Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii by Goldberg, Lee (librera reader .TXT) 📕

to report?” the agent asked. His name tag identified him as Tom, from Hermosa Beach, California.

“No,” Brian said, as Monk returned.

“There’s a scratch on the back bumper, three dings on the driver’s door, bird droppings on the trunk, and a amoeba-shaped stain of indeterminate origin on the passenger seat,” Monk said. “And he returned it with an uneven odometer.”

“An uneven odometer?” Tom asked, clearly perplexed.

“It’s at two hundred and seven miles. He didn’t even have the common human decency to go the extra mile.” Monk sneered at Brian. “How can you look at yourself in the mirror?”

Tom handed Brian a document on a clipboard.

“All you have to do is sign here and the shuttle bus will take you to the airport.” He motioned to a Paradise Car Rental van idling at the curb a few yards away.

“You didn’t note the scratches, dings and stains,” Monk said to the agent.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tom said.

“That’s a permanent stain.”

“The interiors get stained all the time,” Tom from Hermosa Beach said. “The red dirt alone will ruin the interior, if all the rain and sea air don’t ruin the exterior first. Don’t even get me started on what people spill in the cars or what we find under the seats. You don’t want to know.”

Monk shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“And people drive them with no care or respect. Cars don’t last long here. Luckily, there’s a great body shop in Kapaa. All the companies use it.”

Brian signed the document and handed the clipboard back to the agent.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Tom said.

Brian glowered at Monk and me, picked up his suitcases, and marched off to the shuttle. The agent turned to us.

“So what can I do for you this evening?”

“We’d like to rent a car,” I said.

“Take your pick.”

“We want one that’s fresh off the boat,” Monk said. “A car driven by only one or two very clean, sanitary people.”

Tom looked at the wrecked Mustang. “That was the newest car we had. The rest have been here a couple months. You might try Global Rental in Lihue.”

I glanced at the shuttle, which hadn’t left yet. There were plenty of rental-car places at the airport.

“Mind if we hitch a ride on the shuttle to the airport?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” Tom said.

I started walking to the shuttle.

“Do you really want to ride in a bus with that pitiful excuse for a man?” Monk said, walking alongside me.

“I’m not the one who is going to be uncomfortable,” I said. “He is.”

“Because seeing you staring at him will silently remind him of how he wronged your friend?”

“Who said anything about being silent?” I said. “I’m going to remind him as loudly, and as colorfully, as I possibly can for the entire drive. If you’ve got sensitive ears, you might want to keep them covered.”

Brian would have bolted from the shuttle the instant we got to the airport, but he was slowed down by his luggage, so I got a few more choice words in before he escaped. Monk was so embarrassed by my language, I think he was tempted to run out, too.

The major car-rental companies, along with a few smaller operations, were all grouped together in a cul-de-sac adjacent to the airport parking lot. The shuttle dropped us off in front of Paradise Car Rental, but they didn’t have any “fresh off the boat” cars available, so we went across the street to Global.

The rental agents at Global were young, Hawaiian, and apparently under strict orders never to stop smiling. They probably spent their off-hours with sore cheeks and grim faces to avoid the pain. Like their counterparts at Paradise, the pattern of their aloha shirts was their logo, which was the Earth as a steering wheel.

“We can’t rent a car here,” Monk said.

“Why not?”

“Look at this place,” Monk said. “It’s in complete disarray.”

I looked at the lot. I saw a hundred different Ford models parked in neat rows in numbered spaces. Monk should have been thrilled. “I don’t see the problem.”

“You must have jet lag. The vehicles are parked out there willy-nilly.”

“Willy-nilly?” I said. “They are in numbered parking spots.”

“They should be arranged by make, model, color, and year of production,” he said as if it were a matter of common sense. “This is anarchy. If this is a sign of how organized they are, imagine how they maintain their cars.”

I pointed across the street. “Look at the other rental companies, Mr. Monk. Their cars are all parked willy-nilly, too.”

“At least now I know where the term ‘willy-nilly’ came from,” Monk said. “It’s Hawaiian for ‘chaos.’”

An agent named Kimiko came over to help us. I asked for a convertible. Monk didn’t care what we got as long as the car was fresh off the assembly line. Kimiko led us to a Mustang with only thirty-eight miles on the odometer—she said it had never been rented.

While Monk was inspecting the car for imperfections and I was filling out the rental form, a couple in their twenties, both sunburned, drove in with a Mustang that had been clipped on the front passenger side, shattering the headlight and crumpling the hood.

The couple told Kimiko they were sideswiped by a hit-and-run driver and gave her a copy of the police report. First Brian, now them. I checked the boxes on the form for every insurance plan they offered. It was going on Monk’s credit card anyway.

“What a nice couple,” Monk said, peering into their dented car.

“What makes you say that?” I said. “You don’t know anything about them.

“They brought the car back with an even odometer. One hundred and twelve miles.”

“It’s a coincidence,” I said. “They didn’t do it on purpose.”

“You’re too cynical,” Monk said. “Have some faith in your fellow man.”

11

Mr. Monk Goes to Dinner

The cramped squad room of the Lihue police station resembled every other government office I had seen before. Everything was in shades of gray—the cinder-block walls, the file cabinets, the four metal desks, even the linoleum floors, where years of