Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

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 mysteri0us 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 school in 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, but I've eaten too much."

She stood, taking the platter away. "Then I will wrap it for you to carry with you. Homemade takeoff."

"Takeout," Lang corrected, still thinking. "Does he not take it off, away?" Lang didn't reply. He despaired of Gurt's logical mind mastering the American idiom.

While Gurt wrapped the remains of the strudel, Lang brought two glasses and a bottle of single-malt scotch to the table. He set a glass in front of Francis and offered the whiskey.

Francis stood, aware that, whatever its nature, the phone call, not company, was on his friend's mind. "No, thanks. I've gotta drive home, and I don't need a DUI."

Lang gave him a crooked grin. "No papal dispensation for driving under the influence?"

Francis accepted the rest of the strudel from Gurt, nodding thanks. "The police of the apostate cut us true believers no slack." He opened the door to the hallway and elevators, turning to speak over his shoulder. "Although a clerical collar has spared me the occasional speeding ticket."

"Okay, then," Lang said. "But at least let's check the score. Ought to be somewhere in the middle innings out there in La-La Land." The Braves were playing a series against Los Angeles, three time zones distant.

"For just a minute," the priest conceded, stepping back inside and closing the door. "But keep that scotch out of reach, my reach."

Both men sat back down at the kitchen table as Lang turned on the small television set on the breakfast bar. No matter how many times he saw it, Lang still regarded the transfer of images across a continent to be every bit as magical as anything the ancient gods might have done.

They had hit the end of an inning, and a car ad began to unfold, the announcer shouting in perpetual excitement. As the shiny new vehicles available at LOW, LOW, UNBELIEVABLY LOW PRICES faded, a familiar figure appeared, a silver-haired man holding a Bible, his ice-blue eyes staring earnestly into the camera.

"My fellow citizens," he began, "it is high time for us to take back our country from the godless courts and those who would crush our Christian heritage. When I am your president, we will work together for these things and to make America, once again, the first among nations…"

Both Lang and Francis had heard it before. Harold Straight, candidate for his party's nomination in the upcoming presidential election. His determined face faded to strains of "God Bless America."

"I'm sure the Jews of this country find his message comforting," Lang observed wryly.

"Not to mention Muslims, Buddhists, and everyone else," Francis added. "Also, any country that dares to think it's number one is likely to find the Marines on its national doorstep."

Gurt, abandoning her usual posture that television was a sure cause of brain rot, moved to look at the fading screen. "This man has a chance to win?"

Lang shrugged at the unpredictability of American politics. ''A lot of people believe he can put the Ten Commandments back in courthouses, stop the teaching of evolution, and reverse Roe v. Wade."

"And this is good why?" Lang glanced at Francis, who smiled back. "I'm sure Francis here would advocate the end to abortion-"

"Not at the price of having Straight in the White House," the priest interjected.

"And," Lang continued, "his message about his dad dying in World War Two to save American values hits home, too."

"This is normal, to get into politics because of what your father did?" Gurt was incredulous. "There wasn't a war convenient for this guy to get into when he was in the Army," Francis explained. Gurt turned and went to the sink to wash dishes, a pastime both more interesting and useful than politics.

As the image of Dodger Stadium returned to the screen, Francis said, ''After seeing Mr. Straight, perhaps I will accept your kind offer of a little scotch."

In spite of multiple scotches and dinner wine, Lang could not sleep. Instead, he watched shadows of light from the street below form abstract patterns on the ceiling. Finally, he gave up. Moving carefully to avoid waking Gurt, he slipped out of bed and stood on the deck just outside the room. Absently, he observed the golden ribbon of traffic moving along Peachtree Street, his mind miles and years away.

He was startled when an arm encircled his waist from behind. "The phone call, yes?"

He reached a hand over his shoulder to touch Gurt's face. ''Yeah..''

"Tell me."

He sighed. "Remember Don Huff?"