a blind stare.
"His boat."
"Ah"
"Lemme see if I can get ahold of him. What's your name?" I give him a business card from my pocket.
The guy disappears behind the bar and a second later he's on the phone, talking to somebody. I can see his lips moving. It's a quick conversation and he hangs up.
"He got busy with some chores. Forgot the time. He'll be over in a minute. Go ahead and sit down. Can I get you a drink?" It's a little early, so I order a Virgin Mary. "Easy on the Tabasco," I tell him.
I sit and study the decor. It's rustic contemporary, lots of wood on the interior, tables set with sturdy wooden chairs in the lounge.
The restaurant is to the rear, where a large wall of windows and a sliding glass door frame a deck for outdoor dining. This merges with the dock and the slips beyond. Outside umbrellaed tables are full of people extending the lunch hour, enjoying the bobbing masts and cool breezes off the harbor.
A waitress returns with my drink. Just then I see a figure moving like a comet leaving a tail, dropping socks and then a shoe as he hops between tables out on the deck. He still has one shoe in his hand when he reaches the sliding door.
He is short and stubby, more than a little overweight, in Bermuda shorts that reach halfway to his ankles so that he has the look of a comic pirate. He wears a wrinkled polo shirt that does little to disguise his bulging Buddha belly. From the look of his tousled dark hair, I judge he has only moments before pulled it over his head.
As he comes through the sliding door he leans against the frame. Still fighting with the one wayward shoe, he surveys the people inside. It takes him only a second to figure I'm the one he's looking for. By the time he makes it to my table, the only thing amiss is the shoelaces dragging in his wake.
"Mr. Madriani." His smile struggles to be disarming, and instead he comes off looking like an elf who slept with Santa's wife on Christmas Eve. His teeth are a little uneven, flashing white set against a deep tan and an even darker five-o'clock shadow. "Sorry," he says. "I got tied up."
"So I gathered. Name's Paul." I offer my hand and he shakes it, a firm grip.
"Joaquin Murphy," he says. "You can call me Murph.
Everybody else does."
"Murph it is. Have a seat." He's a bucket of sweat.
"I thought we'd go to my place. Out back," he says. "Little more privacy there."
"Whatever. Can I get you something to drink?" The waitress has now joined us.
"Corona," he says. "And Rosie, make it to go." He has one foot on the chair next to mine trying to tie his shoelace. There are smudges of grease and oil on his forearms, and his fingernails look as if he has been using them to plow the back forty.
"Been waiting long?"
"No." He notices me looking at his arms.
"You own a boat, you get like this," he says. "I was workin' on a bilge pump. Time got away from me. If it isn't one thing, it's another.
Ever owned one? A boat?"
"I've missed that pleasure," I tell him.
"Unless you're handy, into maintenance, you don't want one.
Either do it yourself, or pay through the nose. When it's floating, maintenance isn't something you can let go. Not like a house.
Spring a leak in your plumbing at home, you get a little dry rot. Do it on a boat, and you find yourself at the bottom of the slip." He's now wiping grease off the back of one of his hands with one of the linen napkins from the table.
The \ waitress arrives. He takes the chilled bottle of beer from the girl. We order sandwiches. "They'll deliver," he says. I peel off some bills from my money clip and we walk.
I follow Murphy, drinks in hand, out the back through the sliding door, across the deck and down the dock. He is three slips down, in the direction of the boatyard, which I can now see jutting out into the marina, some sparks flying from an are welder in the shadows.
He grabs a line to balance himself as he walks cleanly under the bowsprit of a large sailboat, twin masted. If I had to guess, I'd
"His boat."
"Ah"
"Lemme see if I can get ahold of him. What's your name?" I give him a business card from my pocket.
The guy disappears behind the bar and a second later he's on the phone, talking to somebody. I can see his lips moving. It's a quick conversation and he hangs up.
"He got busy with some chores. Forgot the time. He'll be over in a minute. Go ahead and sit down. Can I get you a drink?" It's a little early, so I order a Virgin Mary. "Easy on the Tabasco," I tell him.
I sit and study the decor. It's rustic contemporary, lots of wood on the interior, tables set with sturdy wooden chairs in the lounge.
The restaurant is to the rear, where a large wall of windows and a sliding glass door frame a deck for outdoor dining. This merges with the dock and the slips beyond. Outside umbrellaed tables are full of people extending the lunch hour, enjoying the bobbing masts and cool breezes off the harbor.
A waitress returns with my drink. Just then I see a figure moving like a comet leaving a tail, dropping socks and then a shoe as he hops between tables out on the deck. He still has one shoe in his hand when he reaches the sliding door.
He is short and stubby, more than a little overweight, in Bermuda shorts that reach halfway to his ankles so that he has the look of a comic pirate. He wears a wrinkled polo shirt that does little to disguise his bulging Buddha belly. From the look of his tousled dark hair, I judge he has only moments before pulled it over his head.
As he comes through the sliding door he leans against the frame. Still fighting with the one wayward shoe, he surveys the people inside. It takes him only a second to figure I'm the one he's looking for. By the time he makes it to my table, the only thing amiss is the shoelaces dragging in his wake.
"Mr. Madriani." His smile struggles to be disarming, and instead he comes off looking like an elf who slept with Santa's wife on Christmas Eve. His teeth are a little uneven, flashing white set against a deep tan and an even darker five-o'clock shadow. "Sorry," he says. "I got tied up."
"So I gathered. Name's Paul." I offer my hand and he shakes it, a firm grip.
"Joaquin Murphy," he says. "You can call me Murph.
Everybody else does."
"Murph it is. Have a seat." He's a bucket of sweat.
"I thought we'd go to my place. Out back," he says. "Little more privacy there."
"Whatever. Can I get you something to drink?" The waitress has now joined us.
"Corona," he says. "And Rosie, make it to go." He has one foot on the chair next to mine trying to tie his shoelace. There are smudges of grease and oil on his forearms, and his fingernails look as if he has been using them to plow the back forty.
"Been waiting long?"
"No." He notices me looking at his arms.
"You own a boat, you get like this," he says. "I was workin' on a bilge pump. Time got away from me. If it isn't one thing, it's another.
Ever owned one? A boat?"
"I've missed that pleasure," I tell him.
"Unless you're handy, into maintenance, you don't want one.
Either do it yourself, or pay through the nose. When it's floating, maintenance isn't something you can let go. Not like a house.
Spring a leak in your plumbing at home, you get a little dry rot. Do it on a boat, and you find yourself at the bottom of the slip." He's now wiping grease off the back of one of his hands with one of the linen napkins from the table.
The \ waitress arrives. He takes the chilled bottle of beer from the girl. We order sandwiches. "They'll deliver," he says. I peel off some bills from my money clip and we walk.
I follow Murphy, drinks in hand, out the back through the sliding door, across the deck and down the dock. He is three slips down, in the direction of the boatyard, which I can now see jutting out into the marina, some sparks flying from an are welder in the shadows.
He grabs a line to balance himself as he walks cleanly under the bowsprit of a large sailboat, twin masted. If I had to guess, I'd
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