say at least forty feet.
I have to duck to join him.
The Money Pit is larger than I'd imagined, a wood hull, shiplap, a vintage vessel. In the stern I can see a large teak wheel in the cockpit under a green canvas bimini. The boat is painted Kelly green with dark trim and a teak deck. It is meticulously outfitted, brass fittings and neatly coiled white sheets, lines to work the sails. The brightwork gleams so that I can nearly see my image in the marine varnish.
"My office," says Murph.
"Investigations must pay well."
"That, some investments, and a rich uncle," he says. "This is mostly the uncle." He takes a sip from the bottle as we stand on the dock and admire.
"She was built in the early thirties for some bootlegger. When I found her, she was in bad shape. Fortunately, there wasn't enough metal to justify the salvage yard. The only reason she survived," he says.
"Labor of love," I tell him. "It's beautiful."
"She is gorgeous, even if I say so myself." He talks as if the boat were alive, then leads me up the gangway onto the deck and along the side of the house that juts up in the center of the boat like a miniature cottage with a pitched roof. This has six round portholes running the length to provide light down into what I imagine is the salon and cabins below.
Murphy turns the corner and sidles through the sliding hatch door, then skips down a ladder. For a short, fat man, still dragging a loose shoestring, he possesses a degree of agility that is deceptive.
I follow him into the spacious interior.
The salon is paneled in dark mahogany, the floor polished teak, and above it all is a low curving ceiling, a grid work of varnished beams beneath the open canopy of the house where shafts of light stream in through the portholes overhead.
"Sit down. Get comfortable." He nods toward one of the benches that line the inside of the hull as he searches and finds a small notebook and pencil at a built-in desk.
I sit and put my drink in a cup holder.
Murphy takes the desk and places the bottle of beer on top of an unfurled chart where the chilled glass deposits a round watermark.
"Like I told you on the phone," he says. "I don't do much domestic stuff. Wouldn't have taken the case except Fred Hawkins referred you. I do a lot: of personal injury for Fred."
"I would think divorces would be a Pi's lifeblood."
"Not this one. It's a good way to get shot. Angry husbands kill more people than the mob."
"I'll put your mind at ease. There's no husband involved in this one. I don't do family law work myself."
"So what got you involved?"
"A friend with a problem."
"Not the money?"
"A rich friend." This news has a leavening effect on Murphy. It generates some interest in note taking. He sweeps papers off his desk and sharpens his pencil, jamming it into the little hole in the electric device until I can barely see the eraser.
"Tell me about your client." I had sent Murphy a check for a thousand dollars, drawn against my client trust account, a retainer from Jonah.
Murphy is working at two hundred dollars an hour plus expenses, mileage and meals if he has to travel, hotels if he is overnight.
"As far as you're concerned, I'm your client."
"Fine by me," he says. "I'll work against the retainer. Bill you after that." This gives me the argument that whatever Murphy does is sheltered, privileged as attorney work-product, and not subject to discovery if I have to get into a courtroom with Suade.
I had decided long before this moment to share information about Jonah only on a need-to-know basis. When you have the prospect of eighty million dollars sitting in timed accounts, friends and benefactors tend to crop up like mold on rancid cheese.
"Have you had a chance to check into the woman I told you about on the phone?"
"Some," he says. "Made a few inquiries. Very discreet regarding this Zolanda Suade. Pulled what I could from Lexis--Nexis, the internet.
Whether what she does is legal or not I'll leave to the lawyers. One
I have to duck to join him.
The Money Pit is larger than I'd imagined, a wood hull, shiplap, a vintage vessel. In the stern I can see a large teak wheel in the cockpit under a green canvas bimini. The boat is painted Kelly green with dark trim and a teak deck. It is meticulously outfitted, brass fittings and neatly coiled white sheets, lines to work the sails. The brightwork gleams so that I can nearly see my image in the marine varnish.
"My office," says Murph.
"Investigations must pay well."
"That, some investments, and a rich uncle," he says. "This is mostly the uncle." He takes a sip from the bottle as we stand on the dock and admire.
"She was built in the early thirties for some bootlegger. When I found her, she was in bad shape. Fortunately, there wasn't enough metal to justify the salvage yard. The only reason she survived," he says.
"Labor of love," I tell him. "It's beautiful."
"She is gorgeous, even if I say so myself." He talks as if the boat were alive, then leads me up the gangway onto the deck and along the side of the house that juts up in the center of the boat like a miniature cottage with a pitched roof. This has six round portholes running the length to provide light down into what I imagine is the salon and cabins below.
Murphy turns the corner and sidles through the sliding hatch door, then skips down a ladder. For a short, fat man, still dragging a loose shoestring, he possesses a degree of agility that is deceptive.
I follow him into the spacious interior.
The salon is paneled in dark mahogany, the floor polished teak, and above it all is a low curving ceiling, a grid work of varnished beams beneath the open canopy of the house where shafts of light stream in through the portholes overhead.
"Sit down. Get comfortable." He nods toward one of the benches that line the inside of the hull as he searches and finds a small notebook and pencil at a built-in desk.
I sit and put my drink in a cup holder.
Murphy takes the desk and places the bottle of beer on top of an unfurled chart where the chilled glass deposits a round watermark.
"Like I told you on the phone," he says. "I don't do much domestic stuff. Wouldn't have taken the case except Fred Hawkins referred you. I do a lot: of personal injury for Fred."
"I would think divorces would be a Pi's lifeblood."
"Not this one. It's a good way to get shot. Angry husbands kill more people than the mob."
"I'll put your mind at ease. There's no husband involved in this one. I don't do family law work myself."
"So what got you involved?"
"A friend with a problem."
"Not the money?"
"A rich friend." This news has a leavening effect on Murphy. It generates some interest in note taking. He sweeps papers off his desk and sharpens his pencil, jamming it into the little hole in the electric device until I can barely see the eraser.
"Tell me about your client." I had sent Murphy a check for a thousand dollars, drawn against my client trust account, a retainer from Jonah.
Murphy is working at two hundred dollars an hour plus expenses, mileage and meals if he has to travel, hotels if he is overnight.
"As far as you're concerned, I'm your client."
"Fine by me," he says. "I'll work against the retainer. Bill you after that." This gives me the argument that whatever Murphy does is sheltered, privileged as attorney work-product, and not subject to discovery if I have to get into a courtroom with Suade.
I had decided long before this moment to share information about Jonah only on a need-to-know basis. When you have the prospect of eighty million dollars sitting in timed accounts, friends and benefactors tend to crop up like mold on rancid cheese.
"Have you had a chance to check into the woman I told you about on the phone?"
"Some," he says. "Made a few inquiries. Very discreet regarding this Zolanda Suade. Pulled what I could from Lexis--Nexis, the internet.
Whether what she does is legal or not I'll leave to the lawyers. One
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