I wondered how she could have learned so much about me, but it really made no difference. The stout neighbor may have told her, or the apartment may have been under surveillance. I wouldn’t even put it past Sofya to have me followed. Each alternative was worth a full point. Besides, how could she possibly know what I’d found?
“And what exactly is it I supposedly found?” I asked. The distance between us did no end of good in terms of my self-confidence. While even her voice was unsettling, Sofya had to be physically present for me to become completely unnerved.
A synthetic snort rattled out from the receiver.
“You surely know best. You’re the one out hunting.” Then her voice became more serious. “As soon as you find what you’re looking for, you’d better hand it over to me. If not, the whole thing will explode in your face. Give it to me, and I’ll be able to protect you. It’s the only way.”
“But I haven’t got anything,” I protested.
“You’ll end up destroying yourself and me, too. You’re acting like a fool. Don’t. This is serious. Give me whatever it is you’ve found. They already know you have it.”
“I told you, I haven’t got a thing,” I said. “The flat had been totally ransacked by the time I got in. Every last corner had been searched.”
“Don’t try to play games with that flea brain of yours!” That last bit was said in her most masculine voice. It was almost unrecognizable. It’d been years since I’d heard her talk like that. She instantly regained her self-possession and returned to her divalike diction.
“They know where you were last night.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“Full of questions, aren’t you? I don’t like it. Not one bit.”
“But who are they?” I insisted.
“If you go on like this there will be nothing I can do,” she warned.
“You know best,” were my parting words as I hung up.
I’m not totally unskilled in the art of self-defense. Furthermore, I really didn’t have anything, neither the letters nor the photos. The only thing in my possession was a taped interview in which both participants were drunk or drugged out. It wouldn’t stand up in court. Technology had made it possible to reproduce anyone’s voice. Failing that, recordings could be snipped apart and edited into the desired sentences.
Sofya had rattled me yet again. There was something about her that put me off balance.
I went down to the club. Hasan approached me at the base of the stairs.
“Have you spoken to Sofya?” he asked.
“Yes! What’s it to you?”
“She’s on the phone again. She said you were cut off. She’s waiting on the line. What should I tell her?”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Are you going to speak to her?”
“Tell her I left.”
“She won’t believe me.” As he said it, Hasan reproduced a facial expression often used by the girls. A pout involving distended lips—it didn’t suit him. Though it was employed to good effect by the girls, it was inappropriate on the face of a man, nominal though he might be.
“Cut the coquetry, Hasan,” I snapped. “Make something up. I won’t speak to her.”
“Okay, fine. But why are you taking it out on me?”
He turned, hitching up his trousers as he walked off.
I’d have to give the question of Sofya a great deal of thought once I’d finished my business with Süleyman and returned to the club. Hasan’s attitude also begged a few questions. What was happening to him? Had I pressed a viper to my bosom? Why did he seem to side with Sofya? Why the interest in Buse?
If even Sofya was spooked, the situation was certainly critical. My knowingly being led into their trap was just asking for trouble.
I glanced over toward the commotion at the door. A group of five or six were entering the club. In front was Suat with her new girlfriend, a fashion model. They looked like Laurel and Hardy together. Next came the exhibitionist piano singer Mahmut Gürsel, who had screwed Buse on the deck of the boat. This was just great. It seemed everyone who had been mentioned in the tape was converging on my club.
Mahmut never came to the club. There had to be a reason for him to do so now. Suat wouldn’t have dragged him along for no reason. But they couldn’t know I’d listened to the cassette. When had they found out? How had they found out?
He seemed tense, even more so than would be accounted for by his first visit to a tranny club. Hasan met them at the door. His overly warm handshakes and kisses with Mahmut and Suat were annoying. Hasan was up to something. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but I would find out. The model was shockingly beautiful, and icy.
I didn’t know the other two members of the party. While I couldn’t say for certain, they didn’t seem like the sort I’d want around.
Cüneyt waved to me from the now-empty doorway. Süleyman must have arrived. I didn’t want to encounter Mahmut and Suat. I was in no shape to withstand their questions and meaningful glances. The club, which had seemed so spacious, shrank to the size of a small pen. There was no escape.
I went directly to their sides. First I embraced and kissed Suat. She congratulated me on my outfit. Some do appreciate the effort. Although I had never been introduced to Mahmut, as the club manageress I couldn’t exactly ignore him. He was too well known for me to feign ignorance.
“Welcome,” I greeted him. “It’s such an honor to see you here.”
He took my hand and pulled me toward him as he squeezed it. He looked as though he were preparing to devour me.
“The honor is all mine.”
As he breathed in, he seemed to be inhaling and retaining my scent. He hadn’t released my hand. In a word, the man was pure smut. Repulsive, even.
“Do forgive me, I really must go,” I said, reclaiming my hand. “I’m late for a rendezvous. I do hope to see you later.”
Suat protested unconvincingly, but Mahmut appeared truly outraged. Like a child deprived of its newest toy. He’d missed his chance.
I couldn’t hear what Suat said about me as I left, but I could well imagine the gist of it. I sashayed my way through the crowd to the door.
Chapter 23
In front of the door was a black Volkswagen Passat with tinted windows. Cüneyt held the door as I inserted myself, Audrey Hepburn-style, into the waiting vehicle. First I elegantly slid my bottom onto the seat, then I drew in my legs, keeping my knees and ankles together. As he shut the door, Cüneyt winked at me. He always does that. It’s his way to confirm that he’s memorized the license plate. A simple precaution taken for all the girls. The only difference is that there are so many girls these days, he has to jot the numbers down. It’s a tiny safeguard I’ve developed.
Süleyman got behind the wheel. We were off.
“You’re late,” he said flatly.
“I ran into some important guests on my way out. I had to speak to them,” I apologized. “Forgive me. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long.”
“No, not for that long. After waiting inside for two hours, what’s a few more minutes?”
He kept his eyes on the road. With a press of his finger, the doors were locked.
“Why’d you lock the doors?” I asked.
“It’s safer.”
I wondered who or what we would be safe from, but I said nothing. Seeing as he didn’t like talking, I sat in silence and thought. His hand was on the gearshift. I placed my hand on top of it. He turned and smiled at me. He was attractive, and I was on my way to a brief tryst with him. There was also the question of payback for that thug of a taxi driver, Hüseyin. The girls and my employees know that under normal circumstances I won’t easily leave the club for this sort of thing.
He hadn’t turned on any music, despite the car’s expensive stereo. The air conditioner hummed quietly. After the hot taxis I’d endured all day, I luxuriated in the coolness. I enjoyed traveling in a style I believed I deserved. I dispensed with the erect Hepburn pose
and settled back into my seat.
I raised my hand from his and placed it on his leg. After seeming slightly startled, he once again fixed me with that bold flirtatious stare.
“Not now,” he said.
I respected that. With traffic accidents so common these days it’s important to concentrate on driving. I removed my hand.
He was a practiced driver. There was no hard braking or sudden acceleration. We flowed along through Dolapdere to the ring road.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked.
“There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
This is what they call a bombshell.
“Excuse me?”
“Someone wants to talk to you. That’s where I’m taking you.” Süleyman’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his hands on the steering wheel.
“Stop this instant!” I shouted. “Who is this person? Why doesn’t he come to me himself ?”
“That would be impossible. It wouldn’t be appropriate. That’s why I was sent.”
It wasn’t difficult to guess the identity of the mystery man. There were two alternatives. It was either Süreyya Eronat or one of Sofya’s blackmailing Mafia friends. I didn’t want to name any names in the car. But whichever person it was, it was bad news. Both alternatives could mean my elimination from the game of life.
“Who are you taking me to?” I demanded. “Who wants to meet me?”
“My boss.”
That much was clear. But I had no clue about the identity of his boss. We had exited the ring road and were now cruising through the darkness of Kemerburgaz.
“That much I understood. Who is your boss?”
“You’ll see when we get there. It’s not my place to tell you.”
“Well, what does he want to talk about?”
“Like I told you, it’s not my place to say anything. You’ll get all the explanations you need. My job is to get you there as quickly and safely as possible.”
My thoughts were lightning-quick, my speech thunderous.
“I’m not going anywhere. Stop now!”
As in any book or movie, he did not stop. His lips did form a half smile, however. He was no doubt saying to himself, I won’t be bossed around by some sad tranny. Even if he had stopped, I was really in no shape to get out. It was pitch-black and we were driving through the countryside.
“Stop!” I repeated. “Take me straight back to the club!”
“Calm down,” he said.
“I told you to stop right now.”
Again, he just kept driving. Instead of stopping the car he reached down and withdrew a gun. Now I had no choice but to act. Paying no mind to the speed with which we were careening down the highway, I grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back.
Despite his look of astonishment, he didn’t make a sound. Without giving him time to comprehend the situation, I delivered a sharp chop with the back of my hand to the patch of forehead just above the nose and below the eyebrows. With a low “Arrrgh,” he released his foot from the gas pedal. We began racing faster down the hill nevertheless. After stunning him with a second chop, this time behind his ear, I made to grab the gun. His hand clasped my wrist. He was strong. A lesser man would have been writhing in pain by now. I tried opening the door with my free hand, but it was locked. I would have to press one of the buttons on the glowing panel between us. But which one? And how?
In order to buy time, I poked him hard in the right eye. Even if it didn’t blind him, it would be days before he could painlessly rotate that eye. He bellowed. Naturally, he would shout—that sort of thing hurts. He instinctively covered his right eye with his right hand, thus releasing me.
“You goddamn faggot!” he hissed.
I began pressing every button on the control panel. Well, actually, I began banging my left hand on the panel as I tried to open the door with my right one.
He grabbed me again, this time seizing my left arm with his left hand. He had a viselike grip. The lock on my door popped up. I delivered a blow to the back of his neck, and his head smashed into the steering wheel. My arm was finally released.
The car was still moving. My mighty gorilla, Süleyman Bey, had not yet recovered from the blow to his head. I had to admit, he was unusually resilient. But there was no point in thought. I leaped out of the car. I had practiced similar moves in one of the martial arts classes I’d attended. I was no stranger to technique. Real life, however, is not quite the same. It hurt. There was a vast difference between the application of a well-thought-out and planned roll in sports shoes and a sweat suit, and the same sudden move with bare legs and a thin dress.
The side of the road—the first thing I hit—was covered in gravel. From there, I rolled down a slope into a thicket of thorny bushes. The Passat screeched to a halt a mere ten yards down the road.
He was after me. It was unrealistic to have expected him to proceed merrily along his way as if having totally forgotten about me. My baby-blue frock shone like a flashlight under the moonlit sky. There was no point in trying to hide. I’d be his match in an open space, just as I had been inside the car. That is, if he didn’t draw his gun!
He stepped out of the car. Lurching slightly, he headed straight for me, gun drawn.
Not a single vehicle passed. Where was Istanbul traffic when you needed it? Where were all those drivers clogging up the highways and byways? I’d settle for a single car, a minibus, a bus, even a truck. Now the situation could only deteriorate further, and I could expect no help. I would have to handle it on my own.
“Don’t shoot!” I cried out, raising my hands over my head as I rose from a crouch.
“You’re nuts!” he shouted. “You could have blinded me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I’d have to play nice until I was better positioned to topple him.
“Come here!” he ordered.
I could claim injury, draw him into the bushes by pleading for help. But it would be too difficult to fight in the close confines of the thorny scrub. I preferred a fair fight on the level asphalt. And that’s exactly what I intended to have. Hitching up my frock, I was on the road in two jumps. He gestured toward the car with his gun.
“Get in like a man, and let’s go.”
He pointed the gun at me, in case I needed further persuasion. I would have to proceed with caution. Pretending I’d sprained my ankle, I slowly limped toward him. He was still rubbing his eye with his free hand.
“Did it hurt?” I asked.
“Real men don’t feel pain!” he rumbled.
The distance between us was too great for me to reach him with a single flying leap. I had no way of gauging his skills as a marksman. It wasn’t worth the risk. If he shot the split second I left my feet, that would be it. I’d have to relieve him of the gun first. For that, I would have to get nearly as close as I am tall, except for the length of my arm. Dragging my feet, I took two small steps toward him. Yes, that would do.
“I think I sprained my ankle,” I said, bending over. I could jump farther from a crouching position. He didn’t suspect anything.
“You asked for it,” he said.
Before the words were out of his mouth, my right foot had connected with the middle of his face. I quickly let loose two more kicks. He was now sufficiently dazed.
Changing feet in midair, I dealt a heavy blow to his left knee-cap. Then I booted him right between the legs. He doubled over. Clasping my hands together, I clubbed the base of his skull, then seized the hand wielding the gun. By bringing my knee up sharply against his extended arm, twice, I forced him to drop it. Then I kneed him in the face. He collapsed spread-eagled onto the ground.
I bent over to pick up the gun. That was a mistake. He was lying on the ground, but not quite unconscious. A hand suddenly gripped my right ankle, and I lost my balance. No big deal. I had the gun. I placed it against his nose. Raising his head slightly from the ground, he gazed at it, with his good eye, and fainted.
Süleyman’s having fainted was a mixe
d blessing. It would enable me to get away, but it also meant I wouldn’t be able to get him to talk. And I had so looked forward to conducting an interrogation at gunpoint and getting to the bottom of the whole business.
I could keep the gun trained on his head and wait until he came to. A real bull of a man, he’d regain consciousness in no time. I could then proceed with the question-and-answer session.
Or I could leave him there. But that would only mean even more thugs chasing after me. This time one person had come to get me. Next time it would be an army.
I was still on an asphalt road on a black night. It wasn’t the most suitable place to sit and have a good think. What’s more, exhaust was sputtering out of the tailpipe and straight into my face. I felt nauseated.
The Kiss Murder Page 15