until he gets there. Harry signals me, subtle palms-down, like it's all cool. Nothing to worry about.
I'm not so sure.
"Good." Susan's all smiles. "Then its settled." Brewer's out of his chair. Jonah's halfway to the door, the seat of his pants still covered with muck from the docks.
Susan's got a hand on his shoulder, talking in his ear. "We get an order to show cause, I'll get my press people working. We'll take the edge off of suade's press conference. Hit her with contempt and take that smile off her face."
"Not unless I miss my guess," I say.
Susan turns to look at me.
"That one thrives on threats."
Chapter Seven.
Harry makes his phone calls while Jonah ann Susan head downtown, for her office.
Susan is inspired by nothing but contempt for Suade, another reason for concern on my part.
Five minutes later I'm behind the wheel in Lena bouncing over the Coronado Bridge and north on 1-5. I drop off the freeway and work my way down toward the airport. At the intersection of Pacific Highway I am stopped at a light. I can hear the screaming engines of a jet and see its large tail assembly over the steel baffles that line the fence as the plane revs for takeoff, the vibration rattling the teeth in my head.
The light changes and I move through the intersection away from the noise now descending down the runway. I head toward Harbor Drive. In the distance I can see Harbor Island with its highrise hotels.
Rumbling at speed toward Rosecrans, I merge with traffic, go a few more blocks, catch the light and do a left, heading out onto Shelter Island.
A forest of aluminum masts and steel-cabled riggings, this is the world of sailing and regattas, the place where the America's Cup last touched U.S. soil.
A few blocks down I stop and back into a tight space at the curb, just enough room for half of a car, or a stub-backed Jeep. I look over at the slip of paper pinned under my coffee cup on the seat next to me, and then back to the sign over the street on the other side--Red Sails Inn.
I'd scrawled the name in pencil a few days before, after making a half dozen phone calls.
With open windows there is nothing to lock, so I step out, slam the half door, and make my way across the street around a few slow-moving vehicles.
The Red Sails Inn is a landmark, a restaurant and bar that has been a San Diego fixture since before Lindbergh came to town to pick up the Spirit of St. Louis. The restaurant moved from its original digs near the waterfront out to Shelter Island when that landfill was created back in the sixties, so once again, it is nestled by a sea of boats. There are large boats and small boats, all tied up in slips out back. Some of these could easily be classed as yachts. These are generally defined as a large hole in the water into which one pours money. Fortunately, I have never had the inclination to find out.
What I know is that these gleaming, white palaces of floating fiberglass look expensive.
There are a few pedestrians ambling along the street: a guy window-shopping pricey property through the glass front of a real estate office, a delivery truck off-loading supplies--signs of commercial life in the afternoon.
I open the door and enter the Red Sails, lifting the dark glasses from my eyes so that I can see. I've landed here at the meal hour, and the place is crowded. There are a few locals sitting on bar stools and a line forming for tables in the dining room. The bartender is mixing drinks and taking orders, talking to another man in a sport coat and open collar who has the look of management about him.
In another minute, the man in the sport coat escorts two couples in front of me to their table and comes back. "Smoking or nonsmoking?" he says.
"Actually, I'm looking for Joaquin Murphy." The guy looks around and doesn't see him. "Murph was expecting you?"
"Supposed to meet me here for lunch."
"Jimmie. Have you seen Murph this morning?"
"Not yet."
"My guess is he's out back. On the Money Pit." I give him
I'm not so sure.
"Good." Susan's all smiles. "Then its settled." Brewer's out of his chair. Jonah's halfway to the door, the seat of his pants still covered with muck from the docks.
Susan's got a hand on his shoulder, talking in his ear. "We get an order to show cause, I'll get my press people working. We'll take the edge off of suade's press conference. Hit her with contempt and take that smile off her face."
"Not unless I miss my guess," I say.
Susan turns to look at me.
"That one thrives on threats."
Chapter Seven.
Harry makes his phone calls while Jonah ann Susan head downtown, for her office.
Susan is inspired by nothing but contempt for Suade, another reason for concern on my part.
Five minutes later I'm behind the wheel in Lena bouncing over the Coronado Bridge and north on 1-5. I drop off the freeway and work my way down toward the airport. At the intersection of Pacific Highway I am stopped at a light. I can hear the screaming engines of a jet and see its large tail assembly over the steel baffles that line the fence as the plane revs for takeoff, the vibration rattling the teeth in my head.
The light changes and I move through the intersection away from the noise now descending down the runway. I head toward Harbor Drive. In the distance I can see Harbor Island with its highrise hotels.
Rumbling at speed toward Rosecrans, I merge with traffic, go a few more blocks, catch the light and do a left, heading out onto Shelter Island.
A forest of aluminum masts and steel-cabled riggings, this is the world of sailing and regattas, the place where the America's Cup last touched U.S. soil.
A few blocks down I stop and back into a tight space at the curb, just enough room for half of a car, or a stub-backed Jeep. I look over at the slip of paper pinned under my coffee cup on the seat next to me, and then back to the sign over the street on the other side--Red Sails Inn.
I'd scrawled the name in pencil a few days before, after making a half dozen phone calls.
With open windows there is nothing to lock, so I step out, slam the half door, and make my way across the street around a few slow-moving vehicles.
The Red Sails Inn is a landmark, a restaurant and bar that has been a San Diego fixture since before Lindbergh came to town to pick up the Spirit of St. Louis. The restaurant moved from its original digs near the waterfront out to Shelter Island when that landfill was created back in the sixties, so once again, it is nestled by a sea of boats. There are large boats and small boats, all tied up in slips out back. Some of these could easily be classed as yachts. These are generally defined as a large hole in the water into which one pours money. Fortunately, I have never had the inclination to find out.
What I know is that these gleaming, white palaces of floating fiberglass look expensive.
There are a few pedestrians ambling along the street: a guy window-shopping pricey property through the glass front of a real estate office, a delivery truck off-loading supplies--signs of commercial life in the afternoon.
I open the door and enter the Red Sails, lifting the dark glasses from my eyes so that I can see. I've landed here at the meal hour, and the place is crowded. There are a few locals sitting on bar stools and a line forming for tables in the dining room. The bartender is mixing drinks and taking orders, talking to another man in a sport coat and open collar who has the look of management about him.
In another minute, the man in the sport coat escorts two couples in front of me to their table and comes back. "Smoking or nonsmoking?" he says.
"Actually, I'm looking for Joaquin Murphy." The guy looks around and doesn't see him. "Murph was expecting you?"
"Supposed to meet me here for lunch."
"Jimmie. Have you seen Murph this morning?"
"Not yet."
"My guess is he's out back. On the Money Pit." I give him
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