The woman was a saint.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Monk’s Cure for Snoring
M y first evening aboard the
Golden Sun
could not have gone better. Three criminal defense attorneys from three of the biggest firms in San Francisco had taken my card and expressed a real interest in using us on their most difficult cases, even after I’d explained that Monk wouldn’t work for a client who was guilty and that he almost always knew when a client was guilty.
“Glad to hear it,” said Gregor Melzer in an accent that was certainly Slavic and probably Russian. He had been the man across the lounge in the gray, expensive haircut and the Tommy Bahama shirt. He had changed into a gray suit that almost matched his hair. “We can use him as a Geiger counter,” he joked. “Not that we won’t wind up representing them. But it’s always nice to know.” On second thought, it probably wasn’t a joke—or a bad idea.
“As long as you pay us,” I said. I handed Gregor a business card and watched as he slid it into his wallet.
After our very successful dinner, Malcolm and I took a leisurely stroll around the Valencia deck, then up one flight and around the Granada deck. I don’t know what it is, but there are some people with whom you have to struggle to make any kind of conversation, and others who just make it so easy. Malcolm was one of the easy ones. And his Louisiana lilt didn’t hurt. Every time we spoke, about anything, the words just flowed, as if we’d been talking like this for years.
I do have to admit to a little distraction that evening. As we passed by the rows of lifeboats on each deck, I couldn’t help checking them for any signs of entry. Nothing. Good. I had not seen Monk at dinner, but to my knowledge he was no longer hiding in lifeboats.
The next morning, I woke up in a good mood. In a few hours, the ship would be docking in Catalina. Monk would be stepping onto dry land and into the arms of his girlfriend—although, now that I think of it, I’ve never actually seen them in each other’s arms.
My mood lasted until after I finished my morning routine, got myself dressed and brushed, and started fantasizing about sizzling bacon and fresh-brewed coffee. That’s when I swung open my door and found Monk asleep, nestled in a fetal position right in my doorway like a homeless man on a frigid night. He literally fell into the room just as a family of four scuttled by in the hallway, trying not to look.
“What the hell?” I screamed.
Monk was jolted awake. “Natalie, Natalie, Natalie.”
I scrambled to get him off the floor and onto my bed. He was in no shape to stand. “Adrian. How long have you been here?”
“Most of the night. Did you know your room number is 555? Not as symmetrical as room 000, but still a very nice room number.”
“You are not getting my room,” I said. Then I asked the obvious, although I really didn’t want to. “How did last night go with Darby?”
“Darby kind of fell out of sight,” Monk said. Turns out he meant that literally.
As Monk had promised, after the lifeboat incident, he’d gone back to cabin 457 to try to make peace with his alcohol-loving roommate. While Monk had been away, Darby had sobered up and ceased to be his easygoing self. He had managed to reclaim his half of the space and made the measurements exact by drawing a line down the middle of the room with a black Sharpie.
Monk’s impulse, of course, was to erase the offending line and vacuum the rug. But Darby stopped him. “Keep all your crap on your side,” he warned. “And your creepy little noises.”
The sink, Darby explained, would be on his side and the bathroom on Monk’s, although each would have visitation rights. According to Monk, Darby’s side was admirably roomy, except for the scattered clothes and littered beer cans. Monk’s side now resembled a child’s bedroom fort, with walls and passageways made of neatly stacked accessories, hanging clothes, and dozens of bottles of Fiji
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Monk’s Cure for Snoring
M y first evening aboard the
Golden Sun
could not have gone better. Three criminal defense attorneys from three of the biggest firms in San Francisco had taken my card and expressed a real interest in using us on their most difficult cases, even after I’d explained that Monk wouldn’t work for a client who was guilty and that he almost always knew when a client was guilty.
“Glad to hear it,” said Gregor Melzer in an accent that was certainly Slavic and probably Russian. He had been the man across the lounge in the gray, expensive haircut and the Tommy Bahama shirt. He had changed into a gray suit that almost matched his hair. “We can use him as a Geiger counter,” he joked. “Not that we won’t wind up representing them. But it’s always nice to know.” On second thought, it probably wasn’t a joke—or a bad idea.
“As long as you pay us,” I said. I handed Gregor a business card and watched as he slid it into his wallet.
After our very successful dinner, Malcolm and I took a leisurely stroll around the Valencia deck, then up one flight and around the Granada deck. I don’t know what it is, but there are some people with whom you have to struggle to make any kind of conversation, and others who just make it so easy. Malcolm was one of the easy ones. And his Louisiana lilt didn’t hurt. Every time we spoke, about anything, the words just flowed, as if we’d been talking like this for years.
I do have to admit to a little distraction that evening. As we passed by the rows of lifeboats on each deck, I couldn’t help checking them for any signs of entry. Nothing. Good. I had not seen Monk at dinner, but to my knowledge he was no longer hiding in lifeboats.
The next morning, I woke up in a good mood. In a few hours, the ship would be docking in Catalina. Monk would be stepping onto dry land and into the arms of his girlfriend—although, now that I think of it, I’ve never actually seen them in each other’s arms.
My mood lasted until after I finished my morning routine, got myself dressed and brushed, and started fantasizing about sizzling bacon and fresh-brewed coffee. That’s when I swung open my door and found Monk asleep, nestled in a fetal position right in my doorway like a homeless man on a frigid night. He literally fell into the room just as a family of four scuttled by in the hallway, trying not to look.
“What the hell?” I screamed.
Monk was jolted awake. “Natalie, Natalie, Natalie.”
I scrambled to get him off the floor and onto my bed. He was in no shape to stand. “Adrian. How long have you been here?”
“Most of the night. Did you know your room number is 555? Not as symmetrical as room 000, but still a very nice room number.”
“You are not getting my room,” I said. Then I asked the obvious, although I really didn’t want to. “How did last night go with Darby?”
“Darby kind of fell out of sight,” Monk said. Turns out he meant that literally.
As Monk had promised, after the lifeboat incident, he’d gone back to cabin 457 to try to make peace with his alcohol-loving roommate. While Monk had been away, Darby had sobered up and ceased to be his easygoing self. He had managed to reclaim his half of the space and made the measurements exact by drawing a line down the middle of the room with a black Sharpie.
Monk’s impulse, of course, was to erase the offending line and vacuum the rug. But Darby stopped him. “Keep all your crap on your side,” he warned. “And your creepy little noises.”
The sink, Darby explained, would be on his side and the bathroom on Monk’s, although each would have visitation rights. According to Monk, Darby’s side was admirably roomy, except for the scattered clothes and littered beer cans. Monk’s side now resembled a child’s bedroom fort, with walls and passageways made of neatly stacked accessories, hanging clothes, and dozens of bottles of Fiji
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