The Sinai Secret

FOUR

Manuel's Tavern

Highland Avenue

Atlanta, Georgia

8:30 p.m. EST

The Same Night

The original part of Manuel's Tavern dated back to the early 1950s. It consisted of stools along a bar and wooden booths, now time-worn and inscribed with graffiti from generations of students. Then, as now, it was a rendezvous for local Democratic politicos, university intelligentsia, and those who would like to become any of the above. Manuel had chosen wisely, locating his establishment across the street from the border of the Southern Methodist/Baptist-controlled county in which Emory University was located. The bar had been an oasis of beer and free thought on the edge of a Sahara of proclaimed abstinence and intolerance Never mind that the greatest amount of liquor tax collected in the state at that time came from those purveyors of the devil's elixir just across that same line, stores that supplied unmarked grocery bags and boxes to conceal the potables their customers hauled back into forbidden territory.

As racial and economic diversity blurred old and perhaps outdated values, even when alcohol became legal across the street Manuel's remained quirky. While gracious lots with lovely homes were subdivided into new look-alike neighborhoods of "affordable housing," the bar remained a bit risque, a reputation subsequent owners had done little to alter. As the years passed, it had morphed into a watering hole for not only the left-of-center but also the social contrarian and the downright funky.

A black man wearing a clerical collar and a white man in lawyer camouflage of dark suit and power tie drew no special attention. They were steady customers, always taking the same booth, continually arguing and complaining, frequently in Latin, about the poor quality of food for which Manuel's was famous.

"Corruptio optimi pessima," the priest said, reaching for a half-empty pitcher of lukewarm beer.

"No doubt corruption of the best is worst, Francis," the white man agreed, signaling to the waiter as he emptied the pitcher. "But the mayor is entitled to a defense just like anyone else. Cor illi in genua decidet."

"You can bet it was fear that brought him to his knees. It certainly wasn't prayer." Francis snorted.

Francis Narumba, formerly of one of West Africa's more corrupt, poverty-stricken, and disease-infested republics, had attended Oxford on scholarship, then had been sent to seminary in the United States. Either by his wish or that of a higher power, he had been assigned to minister not to the hellhole of his origins but to Atlanta's growing number of African immigrants.

As his dinner partner, Langford Reilly, described it, they were both victims of a liberal arts education and therefore unfit to do anything requiring any real skill.

Like, maybe, become a plumber.

Trapped in their own schooling, Francis had pursued a career in the church, and Lang law school. Lang's sister had been one of Francis's few white parishioners: Although tragic, her murder had brought priest and lawyer together. Before long they had become fast friends. Lang's lack of faith and, in his view, Francis's overabundance thereof provided an endless source of amicable debate.

In private, each would admit that the other, no matter how misguided, was probably the brightest mind he had known.

Lang watched their entrees' approach with interest. Regardless of what had been ordered, surprises were frequent at Manuel's. "Fortunately, the former mayor disagrees with Ovid. Estque pad poenas quam meruisse minus."

Lang could see the curiosity on his companion's face replaced by suspicion as he looked at the plate set before him. The "medium-rare" filet had a very burned look to it. He sighed as the waiter shoved Lang's hamburger and fries onto the table and retreated hastily. "Fortunately?"

Lang tried to suppress a smile as Francis surveyed the cremated remains of his steak. "Fortunately for me. If, he believed it better to suffer punishment than deserve it, he wouldn't pay me an outrageous fee to defend him."

Francis shook his head, reaching for a bottle of steak sauce. "I'm surprised he doesn't… What is it the crime shows say?"

"Plead guilty?"

"Hoc sustinete maius ne venial malum. Cop a plea."

"He says he's innocent."

Francis snorted again. "His chief administrative assistant, the head of the city contract board, five others-"

"Six others."

"-have either pled guilty or rolled over on each other for corruption, bribery, racketeering, tax evasion, et cetera. What else could they charge him with?"

"Parking overtime?"

Francis sampled the first bite of his steak, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm surprised you'd take the case. For sure you don't need the money."

Lang shrugged, a tacit admission that Francis was right. "Managing a huge charitable foundation isn't my idea of fun. Trying white-collar criminal cases is."

Francis was adding more steak sauce in a losing battle to cover up the flavor of burned meat. It had become a point of honor for neither man to admit during the meal just how bad Manuel's food could be and often was. "I still don't see why you'd want your name tied to a crook like that."

Lang wiped his face. The blood of his nearly raw hamburger-ordered medium-was running down his chin. "I seem to remember someone who spent his days with a prostitute and died between two thieves. Something to do with who should throw the first stone, as I recall it."

"You know far too much scripture for a heretic," Francis growled good-naturedly before changing the subject abruptly. "Hear anything from Gurt?"

Lang put his burger down to let it soak in its own juices, mostly blood and grease. "Not a word."

Francis started to say something, thought better of it, and renewed his assault on the steak.

"Don't expect to hear. It's been over a year now since she left, went back to Europe to work with the government."

A euphemism Francis understood to mean the Agency. Although the priest had not pressed for details, the gap between Lang's college education and his law degree indicated he had spent several years in some sort of employment. His long-standing acquaintance with Gurt Fuchs gave a clue as to where. Gurt had been the first woman in whom Lang had shown any romantic interest since the death of his wife from cancer several years before the priest and the lawyer had gotten to know each other.

"Capistrum maritale," Francis said with a smile, trying to make light of the matter.

"Fine for you to bewail the woes of matrimony. Not like that's a problem you'll ever have."

Francis reached across the table to lay a hand on his friend's arm. "I'm sorry she left, Lang. I really am. You know how much I liked that woman."

"You and Grumps. I feel for both of you."

Lang was referring to the dog he had inherited when his sister and nephew died. He had not been able to part with what was arguably the world's ugliest mutt. The animal was the only part of his family left.

The waiter was removing the remnants of dinner. He must have been a recent hire or he would have known better than to ask, "All done? How was it?"

Francis simply gave him a blank stare.

"As always," Lang said. "Overcooked steak, raw hamburger. And I just love those limp, extra-greasy fries."

"Glad you enjoyed it." With the hand not holding the plates, he deposited the check on the table. "I'll take that when you're ready."

Lang picked it up. "I suppose we may as well follow the ritual."

The two men routinely flipped a coin to determine who would pay the tab. Lang could not remember ever winning. What were the odds of that?

Maybe Francis was right: There was a greater power.

Instead Francis reached for it. "Let me get this one."

"No, no. We'll toss for it. Always post prandium."

Lang lost.

Francis grinned." Manus e, nubibus. A lucky break."

"I think the literal translation better describes it: A hand from the clouds'. The consistency with which you win is enough to convert most heathens."

"Including you?"

Lang handed the bill along with a credit card to the waiter. "I have faith, just not one that's centered on a pope."

"Or anything else, far as I can see."

"I believe in a higher power, right now the highest: Judge Adamson of the Atlanta division of the northern district of Georgia. Believe me, there is no power on earth mightier than a U.S. district court judge. If you don't believe me, ask Dick Nixon."

"He's dead."

"Okay, so you might have to wait awhile to ask."

The credit card receipt arrived and Lang signed it, adding an undeserved tip to ensure the same booth would be available next time.

"The mayor is being tried in federal court?"

Lang pushed back from the table and stood. "Unluckily for him, yes. The feds indicted him while the Fulton County DA was still thinking about the political ramifications."

The Fulton County district attorney's office was famous for mishandling its workload. Statutes of limitation expired while county lawyers searched for misplaced files or evidence. Felons walked free after exasperated judges waited for prosecutors to show up for trial.

Both men headed toward the rear door that opened onto the parking lot.

"Too bad," Francis observed. "You'll have an opponent instead of a victim."

Lang beeped the security device that unlocked a silver-gray Porsche Cabriolet. "You're right there. Trying a case with the local guy has gotten too easy anyway. Poor bastard couldn't have convicted John Wilkes Booth for discharging a firearm in public."

The priest folded himself into the car's passenger seat. "One of these days you'll get a grown-up car."

Lang turned the key and was rewarded by a muscular rumble from the rear-mounted engine. "I did. Remember the Mercedes convertible, the malfunction mobile-had everything from the burglar alarm to the power top not working?"

"At least it wasn't a toy. Seems to me a multijillion-dollar charitable foundation would want its president to have something a little more dignified to drive around in."

Lang was looking over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking spot. "You forget, my dear Francis, I am the foundation."

That was true: A few years previously Lang had demanded annual payment of millions of dollars from Pegasus, an international organization, as compensation for the murder of his sister and nephew. The money funded a charitable trust in their names. Although the trust had the directors and officers mandated by tax law, Lang made the decisions that mattered. The board did, however, serve two very important functions other than satisfying the IRS: It screened the needy from the greedy, and it kept secret who really made what choices. If Lang's solitary power became known, he would drown in a sea of mendicants.