what the designer had brought in, Dez didn’t feel too irritated. “Guess we can call someone else.
