Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants (19 page)

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Authors: Lee Goldberg

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants
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In fact, to ensure that he wouldn’t need to use a restroom at all during the drive, I learned that he hadn’t had anything to drink since he awoke that morning. And he declared to me that he wasn’t going to eat or drink anything for the duration of the journey.
 
 
I wasn’t under any such restriction. So I had a burger, some fries and an extra-large Coke at a Wendy’s while Monk sat across from me, wheezing and licking his chapped lips.
 
 
I refilled my Coke and we got back on the road. For the rest of the trip, his stomach growled and he kept making these odd choking sounds. I turned up the radio to drown him out. After a couple hours, he either fell asleep or passed out from dehydration.
 
 
We got back to San Francisco around eight p.m. I nudged him awake and helped him lug his suitcases into his apartment. He was so glad to be home that he probably would have cried if there had been any moisture left in his body.
 
 
I went to Sharona’s sister’s place to pick up Julie, and we went home. It was good to be back.
 
 
Julie sat down at the kitchen table. I took out two spoons and a quart of Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream. Then I sat down next to my daughter. We caught up on each other’s lives while we ate ice cream out of the carton.
 
 
Yeah, I know, health-wise and nutrition-wise I might as well have been feeding Julie rat poison, but somehow you just can’t bond with your daughter over rice cakes.
 
 
Julie had some good news for me.
 
 
“The cast-vertising is a hit,” she said. “The sales have triggered the escalator clause, so I’m going to get the fifty-dollar rate next week.”
 
 
“That is great,” I said. “You may end up being sorry when your arm has healed and that cast has to come off.”
 
 
“Not really,” Julie said. “I’ve decided to franchise the cast-vertising concept.”
 
 
“Franchise the cast-vertising concept? What does that mean?”
 
 
My adorable daughter was beginning to sound like one of those precocious kids on bad TV sitcoms. I didn’t know if I could stand that.
 
 
“Kids my age break their bones all the time,” she said. “You ought to see all the kids with casts at my school. So I’ve contacted Sorrento’s and other Noe Valley merchants about advertising on other kids.”
 
 
“What do you get out of it?”
 
 
“I find the kids with the casts, arrange the cast-vertising and get a twenty-percent commission,” she said. “Plus we get a ten-percent discount on any purchases we make with the advertisers. I’m incentivizing other kids by giving them referral fees for recommending people with casts to me.”
 
 
“Who helped you come up with this?”
 
 
“No one,” she said.
 
 
“You’ve never used words like ‘franchising’ and ‘incentivizing’ before in your life.”
 
 
“Did you expect me to speak ga-ga-goo-goo for the rest of my life?” she said. “I’m growing up.”
 
 
“You won’t be if you don’t tell me who is coaching you.”
 
 
She sighed. “Sharona’s sister is dating an accountant. Larry and I talked a little bit about my venture.”
 
 
“Your venture?” I said.
 
 
“Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
 
 
“I’m just trying to keep up. The vocabulary is a little over my head,” I said. “So what does he want out of this?”
 
 
“Nothing,” she said. “At least not until we incorporate.”
 
 
“I’ve been gone almost two days,” I said. “Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.”
 
 
“How did it go in Los Angeles?”
 
 
“Mr. Monk solved a murder and caught a shoplifter,” I said. “But he hasn’t figured out who really killed Ellen Cole.”
 
 
“So Benji’s dad is still in jail,” she said.
 
 
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
 
 
“I like Benji,” Julie said. “We have something in common.”
 
 
“Mr. Monk,” I said.
 
 
She shook her head. “Overbearing mothers with control issues.”
 
 
“Is that another phrase you learned from good old Larry?”
 
 
“Dr. Phil,” she said.
 
 
“You are watching way too much TV,” I said.
 
 
“I hope Mr. Monk finds whoever killed that lady,” Julie said. “I don’t want to have something else in common with Benji.”
 
 
“Like what?” I asked.
 
 
“That we’ve both lost our fathers.”
 
 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
 
 
Mr. Monk Takes a Breath
 
 
It was Thursday morning, October 20, and my horoscope in the
San Francisco Chronicle
predicted that my life was about to become unpredictable. That was a big help.
 
 
On those rare occasions when I read my horoscope, I’m looking for reassurance, some sense that I’m gaining a little edge over fate. The last thing I want is my uncertainties reinforced.
 
 
What I really needed to ease my anxieties was for Monk to solve Ellen Cole’s murder and get Sharona’s husband out of jail. I didn’t see how Monk could do that from San Francisco. Somehow, I had to convince him to go back to Los Angeles.
 
 
It wasn’t just about saving my job now. It was about seeing that justice was served and that my daughter didn’t have anything more in common with Sharona’s kid.
 
 
I didn’t know how to pull that off except to nag Monk to go back to LA until he finally gave in. But before I could do that, I needed a day to decompress from our last trip and to do some basic household tasks, like laundry and grocery shopping.
 
 
So I called Monk and told him I wouldn’t be coming by that day. He was absolutely fine with that. He needed at least a day to either clean, disinfect or burn everything that he’d taken with him to Los Angeles.
 
 
I took Julie to school, and when I came back, I saw a familiar fire engine red pickup truck parked in front of my house. It belonged to Joe Cochran, the firefighter I’d dated not so long ago. We’d met when Julie convinced Monk to investigate the killing of Joe’s firehouse dog, who had been murdered while the company was away fighting a fire.
 
 
Joe and I went on only a couple dates, and just when I began to feel the chemistry between us, I dumped him.
 
 
It wasn’t because I wasn’t attracted to Joe. It was because I was
too
attracted to him. I couldn’t risk my heart and Julie’s getting involved with another man in a life-and-death profession.
 
 
But just seeing his truck made my heartbeat quicken, and I had to consciously force the smile off my face as I steered my car into my driveway.
 
 
If I’d known I was going to see him, I would have put on something nicer than sweats, a wrinkled tank top and a hooded fleece jacket.
 
 
Joe got out of his truck to greet me, with a big, affable grin on his face. He had round, lovable cheeks that softened his natural brawniness and made him seem strong and cuddly instead of muscular and tough. His big arms looked like they could snap a tree trunk or keep a woman very snug and warm against his chest.
 
 
I did such a wonderful job of controlling my emotions that when I got out of the car all I did was give him a friendly kiss on the cheek instead of tackling him onto the grass, tearing off his clothes and having my way with him.
 
 
He put his big hands on my shoulders when he returned my kiss and I found myself yearning for him to pull me close to him.
 
 
“This is a nice surprise,” I said.
 
 
“I’ve been thinking about you for months,” Joe said. “You have no idea how many times I’ve driven by and thought about stopping.”
 
 
“I could give you a rough estimate,” I said.
 
 
“You’ve seen me?”
 
 
“Your truck isn’t exactly subtle,” I said. “And I like to sit in front of my little bay window and read magazines.”
 
 
“That’s why I like to drive by,” he said.
 
 
“So what made you stop this time?”
 
 
“I need you and Monk again,” he said. “The company got called out to put down a car fire last night, and when we got back, we discovered that someone had stolen some of our rescue equipment.”
 
 
“And you want Monk to investigate,” I said.
 
 
“And you, too,” he said.
 
 
“This sounds like a ploy to see me again,” I said.
 
 
“Of course it is,” Joe said. “But we’d really also like to get our hydraulic tools back.”
 
 
“Mr. Monk only investigates murders,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. “And he’s already got a case, a very important homicide down in Los Angeles, that’s taking his full attention.”
 
 
“Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
 
 
“You’ll just have to trust the police to handle it.”
 
 
“You could investigate,” he said.
 
 
“I’m not a detective,” I said.
 
 
“I’m sure you’ve picked up a few tricks from Monk.”
 
 
“You just want me to hang out all day at the firehouse so you can woo me.”
 
 
“That, too,” he said. “You’re very woo-able.”
 
 
“You don’t have to wait for someone to steal something from the firehouse to take me out for a cup of coffee.”
 
 
“But you dumped me,” he said.
 
 
“Coffee isn’t dating,” I said. “It’s coffee.”
 
 
“I’m not sure that I see the distinction,” he said. “But I’m certainly not going to argue the point.”
 
 
We walked down the street to my favorite little coffeehouse, which was across from Sorrento’s and next door to a little independent bookstore with several copies of Ian Ludlow’s latest book displayed in the window.
 
 
The coffeehouse was furnished with grungy but inviting thrift-shop couches, and we settled onto one with our coffees and cakes.
 
 
We talked for hours.
 
 
He told me about his latest firefighting exploits and his loneliness when he wasn’t at the station. I told him all about Trevor’s case, my fears about losing my job and my jealousy of Sharona’s relationship with Monk.
 
 
It was such a relief to be able to unload all of my anxieties on someone—and Joe was a great listener. He didn’t offer me a lot of advice, but that wasn’t really what I was looking for. He made me feel comfortable and safe.
 
 
Afterward, he slipped his hand into mine and walked me slowly back to my house. When we got there, I impulsively and stupidly invited him in for coffee.
 
 
I knew we’d already had gallons of fresh-brewed coffee, and all I had in my kitchen was the foul instant stuff, but that wasn’t the point. It was an excuse to stay together for another stolen hour or two. There was this wonderful glow between us, probably caffeine-induced, and I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.

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