Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence (35 page)

At quarter after one a car—but not the car I’d expected—slowed to a stop to front of the Watergate.

And there was Joseph Monti—alive and well and exceedingly perky—climbing out of the passenger’s seat, then coming around to the driver’s seat, then bending down into the car to engage in a long, deep goodbye kiss with . . . Birdie, his wife. I guess it was quite a kiss because instead of saying goodbye, he tenderly loosened her seat belt, slid in beside her, and started in with the kissing all over again.

I looked up and down the street. If Joseph Monti was here and intact, could Billy and Elton Jr. be far behind? And if they weren’t around, which they clearly weren’t, then I needed to. move almost instantly into my fallback position.

I ducked behind a parked truck and reached into my tote bag (equipped, of course, for this contingency), withdrawing my violet contacts and my Elizabeth Fisher-Todd wig and installing them on the appropriate parts of my body. I just had time to scrawl on a beauty mark, unbutton four buttons on my Prudence Gump blouse, and emphatically shove my breasts upward in search of cleavage, when Joseph Monti offered his beaming Birdie a final embrace and entered the lobby. I was right behind him.

“Hah there,” I hummed ecstatically. “Lordy, lordy, I am so pleased to see you”.

Joseph Monti was flustered. “Why are you here?” he wanted to know. “Wasn’t the limo supposed to get and
then
you?” He scowled and fingered the sleeve of my suit. “And, excuse me for mentioning this, but how
come you’re not more dolled up for this big-shot fancy pants Thanksgiving dinner that you’re taking me to?”

He was, of course, referring to my Prudence Gump ensemble, which even four unbuttoned buttons couldn’t de-frump.

I explained that I wasn’t dolled up because our dinner had unexpectedly been canceled. “I’ve been trying to call and tell you since eight
A.M.
”

Joseph Monti actually blushed. “Well, you see,” he said, “I didn’t sleep here last night. My wife and I got together for dinner, and one thing led to another, and we . . .

“That is so wonderful. That is so fabulous. I am so happy for you.” My relief was turning me into a babbling idiot. “So it’s all working out jes fahn, and you’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner with your family?”

Mr. Monti shook his head. Why was he telling me no? “Why are you telling me no?” I impatiently asked.

“She doesn’t want to spring it on the children all at once. She thinks they have to get used to the idea. So”—Mr. Monti clasped my hand—“since neither of us has a place to eat turkey today, you and I are going out to a restaurant.”

My mind went into overdrive. “No, wait, I can’t,” I replied. “I mean, like you said, I’m not dressed for the occasion.” But when Mr. Monti pressed (“What’s your problem? A nice respectable meal. No monkey business”) and refused to return my hand till I acquiesced, I made my escape by telling him that I’d go home and change my clothes (“I’ll get all dolled up”) while he called around and made us a reservation.

“Give me an hour,” I told him, as I pushed/escorted
him to his elevator, ‘I’ll phone you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

Euphorically—I had saved the day!—I wafted through the front door of the Watergate building, and there at the curb, in the longest stretch limo I’d ever gazed upon, were a neatly liveried Billy and Elton Jr.

Luckily, I saw them before they saw me.

Darting behind the same truck behind which I had made the quick switch from Prudence to Elizabeth, I took out my contacts, rubbed off my beauty mark, buttoned my buttons, put on my limp brown wig, and re-emerged as Prudence once again. Leaping into the limo, I emitted a terse “Let’s roll,” and two seconds later Billy and Elton Jr. and I—Elizabeth, Prudence, Brenda—were cruising toward Virginia on Rock Creek Parkway.

I and the victim-to-be had worked out our differences, I notified my cohorts. Their services wouldn’t be needed after all. I suggested that in the future, if they were hired for a hit, they should show up on time, not half an hour late. I told them that they could keep the five thousand dollars I had paid them in advance, and asked them to please turn around now and drop me off.

“Not till you give us the other five grand,” said Billy.

“For what?” I protested. “You don’t have to kill the man.”

“And we won’t,” said Elton Jr. “We won’t kill him—but only if you pay us the other five grand.”

Having been made an offer I couldn’t refuse, I reached in my tote bag and paid them the rest of the money.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Elton Jr. when they stopped the car.

“Any time,” said Billy, coming around and gallantly opening the door.

I was starting to walk away when Billy said, “Hold up there a minute,” and scrutinized me meditatively. “I’m gonna give you a tip. You go out and get a hot red dress, you get some red shoes, you color up that hair, and you’re gonna look like—what’s that blondie’s name?” He pointed his finger at me and said, “Yeah, right You gonna look like Goldie Hawn’s first cousin.”

•  •  •

I was back at the house by two, prepared to lie about a flat tire, but no one seemed to notice how long I’d been gone. Everyone noticed, however, that I was totally manic with joy as I bopped around the kitchen stirring, sautéing, and singing, at the top of my lungs, a pull-out all-stops “I’m Sitting on Top of the World.”

The Thanksgiving dinner was beautiful.

Our dinner guests were beautiful.

The report on Dwayne—the hospital called to say he was doing very well—was beautiful.

I was sit-sit-sitting on top-top-top of the world.

•  •  •

On Friday Jo phoned Wally to say that her father had come to the house Thanksgiving evening and taken her mother off to a motel.

On Saturday Jo phoned Wally to say that she fully, without reservation, accepted the validity and the legitimacy of the lesbian lifestyle.

On Sunday Jo blazed up to our house on the back of a highly aggressive-looking motorcycle. Dressed in studded black leather, with an earring in her nostril, Jo wasn’t looking any too gentle herself. I hovered out of sight but not out of earshot, and heard Jo tell Wally,
“You said you wanted to talk to me, so I’m here, but I don’t have much time. Benito is waiting.”

“Well, maybe that answers my question,” said Wally, his voice on the borderline between anguish and anger, ‘I’m trying not to crowd you, but I need to know about you and Vanessa Pincus.”

Josephine replied that although she fully, without reservation, accepted the validity and legitimacy of the lesbian lifestyle, she’d nonetheless concluded that she herself seemed to be of an alternative inclination.

“That’s real good news,” said Wally, “I’m glad—”

“And besides”—Jo hadn’t stopped talking yet—“a woman can be a fully feminine woman, and still be strong and brave and independent.”

“You’re right,” Wally said. “You’re right and—”

Jo still wasn’t finished. “But you will meet people who want to call these
masculine
characteristics. Which, as I certainly hope you agree, is sexual stereotyping of the worst kind.”

“I agree,” Wally said. “You’re completely correct, and I—”

Jo kept going. “And also,” she said, “a woman—it’s not just guys who feel this way—can crave excitement, can want to—uh—walk on the wild side.”

“Or”—Wally’s patience was fraying—“ride on the wild side. So maybe you’d like to explain about that hulk hunched over the Harley. And why you’re all done up like a Hell’s Angels groupie.”

“I’m not explaining anything,” Jo replied with withering dignity. I heard her heavy trots clonk down the hall. “But I think you ought to know that Benito says the Hell’s Angels have gotten a really bum rap.”

•  •  •

Later on Sunday Birdie phoned. She wanted us to come to her house that evening. “I’m sorry it’s such short notice»” she said, “but Tuesday’s December first, and I think we need to have a big discussion.”

“You mean, about Jeff and his contract with Monti Enterprises?

“I mean,” said Birdie mysteriously, “about everything. So maybe after dinner—let’s say eight-thirty—you and Jeff and Wally and Jake could join us.”

“Us?” I inquired.

“Us. Joseph and me.”

•  •  •

We joined them in the den because the Monti living room had been demolished. The furniture was gone. The drapes were gone, The beige-on-beige wool carpeting was gone. “I’ve sent out the couches and chairs to be recovered in golds and maroons,” Birdie softly explained to me while her husband and my three men exchanged tense pleasantries. “And I’m thinking of doing the drapes”—she pressed some boisterous swatches upon me—“in one of these prints.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Very unstagnant,” I told her. Then giving Mr. Monti my hand and one of my lesser smiles, I dissemblingly said to him, “Long time no see.”

Joseph Monti didn’t reply. He stared at me, a quizzical look on his face. He glanced away. He removed and cleaned his glasses. He put them back on and stared at me again. His silence was verging on rude when, picking up on my phrase, he echoed, “Long time no see. Except—it’s funny—it just doesn’t seem that long.”

Birdie Monti—when had she started to look so much like Gina Lollobrigida?—got down to business as soon
as we six were seated in the large and leathery den. “Just so you are aware,” she said, “when the lawyers checked, over the documents, it turned out to be that
I
am Monti Enterprises,” Four Kovners snapped to attention as she softly repeated the phrase, “Just so you’re aware.”

Then Birdie turned to her husband, “Joseph,” she said, “would like to apologize for all the troubles he’s brought upon your family. He knows that this is very important to me.”

Joseph Monti shrugged. “So I’m apologizing.”

“He also”—she turned to Wally—“wants to apologize for picking on you. He knows that this is very important to me.”

Joseph Monti shrugged. “So again I’m apologizing.”

“He also”—she turned to Jake—“wants to say that he’s getting those people who’re suing you to stop suing you. It’s going to cost some money but he knows that this is very important to me.”

Joseph Monti sighed. “It’s costing a fortune.”

Birdie turned to Jeff. “So Joseph shouldn’t be too upset, we’ll be taking your Rockville properties, and we’ll keep the money you’ve already paid on your debt. However,” and she smiled at him reassuringly, “on your car and your condominium, which Joseph won’t be needing anymore, we plan to make an equitable arrangement.”

Joseph Monti groaned. “Equitable? A giveaway!”

Birdie frowned at her husband. “Just remember that this is very important to me.”

Birdie turned in my direction and said, “There’s been some feeling—and I agree—that my husband didn’t do right by your son on those properties he’s
stuck with in Anacostia.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom and declared, “We’re going to make this right. I don’t know how, but I promise we will. This is also”—she smiled at her husband—“very important to me.”

I almost squealed with excitement. “You’re saying you want to make it right with Jeff and those properties? You’re saying that this is very important to you?”

“It is,” Birdie Monti replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘Tell me, Brenda, do you have some ideas?”

Boyohboyohboy, did I have some ideas!

The subsequent discussion, which came to a satisfying conclusion some hours later, began with my suggesting mellifluously, “I’d like you to close your eyes and picture something: I’d like you to close your eyes and picture the Monti Homes for the Home less, in Anacostia.”

•  •  •

Before we left the Montis, Birdie Monti took Wally aside for a brief heart-to-heart. With a minor shift of position—so minor I honestly do not feel you could call it eavesdropping—I found myself able to hear every word they said.

“Jo isn’t here tonight because she’s out with—”

“I know,” Wally said. “A biker. Benito.”

“At least that girl she was dating—what was her name? Vanessa Pincus—was nice and clean-cut. But I’m asking you not to give up on Jo. She’s trying things out She needs to. And when she’s, through she’s going to see that you’re the one for her. Even my husband is finally beginning to see this.”

“And why is that?” Wally asked.

“It’s because”—Birdie ruffled his hair—“compared
with Benito and Vanessa, you’re starting to look like John F. Kennedy, Jr.” She paused, “And also because it’s very important to me.”

•  •  •

Although it was pouring rain when we four Kovners drove home from McLean, I didn’t give Jake any navigational tips. Instead, I snuggled up close and said, as diffidently as I could, “I hope you didn’t mind my coming up with that Monti Homes for the Home less plan.”

“Not at all,” Jake answered. “You did great.”

The opinion was not unanimous. “
I
minded,” Jeff protested from the back seat. “I think you could have out a better deal. I know you saved my ass, but I can’t believe you’re making me be the resident manager.”

“Think of it,” I said, “as a kind of Clintonian national service.”

“Think of it,” my adorable husband added, “as learning how to be in control of your life.”

•  •  •

Later, as we stood side by side in the bathroom brushing our teeth, Jake—to my astonishment—whispered, “I love you.” Caught with a mouthful of water, I gargled and rinsed and then replied, “I love you back.” After which, I was moved to say—okay, I was being greedy—“So embroider a little. What do you love about me?”

“Jesus, Brenda,” said Jake, but not unkindly, “you know that’s not my kind of conversation.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then I’ll give you a couple of hints. ‘Yours is the breath that sets every new leaf aquiver. Yours is the grace that guides the rush of the river. Yours is the flush and the flame in the heart of the
flower: Life’s meaning, its music, its pride, and its power.’ Doesn’t that kind of sum up your feelings for me?”

Jake gave me a sideways glance. “Well» no, it doesn’t. No, not exactly. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘You may have been a headache but you never were a bore.’ ”

“That’s what you call embroidering?” I gave him a jab with my elbow “That is
it
?”