The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) Read Online Free PDF Page B

that she was having trouble with the idiom of a name adhering like some sort of glue. The literal nature of her native language made American slang difficult.
    “Now,” she continued, “I will teach German at the school, Westminster.”
    Francis gave an appreciative whistle as he accepted a slice that could have been a meal itself. “You started at the top. That’s the ritziest prep school in the city.”
    There was a sudden silence, the interruption of conversation as each person looked into their own thoughts.
    Lang spoke. “So the Braves going to do it again?”
    Both Lang and the priest were ardent baseball fans.
    “If anyone can, Bobby Cox can,” Francis said, referring to the manager of the Atlanta team. “Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral, in a single moment? No man.”
    Lang thought for a second. “Shakespeare,
Macbeth?”
    “You got it.”
    “We’ll see. It’s only April. ‘The end crowns all and that old common arbitrator, Time, will one day end it.’ ”
    Francis wrinkled his brow. “Shakespeare?”
    “Troilus and Cressida.”
    Both men were delighted with the new game: Shakespeare on baseball. The possibilities were endless. Lang was thinking of the Roberto Alomar incident of a few years ago, the umpire asking in the words from
King Richard III
, “Why dost thou spit at me?” Francis had in mind the ubiquitous beer ads around the park and
King Henry VI
, Part II, “Make my image but an alehouse sign.”
    Gurt was standing over them, watching the verbal contest. “And what is next,
Mein Herren
, Goethe and ice hockey?”
    “Humor is not a logical part of human behavior,” Lang said.
    “Shakespeare?” Francis asked.
    “Mr. Spock,
Star Trek.”
    “Who?” Gurt asked.
    Francis started to reply, but was interrupted by the shrill intrusion of the telephone.
    Francis looked at Lang. “Somebody’s in trouble, I’ll bet.”
    Lang’s law practice consisted largely of defending the criminal elite—corporate executives with sticky fingers, or accountants of dubious veracity, tax cheats, those involved in what was referred to as “white-collar crime.”
    Lang stood, wiping crumbs from his lips with a napkin. “My clientele don’t usually get arrested on a Saturday night; they can afford a lawyer who arranges a voluntary surrender during normal business hours.” He put the napkin down. “Besides, I’m not taking much new business. Too involved with the foundation.”
    The foundation. Specifically, the Janet and Jeff Holt Foundation, a charity funded by some European company. Why a commercial venture, one Francis could never find on any stock exchange, would pay an annual ten-figure sum in honor of Lang’s late sister and nephew was a question that troubled the priest. Even more mysterious was the fact that Lang had left Atlanta about this time last year to seek the persons responsible for the deaths of Janet and her adopted son, returning some months later as the sole director of an incredibly wealthy charity that spent hundreds of millions of dollars solely to provide medical care to children in Third World countries.
    Lang had also returned with Gurt, a woman he had apparently known before his marriage. The specifics of their previous relationship, like the foundation, were quickly established as off conversational limits.
    That was one of several areas that puzzled Francis. Among others was the fact Lang had gone to law schoolin his thirties and had never attempted to explain the intervening years between his practice and college.
    All enigmatic; none worth risking a friendship by unwanted inquiry.
    Lang returned to the table and sat without a word. He was either deep in thought or stunned by the conversation. Both Francis and Gurt paused, waiting for some explanation, but none was forthcoming.
    Francis dabbed at the crumbs on his plate.
    “You would like more?” Gurt asked.
    The priest held up his hands in surrender. “No, please. It was wonderful,