The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) by Gregg Loomis Page B

very back exuding anger.
                  Thirty minutes later, Lang and Gurt sat at school desks in one of the four rooms the Varsity provides its customers, each with a different network on a television mounted on the front wall. Neither cared about the TV, the two were the only seats they could find together.
                  Gurt looked at Lang’s paper plate with clear disapproval.
                  “What?”
                  “Two hot dogs heaped with chili, fried onion rings and a fried peach pie washed down with an orange drink with ice cream floating in it? You would want Manfred to eat like that?”
                  Lang used a paper napkin to wipe a bit of chili from his chin. “Manfred isn’t here.”
                  “The calories and cholesterol are.”
                  “The Varsity hasn’t been here since 1928 by selling tofu.”
                  “Why do Americans call them ‘hot dogs’ when they are actually sausages?” she wanted to know. “They do not resemble, say, Grumps.”
                  Thank God for small favors.
                  Gurt’s very literal Teutonic mind had not totally embraced the American idiom.
                  But he said. “I think back when they were invented, someone thought they looked like a dachshund.”
                  “So does almost every other Wurst.”
                  From experience, Lang knew she had something other than frankfurters, wieners or hot dogs on her mind. A discussion of the banal was usually a prelude to something he wasn’t going to like. 
                  Gurt almost disdainfully nibbled at her Naked Steak, a plain hamburger and changed the subject. “You disappointed your friend Celeste.”
                  The onion ring stopped halfway to Lang’s mouth. “Disappointed?  I never even intimated I’d go to Nassau.”
                  “I can see why she might think you would. She is one reason you never spent a dime on advertising.”
                  Lang returned the half devoured onion ring to his plate, staring in bewilderment. “The reason I’ve never advertised is,” holding up his forefinger, “one: I’ve got plenty of business and,” holding up the index finger, “advertising is the province of personal injury sleazebags who operate on a volume basis: get a case in and get it settled, never mind if trying it would be better for the client.”
                  Unperturbed, Gurt took another bite. “She once called you, what was it? ‘The cream of the white collar defense crop.’ It was right before that the mayor hired you to defend him.”
                  “Ex mayor and we don’t know that article had anything to do with his decision to retain me.”
                  “And it was right after you got that man off for stealing from the bank and her article . . .”
                  “Embezzlement was the charge and he didn’t do it.”
                  “Whatever, it was right after that man who did all the mortgage frauds . . .”
                  Lang had forgotten the onion ring. “Are you suggesting I should drop what I’m doing and go Nassau? I mean, we made a deal years ago: No more getting into dangerous situations, no more endangering ourselves. For Manfred’s sake, remember? No risking him becoming an orphan.”
                  Gurt dabbed at her lips with the paper napkin. “I think you owe this woman Celeste.”
                  No mind hobgoblined by foolish consistencies here. In fact, no consistency at all. But then, womankind in general and Gurt in particular were not noted for the trait.
                  Lang guessed he was in for a trip.

13.
    Government House
    Nassau, Bahamas
    August,