crypt of the Michaelerkirche, Sara had been explaining via BlackBerry why his presence was needed in Atlanta, a departure from Vienna that, under the circumstances, had a certain appeal. The real reason for his immediate return home was that Judge Adamson had chosen today for a hearing on those few motions in the mayor's case he had not already denied out of hand.
Lang had paused only long enough to wipe the Desert Eagle clean of fingerprints and deposit it in the first trash bin on his way back to the hotel.
As usual, he had arrived home in a state of sleep deprivation. This morning he had climbed into the Porsche and noted the odometer had mysteriously crept forward, no doubt a result of entrusting the keys to the condo's carhops.
He would have to remember to retrieve the extra set of keys.
His first stop had been at the federal courthouse, where his day took a decided turn for the worse.
Lang had never grown accustomed to the fact that a man could practice law for twenty years and, when, Christ-like, he ascended to the bench, chew out one of his former fellow practitioners for doing the same thing the judge had done for his own clients: filing a multitude of motions in hopes that denial of one or more might be grounds for a future appeal should trial not prove fruitful. Lang knew it was going to happen, had come to expect it, but a tongue-lashing from a man who, until a year ago, had been a mere mortal, one far less successful (if more political) than Lang, was not recommended as an enhancer of the spirit.
It was enough to ruin the disposition of a saint.
If any had been members of the Atlanta bar.
Lang's travails had not ended there. Before he could escape to his car, he had to endure the critique of his perpetually displeased client.
It was quite understandable that Sara peeked around the door rather than entering. 'Don't forget tonight. You need to get your tux from the cleaners and pick up Ms. Warner at eight.'
She disappeared before Lang could react.
Another item to try his soul: In his absence Alicia had called to invite him to some charity function, where the recipient foundation would receive some small percentage of the costs of drinks and dinner.
And no part of whatever the ladies spent on new gowns, coiffures, and manicures.
Somehow Alicia had enlisted Sara's connivance to search his calendar and confirm the date. Sara had always been protective of his personal life. It must have taken true advocacy to sway her over to Alicia's side.
He was secretly delighted he would see her again, but forced to feign outrage lest Sara commandeer his future social life.
Once the mayor finally departed, Lang walked to the door, opening it. 'Sara, I'm taking the rest of the day off. If you really need me I'll be hying to overcome jet lag at home.'
Hours later, resplendent in a shawl-lapeled tuxedo and alligator dancing pumps, Lang pulled the Porsche under the granite-sided porte cochere of Atlanta's oldest and most prestigious club, the Piedmont Driving Club. A bastion of father-to-son, male-only WASPs for over a hundred years, the club had finally relented to the social conscience only the rich could afford and admitted Jews, blacks, women, and people whose last names ended in vowels-even some whose ancestors might have arrived a bit late to serve under Bobby Lee during the War of Northern Aggression. Or worse, Yankees. So had political correctness slain another quaint and relatively harmless tradition.
The problem with a tardy rush to apparent diversity had immediately become apparent: The wealthiest of Atlanta's black community had already joined other formerly all-white organizations. The hefty initiation fees made becoming racial tokens multiple times less than attractive. A scramble by the more liberal members to find suitable new initiates finally produced a ratio of black members that, compared with other, lesser Atlanta clubs, was still minuscule.
When her door was opened by the uniformed attendant, Alicia alighted with more grace than most Porsche passengers by swinging both legs out simultaneously. Lang wondered where she had learned that.
They entered a marble-floored entranceway filled with what looked to be Federalist antiques. Three stair- steps at the end and to the right and they stood in a marble foyer. The baroque molding lining the twenty-five-foot ceiling could have stood up to any Lang had seen in Vienna. A massive crystal chandelier was a galaxy of diamonds overhead.
It was only as Lang and Alicia were following the sound of music down another marble corridor that he noticed how very well her gown fit. He had no idea of its brand name, but it was one of those jobs that was enticingly short on top and very long on bottom, a sort of sea green material that resembled spun sugar. A double strand of pearls draped just above enticing decolletage.
Ahead was the ballroom, the huge, high-ceilinged dance floor polished by the feet of the city's elite for generations. To their right was a small oak-paneled bar where a few hardy members clutched their bourbon- and- waters as talismans against the intrusion of the great unwashed.
The money the club made from rentals to groups like tonight's was received somewhat more graciously.
Several hundred people were seated around the ballroom's perimeter, while a band played from a stage at the far end. A tuxedo-clad maitre d' showed them to their table and signaled a waiter who had a tray of champagne flutes.
Alicia was gazing around the room.
'Come here often?' Lang asked.
'Once or twice a year some organization I belong to has a party here. You?'
'I've been here before.'
She was looking at the band. 'But it's so… so elegant. It was founded in 1889 as a place for members to drive their carriages. Piedmont Park next door was a part of the property. The club gave it to the city for the Great Cotton Exhibition in the 1890s. The president attended, had lunch here. So did John Philip Sousa.'
Lang smiled. 'You're certainly knowledgeable.'
'Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh were entertained here after the premiere of Gone with the Wind.'
'I'll bet Hattie McDaniel, who played Mammy, wasn't.'
Alice looked at him disapprovingly. 'Retroactive political correctness. It's unfair to impose our mores on yesterday's institutions.'
'Like slavery?'
Ignoring him, she exchanged her empty glass for a full one from another champagne-bearing waiter. 'It's one of the few places left in the city with any historical significance. Plus it's so…'
'Elegant?'
'I think I said that.'
'Elegant surroundings, impeccable service, abysmal food.'
She treated him to bottomless green eyes. 'Surely there's more to this place than food.'
'Thankfully.' He cocked his head as the band began a tune Frank Sinatra had made famous, one slow enough not to require terpsichorean exploits. 'Dance?'
As they moved around the floor, he nearly stumbled over her feet as she insisted on trying to lead.
'Sorry I'm not Fred Astaire,' he apologized sarcastically.
'I'm not exactly Ginger Rogers, either.'
He gently tugged her in the opposite direction from that in which she was heading. 'At least she let him lead.'
She nodded. 'Yeah, but remember: Everything Fred did, Ginger did backward.'
'Feminist!' He sniffed.
'Okay, okay.' She giggled. 'Enough of the old movies.'
He stepped back to lead her from the dance floor. 'And enough dancing, before I break your foot.'
When they returned to their table, an Asian woman of indeterminate age was placing salads at each place. She looked up with a wide smile. 'Eve'n, Mista Reilly!'
Lang pulled Alicia's chair out and smiled back. 'Evening, Lo Sin.'
Seated, Alicia looked at the departing back of the waitress, then at Lang and back to Lo Sin as the light dawned. 'You're a member!' It sounded more accusation than question. 'You didn't tell me!'
Lang picked up his salad fork. 'You didn't ask.'
She regarded him quizzically for a moment and then burst out laughing. 'Here I was touting this place and
