“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Captain,” Monk said, “I could never drink out of a water fountain.”
“Is that so?” Stottlemeyer seemed a little confused by the non sequitur.
“Not if my life depended on it,” Monk said. “You probably do it without a second thought.”
Stottlemeyer looked at Monk for a long moment. “All the time.”
Monk shrugged.
Stottlemeyer nodded.
I guess what Monk was getting at is that life has a way of balancing out. It figured Monk would notice that more clearly than the rest of us.
Mr. Monk Gets the News
Monk has a standing appointment every Tuesday afternoon with his psychiatrist, Dr. Kroger. I’ve known this for over a year, and yet it somehow slipped my mind that his appointment fell on the day before my trip until it was time for me to drive him to Dr. Kroger’s office.
That’s when I came up with a scheme so evil and so perfect, it’s amazing that I didn’t think of it before. I decided to tell Monk about my trip as we were walking into Dr. Kroger’s office; that way the shrink could deal with Monk’s meltdown while I enjoyed a cup of coffee and flipped through the latest issue of Esquire in the waiting room.
It was such a brilliant scheme that anybody looking at it in retrospect, especially Monk, would be convinced I had planned it that way from the start. Not that it mattered when I came up with it. What mattered was that I did it.
I parked my Cherokee on Jackson Street in Pacific Heights and we started walking down the steep hill to Dr. Kroger’s office, a recently constructed two-story concrete-and-glass building in the aerodynamic Streamline Moderne style that fit poorly amidst a row of stately Victorians.
The sky was a cloudless, dazzling blue, and a cool breeze was sweeping up off the Pacific and through the trees of the Presidio, carrying the scent of sea salt and pine. In front of us we could see the Marina District, the Golden Gate Bridge and clear across the bay to the wooded hills of Marin County.
We were halfway down the block, both of us admiring the view, when I told Monk, in an offhand sort of way, that I was leaving the next day for seven days in Kauai to be maid of honor at my best friend’s wedding.
Monk blinked hard, but otherwise kept right on walking without changing his expression.
“You can’t go,” he said. I noticed he was still limiting his breathing.
“Why not?”
“You don’t have any vacation days.”
“Of course I do,” I said. “I haven’t used any yet.”
“Because you don’t have any,” Monk said. “I thought you were aware that this is a full-time job.”
“Full-time doesn’t mean all the time,” I said. “Everybody gets a vacation.”
“Working for me is a vacation.”
“No offense, Mr. Monk, but it’s not.”
“I’m a fun guy, aren’t I?”
“Yes, of course you are,” I said. “But I have a life outside of my job.”
“I think not,” Monk said between gasps. “So we’re agreed. You’ll stay.”
“Mr. Monk, I’m going to Hawaii, even if it means you’ll fire me,” I said. “Candace has been my best friend since we were kids. She was there for me on my wedding day. She was there for me when Julie was born. And she was there for me after Mitch was killed in Kosovo. I’m going to be there for her.”
Monk gave me a forlorn look. “But who is going to be here for me?”
“I’ve contacted a temp agency and they’re sending someone.”
Monk let out another deep, rasping gasp and then sucked in a lungful of air. It was really beginning to get on my nerves.
“We’re not in the hospital, Mr. Monk. You don’t have to limit your breathing anymore.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m having a stroke,” Monk said, and fell against me. I grabbed him under the arm, opened the door to Kroger’s building and half dragged him into the empty waiting room.
Dr. Kroger emerged from his office at that same moment, no doubt alarmed by Monk’s histrionics.
Monk’s psychiatrist is a fit and trim man in his fifties, the kind of guy who doesn’t try to hide his age because he’s proud that the years look so good on him. I found his presence naturally calming, but I could see how it could become irritating if you had to live with him. I’d be tempted to do horrible things just to get a rise out of him and maintain my own sanity. Does that make me a crazy person?
“What’s wrong, Adrian?” Dr. Kroger asked in a gentle voice, taking Monk’s other arm and helping me lead him to an armchair in his office.
“Massive. Heart. Attack,” Monk said as he collapsed into the armchair in front of the window, which looked out over a concrete-walled courtyard and a burbling fountain.
“I thought you said it was a stroke,” I said.
“And a stroke,” Monk said. “I can feel my internal organs shutting down one by one.”
Dr. Kroger turned from Monk and focused his intense shrink gaze upon me. “What happened, Mrs. Teeger?”
“I informed Mr. Monk that I’m leaving town tomorrow and that I won’t be back for a week,” I said, wondering if Dr. Kroger’s even tan came from the sun, a salon, or a spray can.
“I see,” he said, squinting into my eyes. “And you told him just now, outside my door.”
I knew what he was thinking—no, insinuating—and I didn’t care. I figured that dealing with stuff like this was what he got paid for anyway. And he must have liked doing it or he wouldn’t have made it his profession.
So I nodded and smiled.
“You got it,” I said. “Has the new issue of Esquire come in this week?”
What I liked best about Monk’s appointments was that Dr. Kroger subscribed to a wide array of magazines and I got to thumb through stuff I wouldn’t ordinarily read. Over the next forty-five minutes, I browsed Maxim, GQ, and FHM and learned that all women have
