Murdering Mr. Monti: A Merry Little Tale of Sex and Violence Read Online Free PDF Page A

the number of men on my list, counting only one twin, struck me as alittle bit excessive, and I decided I had to . . . not prune, really, but consolidate. Which eventually I was able to do, having established that I could satisfy eight different needs with only three different men, all of whom—it conveniently turned out—were already uncarnally known to me.
    There was Louis, a dedicated black activist who, at age twenty-nine, also met the younger-man requirement.
    There was Philip, the world-famous TV pundit who had been flirting with me for years at my friend Nora’s New Year’s Day parties and who, if you didn’t listen too closely, could pass for a genius.
    And there was Joseph Augustus Monti.
    •  •  •
    My concern about falling in love with the men with whom I committed adultery—question (d)—might strike you as rather outdated at a time in our social history when sex (despite its risks) has become regarded as a form of entertainment. Like bowling or bridge or going to the movies. Like ordering in a pizza with mushrooms and anchovies. No big deal. Nevertheless, I found it hard to imagine how people who take off their clothes and lie down together can “have sex” without “making love,” without feeling a tenderness, a connectedness, an involvement with each other that could lead to major emotional complications. But as I contemplated the three men I had selected to become my short-term lovers, I realized that the danger of love was remote. Like Elvis Presley, whom in my youth I had passionately disapproved of and just as passionately lusted after, these men spoke to my loins, not to my soul. I could not fall in love with Louis. I could not fall inlove with Philip. And I could certainly not fall in love with Mr. Monti.
    •  •  •
    Mr. Monti was not at all lovable when, the day after his appearance on our front porch, Marvin and I showed up at his office with the hundred and fifty thousand dollars and no Wally. “You wanted your money back and my client out of your life,” said Marvin reasonably. “Your money is here. My client is gone. Your terms have been met.”
    Marvin stretched out his hands palms up, in a fair’s fair gesture that complemented the sweet reasonableness of his voice. Behind his horn-rims, his eyes gazed steadily at Mr. Monti, his whole manner suggesting that while the practice of law might, for some folks, be viciously adversarial, men of good will could surely work things out. Knowing Marvin’s reputation as one of the bigger barracudas in the Washington legal profession, I watched his genial performance with admiration. Only a slight tension in his tight runner’s body execrably clad in a discount Syms suit hinted at his ability—should sweet reason fail to prevail—to viciously tear out his adversary’s throat.
    Most adversaries. Maybe not this one.
    Mr. Monti leaned back in his desk chair and sighed. “You think so, huh?” he said softly. “You think that you can walk in here in those cheap hundred-and-forty-dollar shoes”—Marvin flushed with pleasure, having never spent more for shoes than $32.99 at Payless—“and sell me a bill of goods that my terms have been met?”
    “That’s my understanding of—”
    “Well, understand this, Kipper. I don’t just want yourclient out of my life. I want your client out of my life permanently .”
    I decided that the moment called for a constructive intervention—something philosophical with a down-to-earth touch. I had on just the right outfit to strike that note—a black-and-white silk with a slit skirt to show off (let me not indulge in false modesty here) my fabulous legs. I was there without the approval, or even the knowledge, of my husband, and I can’t say that Marvin Kipper was thrilled with my presence. But, as I pointed out to him while we were riding up in the elevator together, “Marvin you can never tell when my grasp of the human condition will come in handy.”
    I thought that time had