Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

p.m., I was crashing from my caffeine high and fighting to keep my eyes open. Monk’s idea of passing the time by singing “A Thousand Bottles of Windex on the Wall” wasn’t helping me stay awake either. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Slumber was winning the battle for my mind and body when Monk nudged me hard in the side.

“Archie is going on his rounds,” Monk said.

I marshaled all the strength I had and bench-pressed one of my eyelids open. I saw Archie heading for the elevator.

“Good for him,” I said and let my eyelid drop.

I was instantly at Lake Como in Italy, water-skiing with George Clooney in front of his villa. I was behind his boat, effortlessly skimming over its wake, and he was at the wheel, but I could see his sparkling eyes and hear him perfectly over the roar of the motor.

“You know what I love the most about you?” he asked with that confident, sexy grin of his.

“My body?”

“I adore that, of course,” he said, “but what I cherish is your neediness. I find needy women irresistible. I like to be needed. Especially by you.”

“I need you, George,” I said. And then, through the magic of dreams, I was in his arms in the boat and he was leaning his face towards mine for a kiss that would change my life.

“Eventually is here,” George said.

“Oh yes,” I said.

But he didn’t say it in that wonderful voice of his. He said it in Monk’s voice.

I felt a stab of pain in my side. Someone was nudging me. Suddenly George’s boat became my Jeep and George became Monk.

It was a major letdown.

In my head, I asked Monk what was going on, but I think it came out as “Humblefliffendorf.” Maybe it was Dratch.

Monk gestured to the Burgerville headquarters. There was a man standing at the employee entrance, running his key card through the scanner. He wore a long, tailored, black overcoat and a fedora that was pulled down low to shield his face from the security camera mounted over the door.

On most people that outfit would have looked almost as ridiculous as a Confederation uniform. On him, it looked cool and menacing. He could have been George Clooney.

Or maybe I was still half asleep.

Before I could say anything, Monk bolted from the car and headed across the street.

I tried to shake the grogginess from my head as I hurried after him.

“What are we doing?” I asked in an urgent whisper.

I don’t know why I was whispering. It just felt like the right thing to do. The fresh air, the chill, and the realization that we were running towards a hit man instead of away from one were waking me up fast.

“Does your cell phone have a camera?”

“Yes,” I said, “but the photos won’t win any awards.”

“I only want to win a conviction,” he said.

The hit man slipped into the stairwell at about the same moment we reached the employee entrance. He didn’t see us. Or at least I hoped he didn’t.

“Shouldn’t we call the captain?” I asked.

“We don’t have anything yet,” Monk said. “We’re in luck. The hit man wedged the door open with a stone.”

“How is that luck? You aren’t actually intending to go in after him, are you?”

Monk answered my question by going in after him. I stupidly followed and, in doing so, accidentally knocked the stone away. The door clicked shut with the finality of a prison cell.

But Monk didn’t notice. He was over at the security desk, examining the video consoles.

On the monitors, I could see Archie walking down the hallway on the fourth floor, checking the doors.

“Our lucky streak is continuing,” Monk said. “These video feeds are being taped.”

“I’m not seeing this streak,” I said.

“We’ll have tape of Archie and the hit man together,” Monk said. “It’s evidence.”

The man in the overcoat was slowly ascending the stairs and managing to avoid showing his face to the camera as he did so.

“The hit man did a great job of hiding his face from the cameras the last time he was here,” I said. “And he’s obviously no less camera shy now.”

“That’s what your cell phone camera is for,” Monk said. “You can get a picture of him when he emerges from the building and his guard is down.”

“Won’t he see me?”

“You’ll be in hiding.”

“Hiding where?” I asked, looking around the wide-open lobby. There was a potted palm in one corner, but it wasn’t big enough to hide me.

“Outside,” Monk said. “Behind one of those parked cars. He’ll never know you’re there.”

“There’s one little problem with that plan,” I said. “We’re locked in. I accidentally knocked away the stone that was propping open the door.”

Monk glanced at the desk and spotted a set of keys. “No problem.”

He sorted through the keys and singled one out among the twenty on the ring.

“This opens the revolving door,” he said.

I studied the key. “How do you know?”

“I can tell,” he said.

“How?”

“I recognize it,” Monk said. “I saw it when Archie unlocked the door before.”

“But they all look the same,” I said.

“Every key is unique,” Monk said. “That’s why they are called keys. You go outside and I’ll hide in the shredded-paper closet once I unlock it.”

I took the key and looked at the monitors. The hit man was on the fourth-floor landing. He paused, reached into his jacket, and took out a gun.

“This can’t be good,” I said and gestured to the screen.

“We have to warn Archie.” Monk quickly checked the console until he found the button for the speaker system. “Where’s the microphone?”

I pointed to a telephone receiver that rested in the console. “I think that’s it.”

The hit man screwed a