Free Mr. Monk Helps Himself by Hy Conrad Page A

There’s nothing to be afraid of.” It was like coaxing a kitten.
    Just to add to the fun, the door chime started going off. Every time Monk extended his leg into the shop, he would break the beam and trigger another round of chimes. It became like a self-generating accompaniment.
    I’ve got to say this for Monk: He tried. He stayed on one foot, balancing forward and back, like a brown-suited flamingo. At one point, he lost his balance and had to reach out and touch the frame. Letting out a little shriek, he managed to push himself back into position.
    “Don’t worry,” said Ellen. “I sanitized it this morning. The whole place is spotless.”
    But Monk remained in his tightrope-walking stance, one foot on the sidewalk, one foot hovering over the threshold, complete with tinny music . . . until Ellen took pity and met him at the door.
    “I’m proud you came this far,” she said. “Baby steps.”
    “I’m not taking baby steps. Or any kind.” And with that, he lowered his leg and took a firm stance outside.
    “This is the first time you’ve seen my San Francisco store. What do you think?” Ellen air-kissed him three inches from his cheek and I saw him fight the urge to wipe it off.
    Peering inside, Monk examined the space, left to right. “It’s empty.”
    “It won’t be empty if you come in,” I suggested. “Come on. We’ll pick something and I’ll buy it for your birthday.”
    “No one wants to come in here,” Monk said. “You can tell because no one’s in here.”
    “It’s slow,” Ellen admitted. “It picks up later in the afternoon.”
    “Why? Is that when the insane asylum lets out its patients?” No one laughed or cracked a smile. “So they can shop for animal poop?” Again, nothing. “Because no one would go into a poop store like this unless they were clinically insane.”
    “We get the joke, Mr. Monk.”
    “Because buying and selling animal feces is crazy.”
    “We get it,” I said.
    “I’m not sure you do.”
    “Adrian, we’ve discussed this.” I could see Ellen’s patience was wearing thin. “I’m trying to make the world cleaner. I’m reusing waste so it’s no longer wasted. Making people reevaluate what they put down the sewers and into landfills. I thought you appreciated what I’m doing.”
    “I appreciate it,” he said. “From a distance. Which is where I should have stayed. This is all Natalie’s fault.” He pointed at me with both index fingers.
    “My fault?”
    “If you hadn’t physically dragged me here, Ellen and I could have met at the soap store or any other civilized place on earth.”
    “Natalie dragged you?” Without even looking, I could hear the disappointment.
    “She said I had to make an effort. I told her that was nonsense.”
    “I suppose it is nonsense,” Ellen said, “expecting an effort.”
    I should point out here that any normal person would have picked up on the warning signs. They were in Ellen’s voice and on her face. Any normal person would have backed off or apologized.
    “I told her no one should have to walk into a poop store. It isn’t natural. There are sixteen people in the soap store down the street, seventeen people in the toy store, and twenty-one in the Starbucks. So it’s not a slow afternoon. It’s a slow Poop.”
    “A—slow—Poop?” Ellen pronounced each word like a separate sentence. Any normal person would have been terrified.
    “I meant the name of your store, not the other thing. Depressingly slow. It’s a wonder you can stay in business.”
    “Adrian Monk.” Ellen was seething. “Get out of my store.”
    Monk looked down at his feet. “I’m not in your store. I thought that was the whole point of this discussion—about why I’m not in your store.”
    “Get out,” she said, then slammed the door in his face.

CHAPTER NINE
    Mr. Monk Counts His Peas
    M onk had been thrown by Ellen’s anger. For a brilliant guy, he can be pretty dense. “I don’t understand,” he said over and over