Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants (2 page)
Read Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
Disorder is the unexpected. It’s discovery. It’s change. And as hard as we try to bring order to our lives, deep down we all know that it’s that little bit of disorder that makes life exciting.
So why do we constantly keep working to put our lives in order anyway? Why do I?
I don’t know.
But sometimes I wonder if Monk does, because restoring order in all things is his obsession.
I knew the disorder that the Lancaster case represented had to be eating away at Monk. And I was worried about what he’d do to compensate for that anxiety.
So on that Sunday afternoon, I had decided to stop by Monk’s place on our way to the soccer game just to see how he was doing. Julie begged me not to, but I was worried about him.
It turns out I had good reason to be.
I found Monk on his hands and knees cleaning his carpet strand by strand, using a magnifying glass and a toothbrush.
I couldn’t leave him like that, so I made him come along with us, despite Julie’s fervent protests. I couldn’t blame her for objecting. Monk once helped me coach her basketball team, and it was a disaster.
I tried to console Julie by assuring her that this time Monk was going to be merely a spectator in the stands. How much harm could he do?
Little did I know.
We were playing at Dolores Park on a clear, sunny day, with barely a wisp of fog in the air. The park was on the steep hill that divided the Noe Valley neighborhood where we live from the urban bustle of the Civic Center. The spectators not only had a great view of the field, but of the downtown San Francisco skyline as well.
The Slammers were up against the Killer Cleats, the number-one team in the league—also the meanest. The Killer Cleats played soccer as a contact sport, mowing down any kid who got in their way. They were way too rough, and their coach, a big, angry man named Harv Felder, drove them hard, brutally berating any player who didn’t come off the field with an opposing team member’s flesh between her teeth.
The coaches and families of both teams were on the same side of the field, but each on their own set of four-row, metal bleachers.
Early in the first quarter, one of the Killer Cleats got hit in the back of the head with the ball, allowing one of the Slammers to get past her and score a goal.
The ref blew his whistle, calling a brief time-out to give the injured player, a girl named Katie, an opportunity to leave the field.
Katie staggered to the sidelines, trying not to cry, and another Killer Cleat went out to replace her.
“Good defense, Katie. Way to play,” Raul Mendez, our coach, said sincerely to Katie as she passed him. He was the father of four girls and a real sweet guy. The player glanced at him but didn’t acknowledge his comment.
“You call that playing?” Felder screamed at her, getting his face right in hers, close enough so Katie could probably feel his spittle spraying her from between his clenched teeth. “You’re a loser, Katie, a sniveling little worm. You sicken me.”
Katie burst into tears and Felder mimicked her as she lumbered back to her embarrassed parents.
“Boo-hoo-hoo. And you’re a crybaby too,” Felder added. “Get out of my sight before I puke.”
Raul shook his head in disgust. “Hey, man, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her? They’re just kids. It’s only a game.”
Felder sneered at Raul. “That’s what the losers always say.”
The game resumed and almost immediately one of the Killer Cleats plowed into a Slammer, knocking her on her back and actually running over her to make a goal.
Felder thrust his fist into the air and did a little victory dance.
“I hate that man,” I hissed to Monk.
But Monk wasn’t at my side anymore. He was up in the bleachers trying to convince people to move to different spots so there would be an even number of people on each row. I got up and dragged him back down.
“Please stop harassing the parents,” I said.
“Look at them,” Monk said. “Three sitting in one row, five in another. Only one sitting up top. It’s irresponsible. They should set an example for their kids.”
The Killer Cleats elbowed, kicked and tackled their way through the Slammers to score another goal. The ref never called a single penalty against them. I figured he was either blind or a buddy of Felder’s.
“What about the example
he
sets?” I said, motioning to Felder, who was doing another one of his victory dances.
he
sets?” I said, motioning to Felder, who was doing another one of his victory dances.
“Make ’em bleed,” Felder yelled to his team.
“Our team is getting murdered,” I said.
Monk stared at Felder. “Call the captain.”
“I didn’t mean that comment literally,” I said.
“Call him.” Monk shifted his shoulders and rolled his head. “Tell him to bring handcuffs.”
By the time Captain Stottlemeyer showed up, it was the second half, the score was seven to one, and Monk had nagged all the parents on our team to sit on a single row in the middle of the bleachers.
“You’ll thank me later,” he told them.
I doubted it. In fact, they might even ban me from attending future games. I could feel them glaring at me, but I pretended not to notice.
Stottlemeyer had the same look on his face as the parents. He was wearing a T-shirt, a Windbreaker, and a pair of faded jeans. The captain clearly wasn’t thrilled at being dragged out of his apartment on his day off.
“You better have a good reason for this, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
“We need to have a talk with them.” Monk motioned to the parents on the Killer Cleat bleachers. “They aren’t going to listen to me.”
“You called me down here to rearrange the people on the bleachers?”
“It’s a safety issue,” Monk said.
“Uh-huh.” Stottlemeyer turned his back on Monk, so the captain missed seeing the Slammer goalie get pummeled by the ball and the Killer Cleats score another goal. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait,” Monk said. “You can’t go without arresting the coach.”
“For disorderly seating?”
“For murder,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer stopped walking and turned around slowly to face Monk again. “I can’t arrest him for winning the game.”
“How about for killing the banker?” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer gave him a look. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Monk pointed to Felder, who was doing his little victory dance. “That explains the footprints.”
“It does?”
“It’s his ritual. He does it whenever he wins,” Monk said. “Those steps match the sequence of bloody footprints at the bank.”
Stottlemeyer and Monk stepped closer to Felder, staring at his feet as he danced.
“I’ll be damned,” Stottlemeyer said, rubbing his bushy mustache.
Felder spun around and glowered at them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Stottlemeyer flashed his badge at Felder. “SFPD homicide. You’re under arrest for the murder of E. L. Lancaster, manager of Golden State Bank.”
Felder’s jaw dropped in astonishment. So did mine. Jaws were dropping everywhere.
Stottlemeyer cuffed Felder, read him his rights and started to lead him away.
Monk cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Stottlemeyer groaned, turned around and held up his badge so the parents in the Killer Cleat bleachers could see it.
“Hey, everybody, listen up,” the captain said. “You have two choices. Either sit in even numbers on even-numbered rows, or all of you have to sit together on one row.”
“Why?” one parent asked.
“It’s a safety issue,” Stottlemeyer said. “If you want to avoid a citation, I suggest you listen to him.” Stottlemeyer tipped his head toward Monk and then led Felder off the field.
The Slammers and their parents began to applaud. We were cheering about Harv Felder getting taken away in handcuffs, but that’s not how Monk saw it.
“See?” Monk said to me. “Everybody appreciates balanced seating.”
CHAPTER TWO
Mr. Monk and the Unlucky Break
I don’t think there’s anything in the soccer rule book that covers what to do when the coach of a team is arrested for murder during a game. The ref didn’t know how to deal with it. The parents of the Killer Cleats wanted to call it quits and take their kids home. Raul was glad to oblige—if the Killer Cleats agreed to forfeit the game. The Killer Cleats weren’t willing to take a loss, so the game went on.
Raul probably figured that the trauma of seeing their coach dragged off to jail would undermine the morale of the Killer Cleats to such a massive degree that we actually might have a chance to beat them. Instead, it just pissed them off. They returned to the field seething like a pack of rabid wolves.
Christy Clark, the Cleats’ forward, drove the ball right down the center of the field. She was as wide as two girls and plowed through everything, and everyone, in her path like a runaway bulldozer.
Most of the Slammers had the good sense to get the hell out of Christy’s way, the game be damned, except my dear, sweet, stubborn daughter.
Julie was not going to let that ball get past her. She grimaced and charged Christy.
I think I even heard Julie growl.
Christy and Julie bashed into each other like raging elk, kicking the ball between them as they butted against each other. Somehow Christy managed to kick the ball past Julie and knock her down.
My daughter hit the ground hard and let out an anguished cry that was equal parts pain and fury.
Christy and the Killer Cleats surged past Julie and made another goal, the whole team erupting in cheers.
At least they didn’t trample Julie, which I took as an act of rare mercy on their part. I stood up and waited for Julie to get to her feet.
Monk tugged at my shirt.
“You’re standing,” he said.
“I know that, Mr. Monk.”
“But everyone else is sitting,” Monk said. “You’re making a scene.”
“I’m concerned about my daughter.”
“What if another person stands up? Then it’s
two
people standing and everyone else sitting, and before you know it, the whole world collapses into anarchy.”
two
people standing and everyone else sitting, and before you know it, the whole world collapses into anarchy.”
At that moment, my whole world was one twelve-year-old girl and she wasn’t standing up. I ran out onto the field. Raul joined me.
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