Mr. Monk on the Road (16 page)

I took a sip. I’d been a bartender before Monk hired me as his assistant, and I’d made plenty of martinis in my time, but they tasted like rubbing alcohol compared to the exceptionally clean, dry, extrasmooth drink that Dub made. It was the best martini I’d ever tasted and the last thing I ever expected to experience on my first night in a trailer park.

“It’s incredible, Dub,” I said.

He beamed with pleasure. “You want to take one of these over to Ambrose?”

“No, thank you,” Ambrose said. “I don’t indulge in spirits.”

“You ever tried any?” Dub asked.

“I’ve had Hawaiian punch when I needed to drown my sorrows,” Ambrose said. “It gives me a headache.”

“What do you drink when you want to celebrate?”

“Water,” Ambrose said.

“The hard stuff,” Dub said.

Ambrose shook his head. “Just bottled. I won’t drink from the tap.”

“You’re a fascinating man.” Dub turned and offered the glass to Monk. “Here you go, Adrian. Drink up.”

“I don’t think so,” Monk said.

“You’ll like it, Mr. Monk,” I said. “It’s crisp, dry, and strong. It tastes like cleanliness.”

“Fiji water is as clean as a beverage can get,” Monk said. “And it doesn’t dull your faculties.”

“What do you need your faculties for now?” I asked.

“To stay alive.”

“We aren’t in any danger,” I said. “I don’t see any axes around.”

“He doesn’t need one,” Monk said. “He can use his gun.”

“What gun?” I asked.

“The .357 Magnum under his bed,” Monk said.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I
leaned to one side so I could peer into the bedroom and, sure enough, I saw the barrel of a gun poking out from under his bed.

“I’ll call the police,” Ambrose called out from our RV, a hint of panic in his voice. “As soon as I find the phone and put it back together.”

It was in my purse, as you may recall, which was beside the driver’s seat of our RV. But I didn’t tell Ambrose that because I didn’t feel the same sense of urgency that he did. Maybe it was the excellent martini or the smile on Dub’s face. Whatever the reason, I felt relaxed and perfectly safe. I took another sip of my martini instead.

“The gun is not for you,” Dub said.

“That’s a relief,” I said. “Saving it for devil worshippers?”

“I haven’t run across any, but I don’t think I’d shoot any of them if I did.”

“You might if they ignited a ring of fire around your RV and started sacrificing goats.”

Ambrose leaned his head out of the RV and shouted, “Where do you keep the rubber gloves, Adrian? I have to go into Natalie’s underwear.”

Dub gave me a look.

I flushed with embarrassment and took a big gulp of my martini. “Give me the gun, Dub. I may need to shoot myself before this trip is over.”

“That’s exactly why I have it,” Dub said.

“You’re going to shoot yourself?” Monk asked.

“That’s the plan. When the day comes that I can’t breathe, and I’m flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water, I’ll pull the trigger and end my misery.”

“That’s going to make a big mess,” Monk said, “and she’s not going to appreciate that.”

Adrian Monk, Mr. Sensitivity.

“I’m not going to be here,” I said, and then immediately regretted the insensitivity of my own remark. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t care, Dub. I already like you so much that I can’t bear to think about you dying.”

“I don’t like thinking about it myself,” he said, “which is another reason I like to end the day with a martini. Or two. Or three.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, Natalie,” Monk said. “I was referring to his girlfriend, a young Japanese woman in her early twenties, who is about five foot four, 120 pounds, and does all the driving.”

Dub arched an eyebrow and sipped his drink. “How can you possibly suggest such a divine creature resides in this humble rolling abode with an old fart like me?”

“For starters, the strands of long black hair on the floor, the pair of traditional
tatami zori
sandals in the bathroom, and the bottle of lactase pills on the kitchen counter.”

Dub smiled with amusement. I think he was very glad that he’d invited us over.

“You don’t have to be a Japanese woman to have long black hair, wear
tatami zori
sandals, or be lactose intolerant.”

“True, but most Japanese people of either sex have black hair. The length of that hair and the style and size of the sandals suggest the presence of a Japanese woman. The sandals also indicate the size of her feet, from which I can reasonably calculate her height and weight. It’s an approximation confirmed, incidentally, by the distance between the driver’s seat of the RV and the steering wheel, which is too tight to accommodate a man of your height, hence, it’s clear that she also does the driving. Furthermore, difficulty digesting dairy products is a common affliction among ninety-five percent of the Japanese people.”

“What makes you think this mythical Japanese goddess is in her twenties and not her sixties?” Dub asked.

“Her sunglasses are resting on the cup holder by the driver’s seat. I can see from here that the lens doesn’t have a prescription, which suggests that she has twenty-twenty eyesight, not something most people over thirty are likely to have. In addition, there’s a tube of lipstick that’s fallen between two of the couch cushions. It’s the same color and brand favored by Natalie’s daughter, who is in her late teens.”

“A splendid demonstration of deductive reasoning,” Dub said. “You must be a detective.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You are very observant, but you’ve made one significant error. Yuki isn’t my girlfriend. She is my assistant.”

“Everyone has one but me,” Ambrose said.

I was so relaxed by my martini and caught up in Monk’s performance that I’d entirely forgotten that Ambrose was out there, eavesdropping on our conversation from the safety of our RV.

“I knew I wasn’t capable of piloting this vessel on my own, so I asked Yuki, my neighbor back home in St. Louis, to join me on this last adventure,” Dub said, then turned to Monk. “Speaking of which, she knows what I intend to do when my end comes, and she’s fine with that.”

“She must be a strong woman,” Monk said.

“With a strong stomach,” Ambrose added.

The Monk brothers, paragons of sensitivity.

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“We travel with her small motor scooter, and she scooted off an hour ago. My guess is that she’s gone to the nearest town for some entertainment and a respite from my neediness.”

“It’s amazing how much you have in common with Mr. Monk and his brother.”

“He’s nothing like us at all,” Monk said. “Look how he lives.”

“I am looking, and for once it seems I’m more observant than you are. You and Dub are both traveling on the open road with your comely young female assistants at the wheel. Dub, like you, is a professional observer of human nature. And Dub, like Ambrose, is a writer who doesn’t leave his house.”

Dub looked out the window at Ambrose. “You’re a fellow scribe? What do you write?”

“My specialty is instruction manuals,” Ambrose said. “What’s yours?”

“Investigative reporting, a profession that may die before I do, if it isn’t dead already. I’ve already outlived all the newspapers I’ve worked for. I may be the last member of a soon-to-be-extinct species.”

“What story are you chasing?” I asked.

“Chasing,” Dub repeated, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a very apropos, and yet ironic, choice of words. But I’m afraid the subject of my reporting is confidential for now. I wouldn’t want to undercut my own scoop.”

“Can you at least tell us where you’re heading next?” I said. “Maybe we’ll bump into you again on our travels.”

“I have no idea, Natalie. I’m going wherever the story takes me,” Dub said. “I just hope I finish it before the cancer finishes me.”

 

We stayed for another hour or so, during which time Dub and I helped ourselves to the two orphaned martinis. I learned that Dub and Yuki had been on the road for three months but that he’d been researching his story for much longer than that.

Dub seemed less concerned that he was dying than he was frustrated about having to race his mortal clock to complete his reporting before his demise. And yet, I got the feeling that it was the race itself that was keeping him alive. I found myself wishing that the resolution of his story, whatever it was, remained just a bit out of his reach so that he might live a little longer striving for it.

While we talked, Monk silently busied himself separating the mixed nuts into individual bowls, which Dub had politely supplied without comment.

We left when my second martini glass was empty and Dub’s energy was clearly beginning to flag. I thanked him for his hospitality, and when I got up to leave, I nearly tumbled to the floor, my legs floating out from under me. Luckily, Monk was there to catch me by the arm.

He helped me outside, and once we were in the cool night air, my legs seemed to regain their weight and my sense of gravity was restored.

I looked out at the moonlight, sparkling off the crashing surf below, and I could smell the salt water and the trees and the dirt under my feet. It was almost as bracing as Dub’s martini.

“This trip was a great idea, Mr. Monk.”

“I’m beginning to have my doubts.”

“It’s only the first day,” I said.

“That’s what worries me.”

“Everything worries you.”

“Not as much as it used to,” he said, “until we went on this trip.”

“That’s because you’re facing the unknown and the unplanned.”

“I wish I’d known and I’d planned.”

I wanted to take a walk before we returned to the motor home, and Monk reluctantly accompanied me so I wouldn’t wander off a cliff or get kidnapped by, as he put it, “drug-crazed Gypsies.”

I suppose that’s no sillier than being afraid of lurking Satanists, but thanks to Dub’s splendid martinis, I didn’t have any cares at all.

There were RVs of all shapes and sizes in the park, some seemingly as large as aircraft carriers, others like pop-up tents on trailers. There was a communal, festive atmosphere in the park, with strangers mingling amid the various campsites, where families were barbecuing at their grills, or roasting marshmallows in their fire pits, or sitting on folding chairs, sipping beers, and looking at the stars. I almost started singing “Kumbaya.”

The people in the park represented a broad cross section of ages, races, and socioeconomic classes, but with the exception of the Monk brothers, they shared a laid-back attitude and the same sort of easy amiability that Dub Clemens exemplified. Or maybe it was just me, feeling relaxed and a little high from the alcohol and fresh air, projecting what I was feeling on everyone I saw.

By the time we made the circuit of the park and got back to our motor home, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. It seemed like a week had passed since Ambrose’s birthday party, and it had been only one long, eventful day.

Ambrose was waiting for us, standing in the center of the motor home, his hands on his hips, as we came in. “Where have you been?”

“We took a walk,” I said.

“Out there? In the dark? Are you insane?”

“You’d have the same reaction if we did it in the daylight,” I said.

“That doesn’t make it any less dangerous.”

“I’m too tired to argue,” I said.

“I’m exhausted, too,” Ambrose said. “Worrying tires me out.”

“So go to bed,” I said, gesturing to the back room. “You have the master bedroom. Mr. Monk and I will be sleeping out here.”

“We will?” Monk said.

“There’s a folding sleeper inside the couch, and the dinette area converts into a bed,” I said. “You can take the sofa bed, Mr. Monk, which is already made up with your sheets. I’ll take the dinette.”

“You intend to sleep on the surface where we eat our meals?” Ambrose said.

“I’m not going to be sleeping on the table. It folds away. Let me show you.”

I went to the dinette and pulled a latch, and the table slid down so it was just below the level of the bench cushions. I lifted one of the seats and pulled out a set of cushions that fit like puzzle pieces over the table and between the benches, creating a sleeping surface roughly the size of a double bed. I lifted the opposite seat and took out my sleeping bag and pillow, which I dropped on my bed.

“Voila,” I said.

“So you intend to sleep on the surface where we eat our meals,” Ambrose said.

“There’s a sleeping bag and a big, thick cushion between me and the table.”

“Also known as the surface where we eat our meals,” Monk said.

“There are three beds in this motor home. I don’t care who sleeps in which one. You decide.”

“I have an idea,” Monk said. “You can sleep in the driver’s seat.”

“I have an idea,” I said. “
You
can sleep in the driver’s seat.”

“I’m not the driver,” Monk said. “You are.”

“Okay, then you can sleep in the passenger seat and I’ll sleep in the sofa bed.”

“Let’s compromise,” Monk said.

“Okay,” I said.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa bed,” Monk said, “and you’ll sleep in the driver’s seat.”

“How is that a compromise?”

“Because you won’t be sleeping where we eat.”

“Then I guess you’ll be eating somewhere else.” I rolled out my sleeping bag on the dinette-area bed, fluffed the pillow as a theatrical touch, and then headed for the aft stateroom, where my clothes and toiletries were stowed.

“Where are you going?” Ambrose called after me.

I stopped midway and turned around. “To the bathroom to change into my pajamas and brush my teeth.”