the general direction of the table.
“The bowl,” he said, whispering as if it might hear him and take offense.
“I know, mixed nuts,” I said. “A crime against nature.”
He shook his head. “Look again. Tell me I didn’t see crackers and pretzels in that bowl,” he said, adding with dire significance, “
I glanced at the bowl, knowing even before I did that he was right. Nut and crackers cohabitating.
“It’s a trick of the light,” I said.
He started to look again but I stopped him. “Don’t torture yourself. Remember what we’re here for. Focus.”
Monk nodded. “Right. Focus. Wet Ones.”
I handed him several packets of wipes, and we made our way toward the bar, which snaked along the back of the room and looked more like a stripper’s catwalk than a place to elbow up for a brew. The gleaming poles at either end of the curving bar, and the men pressed up against it, tongues barely in their mouths, added to the effect.
We managed to find a space at the bar, though it meant we were shoulder-to-shoulder with the people beside us. Monk squirmed and crossed his hands in front of his chest so they didn’t touch anything or anyone.
I didn’t have his phobias, but I did the same thing. The way the guy beside me was bumping into me, his arm brushing against my breast, I was certain he was doing it on purpose to cop a quasi-feel. One more time, and he was going to feel my elbow in his kidney.
Three bartenders, all women, all enormously endowed, all wearing bikini tops and short skirts, danced to and fro as they prepared drinks. One of the bartenders was Lizzie. At least Monk wouldn’t have any buttons to fixate on this time. Name tags on the other two women identified them as LaTisha and Cindy.
Lizzie stopped in front of us, still swaying to the beat. “You again,” she said to Monk. “The button man.”
“I need to talk to you about Esther Stoval’s murder,” Monk said.
“I already told you,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“You know the murderer,” Monk said.
LaTisha rang a big bell on the wall, jacked up the volume on the music, and suddenly jumped up on the bar. The crowd of men roared with approval. All except for Monk.
“Does she have any idea how unsanitary that is?” Monk yelled into my ear. “People eat and drink on the bar.”
“They don’t seem to care,” I said, gesturing to the men around us, who were whooping and hollering.
“What do they know?” Monk said. “They eat mixed nuts.”
Lizzie jumped on the bar right in front of us and, along with LaTisha, began dancing, thrusting her pelvis into Monk’s face.
“It’s Lucas Breen,” Monk said to her feet.
“Can’t you see I’m working?” she said.
“I’m trying not to,” Monk said.
Cindy tossed a long-necked bottle of tequila up to Lizzie, who caught it and spun it around like a baton. LaTisha also caught a bottle and matched her move for move. This number was choreographed and was probably repeated a dozen times every night.
“We know you’re having an affair with him,” Monk said.
“If you want to talk to me, get up here,” Lizzie said.
“What?” Monk said.
“You heard me.” She gyrated in front of him a few more times, her huge breasts swaying. The men around us scrambled forward to shove dollars under the waistband of her skirt, jamming us against the bar.
“Do that again,” a guy yelled to her. He was on the other side of the man who kept brushing against me.
She put a foot on the yeller’s shoulder, leaned down, and poured tequila on his head. He lifted his face up to her and opened his mouth to receive the liquor like a chick in a nest eager to be fed.
Faced with the prospect of getting splashed with tequila, Monk quickly climbed up on the bar and then stood there stock-still, with Lizzie dancing in front of him and LaTisha dancing behind him.
“Shake your groove thing,” Lizzie said.
“I don’t have one,” Monk said.
“Everybody has a groove thing,” LaTisha said.
“Then I’m fairly certain mine was removed at birth,” Monk said. “Or when I had my tonsils taken out.”
The bartenders started flinging their bottles to each other on either side of Monk. He drew his arms in against himself and closed his eyes. I don’t know whether he was afraid of getting hit with a bottle or a drop of tequila.
“Dance or I won’t talk to you,” Lizzie said as she juggled the bottles back and forth to LaTisha. “Do you know how much any of those guys would pay to be up here instead of you with me?”
“I’d pay them.”
“Dance,” she said.
Monk tapped a foot and snapped his fingers and rolled his shoulders.
“That’s dancing?” Lizzie said.
“If it’s too hot for you, get out of the kitchen,” Monk said. “We know Esther Stoval was blackmailing Lucas Breen about your relationship. That’s why he killed her.”
“I didn’t say we had a relationship.” She tossed her bottle down to Cindy, who caught it and expertly flipped it back on the shelf.
“You were wearing his monogrammed shirt when we met.”
“I got it at Goodwill,” she said. “Maybe I have one of yours, too.”
“A man who has killed once to protect his secret could kill again,” Monk said. “You could be next.”
Lizzie grabbed the pole and began to slide up and down it lasciviously, her back to Monk. The crowd cheered and whistled with glee. Even the women seemed to be into it.
“You’re supposed to put money under my skirt,” she said.
Monk reached into his pocket, pulled out a Wet One packet, and, with his eyes squinted nearly shut, tried to put it in the waistband of her skirt. But she kept moving, wiggling her butt to tease the audience and make his task more difficult.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
“To do the right thing and help bring a murderer to justice. Wear a wire,” Monk said, finally slipping the Wet One packet into her skirt and backing away. “Get him to incriminate himself.”
“Never,” she said. “I don’t wear wires.”
“You don’t wear much of anything,” Monk said.
She turned now and danced in front of Monk. The other bartender came up behind him, and the two women squeezed in close, sandwiching him between them as they danced.
“If I were sleeping with a man like Lucas Breen, I wouldn’t betray him,” she said. “I’d die to protect him.”
“Then your wish might come true,” Monk squeaked, doing some gyrating himself, but only to scrupulously avoid any physical contact with the women on either side of him.
“You’ll never beat Lucas Breen,” Lizzie said. “You’re no match for him, button man. You’re out of your league.”
“What about you?” Monk said. “You think you’re in his league? You’re dancing on a bar. How long do you think it will be until he discards you like one of his monogrammed shirts?”
She and her partner each did a split, spun around, and slipped off the bar on the other side, leaving Monk dancing there alone.
The show was over.
The women went back to filling drinks and dancing behind the bar. Lizzie made a conscious effort to pretend Monk wasn’t there, which wasn’t easy. It’s hard to ignore a man standing on the bar.
Monk looked for a way to climb down without touching the countertop, but it wasn’t possible.
I elbowed the guy beside me. He yelped. “What was that for?”
