Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu Read Online Free Page B

back by now.”
    “Mr. Monk, I’m surprised at you. Where’s your compassion?”
    Monk slid off his stool and marched over to the old man. I gathered up my bags and chased after him.
    “Okay, gramps, the jig is up,” Monk said, blocking the man’s path.
    “The jig?” the old man wheezed.
    “You’re going down.” Monk jabbed his finger at the man’s face.
    “Get out of my way.” The old man pushed past him, but Monk put his foot in front of the wheels of the oxygen tank trolley, stopping it.
    “The only place you’re going is jail,” Monk said.
    “Leave me alone,” the old man yelled, yanking his trolley free.
    Monk pulled his sleeves down over his hands and embraced the tank, holding it tight. The old man tugged, but Monk refused to let go.
    “Give it up, geezer,” Monk said.
    I stood between the two of them and looked at Monk. “What are you doing?
    “He’s a fake,” Monk said. “Call security.”
    But I didn’t have to. Two beefy guys with matching earpieces and identical ill-fitting jackets approached out of nowhere. One of them spoke up.
    “I’m Ned Wilton, store security. What’s the problem here?”
    Wilton was an African-American man with a barrel chest and a military buzz cut. He looked like a weight lifter turned Secret Service agent.
    “Isn’t it obvious?” the old man said, gasping for breath. “I’m being attacked by this lunatic.”
    “He’s part of a shoplifting ring,” Monk said.
    The old man started coughing. Wilton glanced at him, then back at Monk.
    “Did you see this man steal any items?”
    “No,” Monk said. Wilton’s jaw muscles tightened. I wondered if worked on those muscles at the gym, too.
    “Then why do you think he’s a shoplifter?”
    “Look at the gauge on his oxygen tank,” Monk said. “It’s empty.”
    The old man abruptly collapsed on the floor and began to gasp for breath, clutching at his chest. The other security guy crouched at his side. “We’d better call an ambulance.”
    Wilton nodded, and the other man spoke into a radio he had pulled out of his jacket pocket.
    “It’s an act,” Monk said. “The gauge has been at zero for at least five minutes, and you saw him wrestling with me over the tank. If he really had emphysema, his skin would be blue by now.”
    The old man was having spasms, writhing and choking on the floor. A crowd of horrified shoppers was beginning to gather. Wilton broke out in a sweat.
    “I think he’s dying,” the other security guy said.
    Monk ignored him. “The tank is full of stolen merchandise. The lining of the tank jams the security tags, allowing him to go in and out of the store without setting off the sensors.”
    The old man gurgled. His legs twitched. Even Wilton wasn’t buying the performance now.
    Wilton unlatched the top of the tank. It was stuffed to the rim with designer clothing.
    The old man stopped flopping and sighed with resignation. “Oh, hell,” he said.
    “Your days of villainy are over,” Monk said.
    “Thank you, sir,” Wilton said to Monk. “We appreciate the assist. I think we’ve got it covered now.”
    “Then you know about the pregnant lady,” Monk said.
    “What pregnant lady?”
    Monk motioned to the woman in the café, who was standing up at her table and heading out. “The one who isn’t pregnant.”
    She glanced at us and must have seen something on our faces she didn’t like. She bolted. Without even thinking, I charged after her. It was no contest. I took her down with a flying tackle, a skill I learned from my brother.
    We hit the ground hard. Her tummy pack burst open like a piñata, spilling clothes and toiletries all over the floor. The woman snarled at me, and I snarled right back. I grabbed the blouse she’d taken from me and I held it up in my fist victoriously.
    You don’t want to get between a mother, her daughter, and a Juicy blouse at 80 percent off the regular price.
    Monk and Wilton rushed over. Wilton restrained the woman and called for more