Authors: Lee Goldberg

Mr. Monk in Outer Space (16 page)

BOOK: Mr. Monk in Outer Space

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“New is old school. It’s too risky for the networks and for the audiences. People are much more comfortable with the familiar,” Mills said. “Reimagination is the
new
new.”

“It’s more authentic,” Beck said.

I glanced at Monk, who was carefully organizing the almonds, peanuts, cashews, and pretzels into individual piles.

I knew better than to assume from his silence and preoccupation with his task that he wasn’t absorbing every word. But it irritated me anyway, since I was doing all the talking and I had no idea what to ask that was relevant besides “Did you kill him?”

So I just asked whatever interested me, hoping they’d say something that would help Monk later.

“How could it be more authentic?” I said. “It’s a remake.”

“A reimagination,” Mills corrected me.

“What’s the difference?”

“We’re not remaking what was, we’re going back and making
Beyond Earth
the show that it should have been,” Mills said. “It’s a new beginning. A fresh imagining of a preimagined concept. We’re making it real.”

“It’s a show with inside-out aliens,” I said. “That’s not real.”

“We’re giving it an internal, unflinchingly honest reality consistent with the reality we experience every day,” Mills said.

“Authenticity,” Beck said, nodding sagely.

“The premise of the show is that humanity was destroyed and now all that’s left of mankind are these people trapped in a spaceship,” Mills said. “They should be miserably depressed, filthy, and barely scratching out an existence. But when you watch the original show, everything is bright and colorful and everybody is happy-go-lucky. That’s not being true to the internal reality of the fictional universe.”

“It’s inauthentic,” Beck said.

“Our show is more visceral,” Mills said. “You can smell the sweat.”

Monk looked up, disgusted. “Why would you want to smell sweat?”

“It’s the scent of authenticity,” Beck said.

“I wouldn’t want to smell that either,” Monk said and started brushing the piles of nuts into individual bowls. I told you he was listening.

“The characters are more psychologically complex now,” Beck said. “Take my character, Captain Stryker. The only way he can deal with his inner turmoil, the conflict between his despair and his need to be a strong leader for mankind, is to mate with every female alien he can, no matter what they look like. They just have to be the female of their species.”

“So, basically, he’s a pervert,” I said.

“But that’s okay,” Mills said. “He’s a noble pervert that the audience can relate to.”

“Because he’s authentic,” Beck said.

“Not many actors have the chops to pull off an edgy character like this and make him sympathetic and heroic, ” Mills said, putting his arm around Beck. “But Jud has chops to spare.”

“How did Stipe feel about his series being reimagined into a crew of noble perverts?”

“All he cared about was getting a check,” Mills replied. “He hasn’t had a career since
Beyond Earth
was canceled. He saw this as an opportunity to make some money and maybe get back in the game. If
Beyond Earth
is a hit, everybody wins.”

“Except the original fans,” I said.

“They are only a small fraction of the audience that we’re aiming for,” Mills said.

“But it’s more than a show to them,” I said. “You’re messing with their lives. Weren’t you worried they might get really pissed off?”

“Not really,” Mills said.

“Did Stipe get any threats?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Are you getting any?” I asked.

“Just some hate mail and petitions from the Galactic Uprising,” Mills said. “But I don’t take it seriously.”

“Even after what happened today?”

“Stipe betrayed the fans, not me,” Mills said. “They got the guy they were angry with. I’m just a hired gun doing his job, which is making a TV show that will reach the widest possible audience.”

“They might not see the distinction,” I said.

“They do. I’m an outsider. I don’t know anything about the
Beyond Earth
culture and I don’t care. They know that. I’m exactly who they think I am. They don’t have anything invested in me,” Mills said. “But they were devoted to Stipe. They listened to his stories again and again and again and supported him for decades with their comic book money. They thought he was one of them, that he lived in their same little world and was as passionate about it as they were. Well, somebody finally noticed that he wasn’t, it was all an act, and
Beyond Earth
was just a paycheck to him. That’s certainly all it is to me, too.”

“Speaking of money,” I said, “if
Beyond Earth
succeedsyou won’t have to share the credit or the money with him now that he’s dead.”

“I wouldn’t have shared the credit anyway,” Mills said. “Stipe was, and would have remained, a has-been. He had a pay-or-play deal, so the salary checks come whether he’s alive or dead and the back-end profit formula doesn’t change, either. The money will just go to his estate now.”

“So who controls his estate?” I asked.

Mills shrugged. “I don’t know. We didn’t talk about his personal life. Actually, we didn’t talk at all. I told my secretary to ignore his calls.”

Monk stood up and carried away his bowls of sorted nuts and pretzels.

“Hey,” Beck said, “where are you going with those?”

“I’m putting them into individual Baggies, sealing them, and throwing them away, of course.”

“Why?” Beck said.

“Because the nuts are contaminated,” Monk said.

“No, they aren’t,” Beck said. “They’ve been right here in the bowl.”

“Mixed together,” Monk said gravely.

“To put it in
Beyond Earth
terms,” I said, “it’s like mixing matter with anti-matter.”

“If that wasn’t bad enough, countless numbers of strangers have touched those nuts with their bare hands,” Monk said. “Who knows where those hands have been and what they’ve been doing?”

Monk shuddered at the thought. So did I. When he put it like that, the idea of eating those nuts did sound pretty disgusting.

“But I’m hungry,” Beck said. “I haven’t finished eating them.”

“It would be healthier to eat a bowl of rat droppings,” Monk said while walking away with the bowls. “You’ll thank me later.”

Beck stared after him. “What’s his problem?”

“He’s just being authentic,” I said. “Authentically Monk.”

Mr. Monk and the Eye

Kingston Mills and Judson Beck left, and while I ate my lunch, Monk went from table to table, gathering up the bowls of mixed nuts, sorting them into Baggies, and throwing them all out.

This did not go over well with the patrons, the waitresses, or the bartender. Someone called security, but I guess the guards had been briefed that Monk was with the police, so the bartender was told to let it drop.

Monk, however, felt it was his duty to instruct the bar staff and the security guards in the proper procedure for distributing nuts to diners, which is as follows:

Each type of nut or cracker must be in its own bowl. The bowls can be shared as long as all the patrons at the table are wearing rubber gloves.

“It’s your duty to rigorously enforce this,” Monk told the security staff. “For the good of humanity.”

The security guards didn’t look to me like they were ready to shoulder the burden of protecting humanity. And rather than follow Monk’s draconian rules, the bartender chose not to offer nuts and pretzels at all, at least not while Monk was in the building.

It was a wise decision.

I didn’t intercede in the fracas because I was tired, hungry, and wanted to eat my late lunch in peace.

But I couldn’t observe what was going on with the complete detachment I desired and, even though I wasn’t directly involved in the dispute, I felt my neck and shoulder muscles tighten with stress anyway.

Stottlemeyer and Disher came down and joined me, which drew Monk back to my table and gave the bar staff a reprieve.

“We arrested Roger,” Disher said. “He was in room 717 in the midst of selling his diamonds to some local jewelers when we crashed his party. He was stunned to see us.”

“Roger was sure that he’d committed the perfect murder,” Stottlemeyer said.

“But he made the crucial mistake of underestimating the legendary brilliance of the San Francisco Police Department,” Disher said proudly.

“I’d say Roger’s estimate of our legendary brilliance was pretty accurate. He just didn’t figure on Monk.” Stottlemeyer looked at Monk. “So, did you solve any other murders while we were gone?”

“Was there another one?” Monk asked. “Between the dead bodies and the mixed nuts, it’s a miracle this hotel is still in business.”

“I was talking about Stipe.” Stottlemeyer reached for one of my leftover fries, but before his fingers could get to my plate, Monk pushed it out of reach.

“You should be wearing gloves,” Monk said.

“The fries aren’t evidence,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Have you washed your hands lately?”

“I was only going to touch the fry that I intended to eat.”

“So you’d just be poisoning yourself instead of yourself and others,” Monk said. “Are you a man or an ape?”

“Never mind,” Stottlemeyer said. “I shouldn’t be eating fries anyway.”

Disher reached into his coat pocket and handed me a DVD. “I had this made for Monk. It’s a copy of the security camera video of Stipe’s shooting.”

“Thank you,” Monk said.

“Don’t let this DVD out of your sight,” Disher said. “The press would love to get their hands on this.”

“We’ll guard it with our lives,” I said.

“Don’t bother,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sure the footage will be all over the news tonight. The clerk at the hotel probably knocked off a copy before we got there and is auctioning it off to the highest bidder as we speak.”

“You’re awfully cynical,” I said.

“ ‘Cynical’ is just another word for ‘realistic,’ ” Stottlemeyer said. “Did you get any leads from Kingston Mills or Judson Beck?”

BOOK: Mr. Monk in Outer Space

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