“Don’t worry about Mr. Monk,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “He’ll be busy getting an early start on tomorrow’s shower.”
I gave myself one last critical appraisal in the mirror, decided there was nothing left I could do without expensive cosmetic surgery, and left the bathroom. It was perfect timing because Firefighter Joe was already knocking at the door.
Monk opened it with a handkerchief, perhaps in case someone infected with bubonic plague had touched the doorknob while we weren’t looking.
Firefighter Joe looked just as good in a leather bomber jacket, polo shirt, and brown corduroy pants as he did in uniform. I had a hunch he looked good in everything. He held a nice bouquet of roses, carnations, and morning glories in one hand and a tiny gift box in the other.
“You’re right on time.” Monk tapped his watch. “To the second. That’s very impressive.”
“Mr. Monk?” Joe said, brow furrowed with confusion. “I didn’t realize that you and Natalie were—”
“We’re not,” I interrupted. “Mr. Monk is staying with us while his apartment building is being fumigated. You look great, by the way. Not that it’s an afterthought. I mean, I noticed it right away, which isn’t to say—”
“Mom,” Julie said. She knows I tend to babble when I’m nervous and does her best to stop me, mostly to save herself, rather than me, from embarrassment.
“These are for you,” Joe said as he offered me the flowers and Julie the gift box.
“What is this for?” Julie asked.
“Open it and see,” he said.
Julie let out a little gasp when she saw what was in the box. She took out a tiny red badge, similar to the one that Captain Mantooth gave Monk, only this one had a dog-bone emblem.
“It’s Sparky’s fire dog badge,” Julie said. “I can’t take this.”
“I want you to have it,” Joe said. “For caring about Sparky so much that you hired the best detective in San Francisco to find his killer.”
It didn’t matter what Joe might say or do on the date; he’d won me over already. Julie, too. She gave Joe a hug.
“Mom said I could come with you.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said quickly, before Joe could reply. “You’re staying here with Mr. Monk.”
“It’s going to be fun,” Monk said. “We can play with LEGOs.”
“I’m twelve,” Julie said indignantly. “I don’t have any LEGOs.”
“Then it’s a good thing I brought mine,” Monk said.
“You play with LEGOs?” Julie said, astonished.
“Are you joking? I’m a red-hot LEGO demon. I’ve got the building-block fever.”
Julie gave me a pleading look, as if I were abandoning her to wolves. “Mom, please. The man has LEGOs.”
“It can get pretty intense,” Monk said. “But we’ll start with some simple structures before we increase the excitement.”
“Don’t get her
I gave her a kiss and got Joe out of there as fast as I could.
This isn’t a story about me or my love life; it’s a story about Adrian Monk and how he solved two puzzling murders, so I won’t bore you with a lot of details about my date with Firefighter Joe. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s my book and I’m going to talk about whatever I feel like. If you don’t like it, flip ahead a couple of pages.
Some guys try to impress you on a first date by taking you to either a fancy restaurant or a trendy one or on some creative excursion. But I think a date is all about introducing a person to who you are, what matters to you, and what your approach to life is. I guess, in some ways, you’re getting that when a guy tries to wow you with extravagance or cleverness. He’s telling me he’s not the guy for me.
Joe took me to his favorite restaurant in Chinatown, a ten-table, family-owned place with dead ducks hanging in the window as an enticement to come in and sample the menu. Monk would have run away screaming.
Everyone knew Joe there, so it was almost like going to dinner with his family. The food was good, and it was cheap. Another woman might have walked away with the impression that Joe was a cheapskate. Not me. It showed me that Joe was a confident, easygoing guy who was well liked by others and comfortable with his life. Besides, as a single mother on a limited income, I’m always looking for affordable places to eat. It also told me that he was stable and reliable—a guy who runs from relationships and commitments doesn’t go to the same restaurant for years and make friends with the staff.
We talked about the usual first-date stuff. We told each other abbreviated versions of our life stories. I tried to tell mine without dwelling too much on Mitch’s death so as not to depress myself or Joe. I learned that he was raised in Berkeley, that his father was a poet and his mother was a park ranger, and that he’d never been married.
The conversation then turned to firefighting. He told some exciting stories about fires and the colorful history of his firehouse, which was built after the 1906 quake on the site of a rooming house that was the final hideout of desperado Roderick Turlock, the notorious train robber who bedeviled the Pinkertons with his daring gold thefts.
Talking about the firehouse, of course, brought up the investigation into Sparky’s death. I filled Joe in on what we’d learned, that on the night of Sparky’s murder Gregorio Dumas claimed he saw a fireman leave the station a half hour after the rest of the company went to put out the fire at Esther Stoval’s house.
Joe said Gregorio had to be lying, since all the firemen on duty were at the fire. Nobody was left behind at the station or sent back for any reason later.
I could see that talking about Sparky was bringing him down, so I told him some stories about Monk, who amazes me because he can untangle the most perplexing, complicated murder mysteries but is afraid to step into a telephone booth.
We left the restaurant and walked aimlessly around Chinatown for a while, then stopped in at City Lights Bookstore at Broadway and Columbus to browse. I liked that we could enjoy each other’s company even when we weren’t saying anything, but were just standing near each other looking at books.
The clock was inching toward midnight by the time he drove me home. We were only a few blocks away when he pulled over at Dolores Park, at the corner of Church and Twentieth. The park was a scary place at night, full of vagrants and drug dealers.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked.
“I’d like to pay my respects,” he said.
Joe pulled over, got out of the car, and went over to a fire hydrant, which was painted gold. I got out and joined him, looking around to make sure no killers, rapists, or junkies were heading our way.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“This was the little fire hydrant that saved San Francisco after the 1906 quake,” he said, gazing at it thoughtfully.
I glanced at the hydrant. It never struck me as special, though I’d certainly noticed it over the years, usually when some dog was peeing on it.
“This one?” I said. “It seems so far away from downtown.”
“The quake knocked out all the other hydrants. But it was water from this one that finally tamed the firestorm. Every year after that, at five A.M. on April eighteenth, survivors of the quake would show up here and give it another coat of gold paint. Some still do, but mostly it’s up to members of the St. Francis Hook and Ladder Society to carry on the tradition. I’ve missed the last couple of anniversaries.”
I thought he might salute the hydrant or something, but he just gave it a nod and we got back in the car. I wondered if every fireman was as into the lore and legend of San Francisco firefighters as Joe was.
He got me from the park to my doorstep in about two minutes and walked me to my door. I wanted to avoid any awkward moments, so I took the initiative and gave him a friendly kiss on the lips.
“I had a great time,” I said. “A really, really great night.”
“So did I,” Joe replied. “I hope we can do this again sometime soon.”
I wasn’t going to leave him hanging. Or myself. “When are you off duty again?”
He gave me a big smile. “Wednesday.”
