“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?”
“You know what it was for,” I said. “Move back, perv. He needs room to jump off.”
The guy and his tequila-soaked buddy moved aside. Monk jumped off the bar and landed soundly on his feet.
“I think I found my groove thing,” he said.
“I’m glad to know the night wasn’t a complete waste,” I said as we left.
17
Mr. Monk and the Mountain
The next morning Monk sat at the kitchen table and ate his bowl of Chex as if it were his last meal before his execution. And that was exactly what I said to him.
“At least an execution is quick,” Monk said. “I feel like a man condemned to a life sentence of hard labor in raw sewage.”
“This isn’t going to take the rest of your life.”
“It’s just going to feel like it.”
“I’m glad you’re going into this with a positive attitude,” I said. “What advice did Dr. Kroger give you?”
“He admires my dedication and sense of purpose. He said if I concentrate on the goal I hope to achieve, I won’t notice my surroundings.”
“That’s good advice. What did you say?”
“What if the goal I want to achieve is to get the hell out of my surroundings?”
Before we went to the dump, Monk made me stop at a medical supply store on O’Farrell that carried the kind of outfits those NIH doctors wear when they’re dropped into an African village to stop something like an Ebola outbreak or the Andromeda strain.
They outfitted Monk in a hard helmet with a large, clear face mask, and a bright orange jump-suit with matching heavy-duty gloves and boots. The outbreak suit, as they called it, also came with a self-contained breathing apparatus like firefighters and haz-mat people wear. By the time he was all suited up, Monk looked like the brightly colored offspring of an astronaut and a scuba diver.
I declined Monk’s offer to buy me the same getup. I figured whatever Grimsley had for me would be enough. Monk nagged me some more, but I told him if he wanted to give me something, he could give me the money he was going to spend on another silly suit. That shut him up.
When we got to the transfer station, Grimsley was waiting with jumpsuits, gloves, boots, hard hats, goggles, and air-filter masks for us to wear. His mouth dropped open when he saw Monk step out of the car in that outbreak suit.
“All of that really isn’t necessary, Mr. Monk.”
“Have you seen that mountain of garbage?” Monk said, his voice coming out of a speaker on his helmet.
“What I have here is really all the protection you’ll need,” Grimsley said. “We have an elaborate air-purification system, and we control airborne particulate matter by regularly wetting down the waste.”
“So we’re going to be soaked in garbage,” Monk said. “This nightmare gets worse every second.”
Grimsley handed me my stuff, and while I put it on over my tank top and sweats, he gathered together some paperwork he wanted us to sign. They were release forms absolving the sanitation company from liability for any injuries we might sustain, or illnesses we might suffer, from going through all that rotting waste.
Monk signed the papers and looked at me. “I bet you wish you were in one of these now.”
The truth was that I did, but I certainly wasn’t going to admit it to him. Once the papers were signed, Grimsley pointed to some shovels, picks, and rakes in the back of his cart.
“Feel free to use whatever tools you need,” Grimsley said. “Good hunting, Ms. Teeger.”
He actually tipped his hard hat. I was half tempted to curtsey.
“Thank you, Mr. Grimsley.” I plucked a rake out of his cart, handed it to Monk, then took one for myself.
I watched as Monk hesitantly lumbered toward the garbage. He stepped on a dirty diaper and screamed.
One small step for man, one major step for mankind.
I covered my nose and mouth with the mask, adjusted my goggles, and plunged into the garbage.
The first hour or two went slowly. I tried not to think too much about what I was doing or listen to Monk’s sobs. Things went a lot smoother for me once I decided to approach my work as a sociological exercise—to make something of a game out of it.
Instead of focusing on all the mundane, gross, and dangerous things I encountered (dead rats and other animals, junk mail, broken glass, decaying food, America Online CDs, soiled sheets, used razor blades, snot-covered Kleenex, curdled milk, etc.), I amused myself with all the interesting stuff people threw out: broken toys, porno tapes, vinyl records, love letters, magazines, scrap paper doodles, utility bills, canceled checks, well-read paperback books, yellowed family photos, business cards, empty prescription drug bottles, magazines, broken pottery, baby clothes, cracked snow globes, birthday cards, office files, shower curtains, those kinds of things.
If I found an unusual pair of shoes or a loud Hawaiian shirt, I tried to imagine the person who owned them. I read some of the discarded letters, skimmed some family photos, and examined a few credit card bills to see what other people were buying.
Every now and then I’d check on Monk, who’d be raking trash and whimpering, sounding like a depressed Darth Vader. One of those times, I looked up and saw Monk reaching for a big blue trash bag in the pile above him. He tugged at it, trying to pull it free. I saw right away what would happen if he succeeded.