Free The Bonaparte Secret by Gregg Loomis

port.”
    Lang placed the full decanter on the bar. “Nothing except the fact that if a house puts out an inferior year’s product as vintage, it won’t keep its customers long.” He filled a small crystal glass, holding it to the light to admire its ruby color. “You might say the free market keeps the port makers honest.”
    Lang handed the glass to Francis, who took a tentative sip. “As always, delicious!”
    Lang poured and sampled a glass of his own. “You’re right, it is good but . . .”
    “But what?”
    Lang looked longingly at the coffee table where a mahogany humidor sat. “It would be better with a good cubano .”
    Francis shook his head slowly as he sat on the sofa. “Don’t even think about going back on your word.”
    When Manfred arrived in Atlanta, Gurt and Lang had made promises to each other concerning the child’s health. Not wanting to set a bad example or subject the little boy to potentially harmful secondhand smoke, they agreed they would not smoke in front of him. That proved difficult for Gurt, leading to clandestine Marlboros smoked in the yard, the odor of which was clearly detectable upon her return inside. Lang, a lover of Cuban cigars, which he had ordered specially by an indirect route, only consumed one or two a week anyway. It had been easier for him to smoke less although more difficult to conceal, since he refused to throw away a cigar only half-smoked. The things cost nearly twenty-five bucks apiece. The ultimate resolution had been for both parents to simply quit—if there was anything simple about giving up a lifetime pleasure.
    “What word was that?” Gurt had returned from her turn to bathe Manfred and put him to bed.
    “Our mutual smoking ban.”
    She looked at her husband with mock suspicion. “A year into an agreement and you are already looking for hoop holes?” She shrugged. “It is not easy, being married to a lawyer, always the hoop holes.”
    “Loopholes,” Lang corrected.
    “Is one hole in an agreement not as good as another?”
    For an answer, Lang poured a third glass of port and extended it to her. “At least we didn’t give up port.”
    She accepted the offering with a mock curtsy. “For small favors I am thankful.”
    Johnny Cash bewailed being named Sue.
    Francis smiled. “Always found that song amusing. What I don’t understand, though, is your choice of music.”
    “I suppose you would prefer Gregorian chants?”
    “Not necessarily. What I meant was, you obviously enjoy history.” Francis pointed to the overburdened bookcases. “I see everything from Gibbon’s Decline and Fall to Will Durant’s Story of Civilization and Churchill’s Second World War. I see works by Dickens, essays by Emerson and a bunch of contemporary novels.”
    “And?”
    “I don’t get it: someone as obviously well-read as you likes country music?”
    Lang nodded. “Yeah, I do. At least some of it. I can understand the words and it actually has a tune I can whistle. Try whistling Beethoven.”
    An hour or so later, the port exhausted, Francis stood and stretched. “As always, a magnificent dinner, wonderful port and delightful company.”
    Lang also stood. “You are easily amused.”
    Francis sighed. “Not as easily as you think. It’s been a long time since you broke bread at the parish house.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Mrs. Finnigan, my housekeeper-cook, bless her heart, is a fine woman and a good Catholic but a horrible cook. Deorum cibus non est. Food for the gods it ain’t.”
    “Doesn’t sound like a fair trade-off to me,” Lang said, walking his friend to the front door. “Why not get someone who is a decent cook, then?”
    Francis stopped, facing Lang. “She’s been at Immaculate Conception longer than I have. I can’t just fire her like that.”
    Lang reached to open the door. “Maybe you’ll be canonized someday for your martyrdom in suffering heartburn as the price of Christian charity.”
    Francis stepped around