Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online Page A

hug and went back to her room to IM her friends.
    I told her once that when I was her age we didn’t have instant messaging to communicate with our friends. We used something called a telephone. You know what she said to me?
    “I’m glad I live in the modern age.”
    I felt like a dinosaur.
    Monk insisted on doing the dishes after dinner, and I didn’t argue with him. While he worked I sat at the table and relaxed with a glass of wine. I decided there were some definite benefits to having a clean freak as a houseguest. I wondered what it would take to get him to do the laundry, but then I imagined him trying to sort our bras and panties without touching them, or even looking at them, and knew it would never work. On the other hand, it might be amusing to watch.
    The phone rang. What would some anonymous cold caller in Bangladesh try to sell me tonight? I was tempted to let Monk answer the phone and put Rajid through the living hell he deserved, but I was merciful and snatched up the receiver myself.
    “Hello,” I said.
    “Natalie Teeger? This is Joe Cochran. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
    He was, but in a good way. I reached for my glass of wine and took a preemptive gulp to slow down my heart. It didn’t work.
    “Not at all,” I lied.
    “I was wondering if you might be interested in having dinner with me sometime,” he said.
    “That would be nice,” I said, trying to sound casual about it when, in fact, I wanted to scream with glee.
    “Is tomorrow too soon? My next night off duty isn’t for a couple of days.”
    “Tomorrow works for me.” Ten minutes from now would have worked for me, too, but I didn’t want to seem too eager. We set a time and I gave him my address.
    When I hung up the phone, Monk was drying the dishes and giving me a look.
    “What?” I said.
    “You’re going on a date with Firefighter Joe?”
    “It appears that way,” I said, smiling giddily.
    “Who is going to take care of Julie?”
    I wasn’t as concerned about that as I was about who would take care of him . I’d have to sit Julie down for a detailed briefing.
    “I was hoping you’d keep an eye on her for me,” I said. Then I lied, “A sitter is going to be hard to get on such short notice. Do you mind?”
    “Will there be any shenanigans?”
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    “Will I have to organize any activities?”
    “She’ll probably just stay in her room,” I said. “She’s at that age.”
    “Me too,” Monk said.

    On Sunday mornings, Julie and I like to get into our grungiest old sweats, grab the Sunday Chronicle off the porch, and go to the Valley Bakery, where we order blueberry muffins, coffee for me, hot chocolate for her, and forage through the paper.
    Julie likes to read the comics, of course, and the capsule movie reviews in the Datebook, also known as the pink section for its colored pages. Each review is accompanied by a drawing of a little man in a bowler hat sitting in a movie theater chair. For a great movie he leaps out of his chair, hands clapping, eyes bugging out, hat flying off his head. If the movie stinks, he slumps in his seat, sound asleep.
    Sometimes, as I go through the week, I picture that guy sitting in his chair, reviewing my life as it plays out in front of him. Most of the time he’s sitting ramrod straight in his seat, mildly interested, which is a mediocre review. Rarely do I imagine him leaping out of his chair in ecstatic glee on my account.
    After breakfast we take a long walk up a very steep hill to Delores Park, where the view of the Castro, the Civic Center, and the Financial District is spectacular. But that’s not the view we go to see. We like to sit under a palm tree on the grassy knoll and people-watch. We see all kinds of people of every race in every possible combination.
    Take the couples, for instance. We see men and women, men and men, women and women, and people who fall somewhere in between. We see mimes performing, kids playing, families picnicking,