Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (8 page)
Read Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
“I’d like to straighten him,” Monk said, as I hooked my arm in his and led him away. “He’s crazy.”
Peschel called after me, “Don’t forget my commission, sweetheart.”
Once we were in the entry hall, out of earshot, I said, “Mr. Peschel’s got Alzheimer’s or something like that. He thinks he’s still a bartender and that this is the tavern he used to own. You have to play along.”
“I don’t know how,” Monk said.
“Well, for one thing, you don’t contradict him.”
“Then how is he ever going to learn the truth?”
“He’s not, Mr. Monk. This is his truth.”
“How sad.” Monk glanced at him, then back to me. “At least he still knows who he is.”
That was when I realized why Stottlemeyer had dragged me here. It wasn’t to help him. It was for me, to put my troubles in perspective.
Peschel knew who he was—he had a vocation that defined him—but in every other way, he was lost. He didn’t know where he was in time or space or even who he was with. All he knew was that he was a bartender. But I’m sure he would have traded that certainty for all the other connections that made his life rich and that he didn’t have now. I had everything Peschel didn’t. So what did I have to complain about?
I guess Stottlemeyer was trying to tell me to be thankful for what I had. Maybe he was trying to tell me I was a self-indulgent whiner. Or was there an entirely different message for me in all of this?
CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Monk’s Life Is Changed Forever
W
hile I was thinking about why Stottlemeyer had brought me to meet Peschel, Monk had worked his way down the hall, methodically straightening the pictures that I couldn’t tell were actually crooked.
hile I was thinking about why Stottlemeyer had brought me to meet Peschel, Monk had worked his way down the hall, methodically straightening the pictures that I couldn’t tell were actually crooked.
I caught up with him passing the open door to a boy’s bedroom. I peeked inside. The boy had a bed that looked like a racing car, there were plastic racing tracks all over his floor, and every flat surface was covered with toy cars of different sizes. I pegged his age at about five or six, based on his toys and the pajamas that were on the floor.
The next room across was his sister’s. The walls were covered with pictures of cartoon characters and there were stuffed animals on the floor around her crib.
Carol stood at the changing table, closing the adhesive on the fresh disposable diaper that she’d put on her squirming baby.
“Your daughter is adorable,” I said. “It’s such a wonderful age.”
“Yes and no,” she said. “I am looking forward to the day when I can sleep again and wear blouses that don’t have puke on the shoulders.”
“At least she isn’t asking you if she can get a tattoo,” I said. “And you can cuddle her all you want without her trying to escape.”
“Would you like to hold her?”
I reached out my arms. “Desperately.”
“You should put on gloves first,” Monk said. “And a face mask. We all should.”
“Why?” Carol asked.
“The baby,” Monk said.
“The baby will be fine,” Carol said.
“It’s not the baby that I’m worried about,” Monk said. “It’s the rest of us.”
“I’ll risk it,” I said.
Carol lifted the baby into my arms. The child had that wonderful infant scent of talcum powder, baby formula, and pure lovableness that makes me instinctively feel warm all over. I looked into her bright eyes and playfully rubbed noses with her and was rewarded with a big, toothless smile.
Monk cringed and looked away, his gaze locking on something on the floor beside the changing table. He cocked his head from side to side, trying to figure out what he was looking at.
It was a white plastic container that resembled a large thermos. I recognized it immediately, of course, as any parent would.
“What is that?” Monk asked.
“It’s a Diaper Genie,” Carol said. “You put a disposable diaper inside, twist the dial that’s around the opening, and it seals the diaper in a plastic bag.”
I had one of those when Julie was a baby. It meant I didn’t have to wash cloth diapers like my mother did or deal with a garbage can full of disposables. Even emptying the Genie wasn’t too unpleasant. All you had to do was open the bottom of the Genie over a trash bag or your outdoor garbage can, and the sealed diapers came out in one large string resembling plastic-wrapped sausage links.
Now, thanks to the Diaper Genie, my daughter can claim a small measure of immortality—her dirty diapers will endure for centuries in a landfill somewhere for future anthropologists and archaeologists to examine for clues about how she lived.
“How sturdy are the bags?” Monk asked.
“The bags are triple-layered to hold in the smell and the germs,” Carol said, handing him one of the cartridges of refill bags. “It’s a godsend for mothers.”
“For us all,” Monk said.
He studied the cartridge with wide-eyed wonder. “So let me get this straight. Are you saying that whatever you put inside this Genie is individually wrapped and sealed?”
She nodded. “I only use it for diapers and dirty wipes.”
“But you could use it for other things,” Monk said.
“Like what?”
“Everything you throw out,” Monk said.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It would save you the time of manually separating and bagging all the items in your trash.”
“Who does that?” Carol asked.
“Who doesn’t?” Monk replied, then held his hand out to me. “Wipe.” My hands were full with the baby, so Carol handed him a wipe from the box on the changing table.
He cleaned his hands, dropped the tissue into an open bag in the Diaper Genie, and twisted the outer ring, which cinched the bag shut and opened a new one.
His eyes sparkled with joy.
“Wow,” he said, then motioned to me for another wipe.
Carol handed him the box and then gestured for me to follow her into the hallway.
“Now I see why the captain brought you,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
She glanced at Monk, who wiped his hands again and dropped the tissue into the Diaper Genie. “You’re dealing with the same problem that I am.”
I shook my head and bounced the baby. “Mr. Monk isn’t suffering from dementia. He’s just eccentric.”
“That’s what we used to say about my dad. He thinks he’s still running his bar. Most of the cops he used to know hang up on him when he calls in the wee hours of the night with his tips. The few who visit rarely come back a second time. It’s too depressing.”
“What about his old customers?”
“They are either dead, in jail, or people I would never allow to set foot in my house.”
I thought about how he mistook the baby for an old drunk and me for a hooker. If that was any reflection on his clientele, Carol’s unwillingness to invite them into her home made a lot of sense.
“It must be hard on you, taking care of him and your kids,” I said. The baby grabbed my nose and gave it a squeeze. I made a face and she giggled with glee.
“The mornings aren’t so bad. My son is in preschool until after lunch. When I bring him home, that’s when it becomes a menagerie around here,” she said. “Dinnertime is especially hard. It’s hell to cook dinner with my dad installed in the kitchen, running his bar, and having conversations from twenty years ago with people who aren’t there. It entertains the kids, though.”
“How does your husband handle it?” I asked, my nose once again in the baby’s surprisingly strong grip.
“He’s great. Phil sits at the counter and lets Dad make him drinks all night,” she said. “But we know soon he will become too much for us to handle and he’ll need assisted living. Thank God those huge dividends from Dad’s InTouchSpace stocks keep coming in.”
“How did he ever get InTouchSpace stock?” I said.
“A tip from one of his customers,” she said. “He got in before it became the biggest social network on the Internet.”
That was like getting in on Microsoft, Starbucks, and Google before they hit it big. No wonder Peschel and his late wife were able to retire to Florida.
Monk joined us, a huge smile on his face, and held his arms out to Carol. “Could I give you a hug?”
I almost dropped the baby in shock. Monk doesn’t hug anybody.
“Why?” Carol asked.
“Because you have changed my life,” he said.
She glanced at me and I gave her a nod, letting her know it was all right.
“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “I guess so.”
Monk placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and tipped his upper body ever so slightly towards her. There was a good foot of space between them and no physical contact besides his hands. It was the strangest hug I’d ever seen. Apparently, it was even stranger for Carol, who looked bewildered.
“I am so glad to have met you,” Monk said. “I will remember this day forever.”
“Me, too,” she said.
That was when Stottlemeyer joined us. “I’d better be getting back to the station.”
“Thanks for coming by,” Carol said. “I know it meant a lot to my father.”
“I enjoy it as much as he does,” he said. “It’s just like the old days, only in a much more pleasant environment.”
“I know it costs you more than just your time, gasoline, and patience to visit with him.” She reached into her pocket and held out some wrinkled bills to Stottlemeyer. “This is what you gave him when you were here before.”
“It was good information,” Stottlemeyer said a bit sheepishly.
“Fifteen or twenty years ago,” she said, and forced the cash into his hands. “I’ll pay you back whatever cash you slipped him today but I’ll make sure to check his pockets this time before I put his pants through the wash.”
“Why?” Monk asked.
“So the captain’s money doesn’t go through the washing machine,” she said.
“What would be wrong with that?”
“Because it will get all clumped and mushy.”
“That’s why you have to iron the bills afterwards,” Monk said. “That’s what I do when I clean my money.”
“You wash and iron your money?” she asked incredulously.
“Don’t you?” he said.
“No,” she said.
“My God, woman. You have children,” he said. “Cash is filthier than your baby’s diapers. Think of all the hands that have touched it and all the places it might have been.”
Carol turned to me. “He’s eccentric, all right.”
I gave the baby a kiss and reluctantly gave her back to her mother.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said to them both.
She led us to the door. We said our good-byes and Stottlemeyer walked Monk and me to my car.
“I know why you brought me here,” I said to the captain.
“Do you?” he asked innocently.
“So do I,” Monk said. “Could I give you a hug?”
“No,” Stottlemeyer said, and abruptly turned and went to his car.
Monk looked at me. “You knew about the Diaper Genie before?”
“Yes,” I said. “I raised a daughter, you know. She wasn’t born a teenager.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about them?”
“Because you aren’t interested in babies or their diapers,” I said. “They scare you.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that the Diaper Genie is a revolutionary device with many more uses for humanity than only diaper disposal?”
“Millions of people own Diaper Genies, Mr. Monk. It’s not like I’ve been keeping them a secret from the world.”
“And nobody has appreciated its full potential?” Monk said. “It’s mind-boggling to me. It’s like only using electricity for illumination. If the captain hadn’t discovered it here, I might never have known about it.”
“You think that’s why the captain had us come here, so you could see the Diaper Genie?”
“Of course,” Monk said. “What other reason could there be?”
“You’re right,” I said. “It never occurred to me. That must be why you’re the detective and I’m the assistant.”
I wasn’t ready to talk to Monk about my minor identity crisis.
“Do you know where they sell Diaper Genies?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s our next stop,” he said. “I need to buy some.”
“Some?”
“One for each room of my apartment,” he said. “And a spare for each room of my apartment.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr. Monk Gets Some Bad News
I
t was not a good day for any San Francisco parents who happened to be in the market for a new Diaper Genie or who were simply looking for refills.
t was not a good day for any San Francisco parents who happened to be in the market for a new Diaper Genie or who were simply looking for refills.
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