Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk Returns a Favor

T
he food court had the usual mix of franchised eateries, along with mall versions of local San Francisco restaurants offering a few of their signature dishes over the counter. The mall’s Chinese food place was an outlet of a Chinatown institution rather than yet another Panda Express. I had to give the mall credit for trying to add some genuine local flavor. It also meant that we actually had lots of good choices for lunch.

“Which is the best place for toast?” Monk said.

“That’s all you’re going to have for lunch? Look around, Mr. Monk. There are so many choices.”

“Too many,” he said.

“How about a hot dog on a stick?”

“Mmm. That sounds so appetizing. Deep-fried, stuffed intestines impaled on a piece of wood. Maybe for dessert I could have some grilled donkey testicles served on a rock. Do I look like a Neanderthal to you?”

“I don’t think cavemen ate corn dogs.”

“I’m a civilized man. I don’t eat things with sticks. I use utensils.”

“Technically, the stick is a utensil,” I said, just to be argumentative.

“It is as if you are a savage living in a cave, a mud hut, or Captain Stottlemeyer’s apartment. Modern men use knives, forks, and spoons. You and Julie might want to try them. I could teach you how they are used.”

“Maybe you could show us how to make fire, too.”

I led him over to Yang Chow, where two young Chinese women stood at the counter with bright smiles on their faces, offering people samples on toothpicks. Monk scowled with disapproval.

“How about a bowl of white rice and a teriyaki chicken breast?” I said. “All the grains of rice are the same shape and color and you can ask them to chop the chicken breast into a square.”

“That actually doesn’t sound bad.”

“And look,” I said. “They even serve bottled Fiji water.”

That sealed the deal for him. Any place that sold Fiji water had to be good.

“Just don’t go overboard on the water,” I warned him. “We still have half a day of work left.”

While he ordered his meal, I went over to the Boudin Bakery outlet and got myself a turkey sandwich with havarti cheese on fresh San Francisco sourdough.

Monk found us a two-seat table that was bathed in filtered sunshine from an enormous skylight and that overlooked the first-floor shops below. It gave us the illusion of being out in the open.

The economic downturn had hit the mall as hard as everywhere else. The jewelry store below us was offering a 40 percent off sale on selected rings. Its neighbor on one side, a children’s clothing store, was offering a half-off sale, while the business on the other side was gone, the storefront boarded up, the wood flats covered with an advertisement promising “exciting changes ahead that will make your shopping experience more fun than ever.”

The only change that would have improved my shopping experience was either winning the lottery or getting a better-paying job, neither of which seemed very likely for me.

In front of those stores, in the center of the wide faux street, was a kiosk selling colorful umbrellas. It was one of many kiosks throughout the mall that sold things like personalized T-shirts, stuffed animals, cell phones, and popcorn.

A security guard sauntered up to the umbrella kiosk, had some words with the young salesgirl, gestured to the stores around her, and then helped her wheel the kiosk a few feet away from where it had been.

I guess the umbrella kiosk was impeding foot traffic, or was too close to a neighboring kiosk, or was blocking a storefront. I didn’t know nor did I care, but for some reason Monk seemed very interested in what was going on.

“The security guard has dirty pants,” he said.

“We should report him to the mall management right away.”

“I agree,” Monk said and started to get up.

I grabbed his arm. “I was joking. Sit down. It’s none of our business if the security guards have dirty uniforms.”

“It reflects poorly on law enforcement.”

“They aren’t cops and neither are we.”

He sat down and I figured that was the end of the matter. But I was wrong. After lunch, we took a stroll through the mall, and he stopped, stared up at one of the mall security cameras, and pointed at it, waving his finger as if admonishing a misbehaving child.

“What, exactly, do you think that is going to accomplish?” I asked him.

“I am putting them on notice that I am watching.”

“I’m sure that will mean a lot to them.”

We went down to the first floor and walked back toward our end of the mall. I did some window shopping and stopped to look at the big colorful umbrellas at that little kiosk. They seemed more decorative than practical to me. Either way, I couldn’t imagine anybody spending $39.99 on one of them in this economy.

Monk peered around the kiosk at the security camera on the second floor and wagged his finger at that one, too.

We returned to Fashion Frisson, Kiana went back to her office, and we worked the floor. There was a steady stream of customers throughout the afternoon and, for the most part, Monk kept himself in check.

Almost all of our customers were women. The few men who came in browsed but didn’t buy. I think they were creeped out by Monk, who followed closely behind them and immediately refolded everything that they picked up and put them back on the shelves.

A very hairy man wearing a tank top and shorts came in and admired some of the short-sleeved shirts. He picked one up and turned to Monk, who was stalking him.

“Is there somewhere I can try this on?”

“No,” Monk said.

“Why not?”

“Our dressing rooms are closed.”

“They look open to me.”

“They’re for women only,” Monk said.

“No problem,” the man said. “I can try it on over this.”

The man lifted his arms up to pull the shirt over his head and showed off more hair under his armpits than I had on my head.

Monk went wide-eyed and snatched the shirt from him. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a health code violation. We could lose our business license if we let people try on clothes outside of the dressing rooms.”

“When did they start doing that?”

“Today,” Monk said.

“Today?”

“Every clothing store is following the new law, so whatever you do, don’t go anywhere else and try on any clothes on the sales floor.”

“Just in San Francisco?”

“The whole world,” Monk said. “And the international space station.”

The man shrugged and walked out. Monk sighed with relief, then looked over at me expectantly.

“What?” I said.

“I’m waiting for you to criticize me for not letting the ape man try on this shirt.”

“You did the right thing,” I said.

“That hasn’t stopped you before.”

We might have debated the point for hours on end if not for a mall security guard and a customer coming into the store at the same time.

The security guard wasn’t the same guy we’d seen at lunch. This guy was younger, in better shape, and had a mischievous grin that made my heart flutter. He was so buff, with pecs Superman would envy, that for a moment I was worried that he might actually be a stripper sent to surprise me with a public striptease. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. My birthday was still months away.

“You’re new here,” the security guard said, offering me his hand. “My name is Mike.”

I shook it. His hand was dry and rough. I thought about how nice it would be to rub some moisturizing lotion on his hands, which I knew was a pretty bizarre thing to be thinking about. But it had been a long time since I’d had a date and my imagination was filling the void.

“I’m Natalie. Do you keep track of all the saleswomen who come and go in the mall?”

“It’s my job to keep my eye on things.”

Monk came over to us. “If that was true, you’d have noticed there’s dirt on your knees. Do you do a lot of crawling in your job?”

“A woman lost her keys under her car,” Mike said. “I retrieved them for her.”

“That must happen a lot here judging by how filthy the guards are,” Monk said.

“Women often have their hands full with kids and shopping bags,” Mike said. “And I like to be helpful.”

“Don’t you have a customer, Mr. Monk?” I motioned toward a man sorting through some women’s blouses.

Monk went over to help him and I turned my attention back to the guard.

“So have you worked your way through all the other women in the mall?”

He laughed. “Not exactly. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here if you ever need security or someone to escort you to your car after work.”

I looked past Mike to see Monk approach the customer: a man in his twenties with close-cropped hair, heavy eyeliner, earrings, and a floral scarf around his neck. He was holding a pink blouse against himself and looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“You’re in the wrong department,” Monk said. “Menswear is on the other side.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Are you shopping for a friend?”

“I’m shopping for myself, sweetie. How does this look on me?”

“Wrong,” Monk said.

“Pink isn’t my color?”

“That’s a blouse, which is a shirt that women wear. You are a man. We have shirts for men in the men’s department”—he gestured to the other side of the store—“which is where men shop for shirts that men wear.”

I could see big trouble brewing between Monk and his customer, so I had to cut the flirtation with Mike short.

“How do I reach you if I need you?” I asked him.

“Dial 0336 from your store phone,” Mike said, then handed me a card from his breast pocket. “Or call this number to reach my cell anytime.”

“I will,” I said.

“I prefer to shop in the women’s department,” the customer said. “The men’s shirts are too butch for me.”

“Only women are allowed to wear women’s clothing,” Monk said.

“Where did you get that silly idea? This is San Francisco. Half the men in this city are wearing bras and panties.”

Mike headed out, walking past Monk and his customer, who gave him a thorough once-over.

“Don’t I get a card?” he asked Mike. “I might need help.”

The security guard smiled politely at the man. “You look like you can take care of yourself, sir.”

“I can take care of you, too, honey. Just give me a chance.”

Mike kept on going, pretending he didn’t hear him. The customer watched Mike go and caught me doing the same thing.

“I’m definitely tossing my keys under my car,” he said to me. “How about you, girl?”

I decided to let that comment pass. “May I help you pick out something?”

“He’s in the wrong department,” Monk said adamantly.

The customer put a hand on his hip, striking a judgmental pose, and wagged his finger at Monk. “Are you some kind of homophobe?”

Monk shook his head. “I’m a totalphobe.”

We broke our record. We got through the day without getting fired. I felt like celebrating.

I was tempted to call Mike so he could escort me to my car and protect me from rapists, robbers, and malcontents and then maybe take me to dinner. But with Monk tagging along, asking Mike to escort me would have seemed even more like the ridiculous excuse to see him than it was.

I thought I might have to toss my keys under my car after all. Monk certainly wouldn’t crawl under the car to get them for me, nor would he question me for calling someone else to do it for us.

I was mulling over that possibility as we walked past the umbrella kiosk.

A custodian parked a large trash cart behind the kiosk and began emptying nearby trash cans into it.

“He’s dirty,” Monk said.

“He’s a custodian,” I said. “If anybody is going to be dirty, it’s him. He spends his days cleaning up messes.”

“He’s been crawling around on his knees.”

“I’d think you’d admire the man for being thorough,” I said.

Monk rolled his shoulders and peered around the kiosk up at the security camera on the second floor. “You should call Randy.”

“That’s a great idea, Mr. Monk. I’m sure Randy will appreciate us letting him know how well our first day on the job went. We owe him a lot for doing us this favor.”

“And we’re going to pay him back for it tonight.”

“How?”

“We’re going to give him a major arrest.”

“Oh my God.” I stopped and faced him. “You’ve figured out how Bob Sebes got away with murder.”

“Sadly, no,” Monk said. “But I’m working on it.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“The big jewelry heist, of course.”

“What big jewelry heist?”

“Tonight Mike and his fellow security guards are going to break into that store,” Monk said, tipping his head toward the jewelry store that we’d just walked by.

I looked back at the store, and then at Monk. I was truly dumbfounded. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think it. I
know
it. Didn’t you see their pants?”

“Not everybody with dirty pants is going to commit a crime.”

“Filthy on the outside usually means filthy on the inside. Besides, both guards had dirty knees and dry hands.”

“You noticed Mike’s dry hands?”

“And the custodian’s knees and hands, too.”

“I don’t understand how that all adds up to a jewelry heist.”

“Mike and his cohorts have the mall all to themselves at night and have been digging a tunnel into the jewelry store from the vacant storefront next door. The tunnel is just large enough for them to crawl through on their hands and knees, hence the dirty pants and dry hands.”

“How do you know the robbery will be tonight?”

“Because the security guard we saw at lunch moved the umbrella kiosk over a few feet to be sure that it blocked the security camera view of the unoccupied store. The guard wouldn’t have cared unless the robbery is going to go down tonight.”

Monk laid out the rest of their plan for me. The guards would rob the jewelry store during the night, taking turns so that each of them would be seen on security cameras elsewhere in the mall walking their usual shift, though most of the time their faces would be obscured by their hats or other carefully placed obstructions, like potted plants and kiosks.