The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “It was thick . . . and it was long . . . and it had a massive head the most luscious shade of pink . . . I mean, once you got your hands on it they had to be pried off. The edges of the crown were like delicate lacework, the snaking veins of the shaft like needle-work. So rare; so fine! Wonder of wonders, wrought with the utmost care by the Lord above. And when he came, well, it positively gushed . . . Never in my life have I seen or feasted on anything like it.”

  Her audience had fallen completely silent and was on the edges of their seats, spellbound, sighing, hearts racing, palms sweaty.

  Every good story has a bad guy, and in this case it was Volkan’s brother by marriage, his sister’s husband. The brother-in-law had a strange control over Volkan, who followed his advice to the letter and would do nothing without consulting him first. But the two were also known to have long and loud arguments. Volkan would say horrible things behind the brother-in-law’s back but was reduced to an obedient child in his presence.

  According to Beyza, the bad brother-in-law, who was also a minibus driver, had forced Volkan to go from being an amateur gigolo to a professional one.

  Blackbrow Lulu was having none of it. “He must have had it in him,” she protested. “He couldn’t have done it otherwise. Do you really think just anyone can become a gigolo? You’re all so gullible! Wake up!”

  “I don’t care if you believe me or not. The boy was an angel. It was that brother-in-law who spoiled him. And who put him off me. Of course the money had something to do with it. Volkan was up to his ears in debt. He owed for the minibus. I was helping him out but could only do so much.”

  “Didn’t I tell you! See, he was taking your money!” Lulu roared triumphantly. “Instead of blaming him, why don’t you take a good look at yourself? You’re the one who got the boy used to accepting money.”

  “Look, Lulu,” interrupted Melisa, “if you go on like that you’ll get a good walloping. And Dump Truck’s got a heavy hand. Take it from me, girlfriend.”

  “She got that right,” growled Dump Truck.

  I interjected. “Ignore them. What happened next?”

  Not only was I their hostess, but these girls hung out every night at my club. My wish was their command. The girls shut up and Dump Truck continued.

  Whether it was the brother-in-law’s idea or not, it wasn’t long before Volkan became the most sought after gigolo in Istanbul. Nor was it long before the visits to Beyza suddenly stopped. He still got behind the wheel of his minibus from time to time, but he usually left his vehicle in the care of a younger brother or a driver hired for the day. Volkan’s time had become far too valuable for ordinary work.

  “Such a pity,” she concluded. “A lion of a man, and a dick unlikely to grace this earth ever again. What a waste. May Allah strike down whoever did it! May their hands be broken, their eyes blinded, their hearths extinguished . . . Have I left anything out?”

  “That should do it, dear,” Melisa assured her.

  So, the part-time minibus driver allegedly killed by Haluk Pekerdem’s brother-in-law, Faruk Hanoğlu, had also been a well-known gigolo . . .

  Chapter 5

  The girls all left just before Hasan arrived. The chatter, Xanax, and waxing session had left me exhausted, but I still had him to deal with.

  A gypsy-pink bag full of accounting books slung across one shoulder, Hasan came determined to fill me in on all that had transpired at the club during my absence, right down to every last broken glass, every restocked roll of toilet paper.

  Pulling up his low-slung jeans, he settled into the chair nearest me, bemoaning the crushing responsibility and sleepless nights he’d suffered, as he worked his way through what was left of Ponpon’s cake and a tray of spicy walnut canapés. Hasan’s lack of a gut is yet another example of God’s miracles.

  I was overcome by fatigue at the sight of all those accounting books spread out before me. Ponpon took over, gracious hostess mode instantly replaced by a studious headmistress taking stock of pencils and merit badges. Slips of paper were occasionally presented for my approval, and I duly nodded, not bothering to look, and no doubt grinning like a total imbecile, thanks to the Xanax.

  Hasan finished expounding on the conscientious discharge of his self-appointed duties in excruciating detail, filling his belly as he filled our ears. Now he moved on to the juicy morsels and choice bits of dirt that are his stock in trade.

  The stream of gossip left behind by the recently departed girls was elaborated upon, corrected, and reinterpreted by Hasan: the real reason Afet and İpek had fallen out, and the true identity of the owner of the fur collar they’d scrapped over; the inferior quality of the silicone injections in Sırma’s somewhat overripe lips; the crush our barman, Şükrü, had on the comely twink Kaan, who for his part drooled over our bodyguard, Cüneyt, for which reason Şükrü was sore at Çüneyt, who was ignorant of the feelings of either Şükrü or Kaan; and then there was the hapless Mehtap, still wearing her ridiculous red wig, believing it brought her luck.

  My boss, Ali, dubbed “the money counter” by Hasan, had come to the club twice looking for me, sending his wishes for a speedy recovery when Hasan told him I was incapacitated by depression. (He hadn’t bothered sending flowers at the news of my “condition,” but I’d long since learned not to expect courtesies of that sort.)

  Then there was news of my old archenemy, Sofya. In order to show off the winter tan she’d acquired during an extended holiday in Morocco, fabulous Sofya had thrown a dinner party, with those pointedly left off the guest list immediately relegated to the class of undesirables. Hasan, who naturally copped an invitation, said the entire affair was one of Sofya’s typical events, designed solely for shameless boasting and showing off, but that didn’t stop the guests from talking it up as a fete of legendary proportions. Those lucky girls claimed “the only thing missing was bird’s milk,” and described each item of fabulous furniture in Sofya’s house, embellishing them to the extent that later gossips dared suggest that one or two pieces sounded a bit kitsch.

  Hasan’s final bombshell concerned that man of all seasons, the poet Refik Altın, who was also in advertising, a director, and a fixture on talk-show TV. The lover he concealed from everyone but droned on about ad nauseum had apparently simply disappeared. Refik had appeared at the club the previous night, drank heavily, wept into his cups, and attempted to pick a fight with anyone who dared approach him. Our staff had placated him somewhat, but once everyone left at nearly dawn and the lights were turned up, he was discovered under a far table, where he lay on the floor, snoring. With the assistance of the bodyguard, Cüneyt, Hasan had managed to stick him into a taxi and take him home.

  Not a single detail escapes Ponpon, and she jumped in to interrogate Hasan.

  “How did you know where that contrary faggot lives?”

  Despite his undeniably flaming ways, suspiciously precise speech, and the trademark jeans slipping down his hips to expose his butt crack, Hasan insists he isn’t gay. Ponpon and the rest of us are eternally vigilant when it comes to Hasan, hoping for a slipup that will reveal all. That’s why she’d interrupted.

  “Well, if he was so drunk, he couldn’t have woken up to give you his address . . .” she pounced.

  The knowing look on her face said “gotcha.”

  Hasan faltered for a moment, eyes wide, shoulders hunched.

  “It’s not what you think,” he stammered.

  “And what is it that I think?”

  “I’ve never been with Refik Altın.”

  “Really?” asked Ponpon disbelievingly.

  “Yes, really! Even if I was into that kind of thing, surely I’d find someone better than . . .”

  “Don’t be so sure, sweetie.”

  The verbal sparring between Ponpon and Hasan was eternal and never ending. They adored each other, even as each did everything possible to get the upper hand. Their barbed brawls were a hoot to watch, but still quite dangerous. If Ponpon weren’t my best friend, Hasan would long sinc
e have ridiculed her to all and sundry. It was only the prospect of a good dressing-down from me that made him hold his tongue.

  “I used to be a huge fan of his poems,” Hasan continued. “I’d buy his books the day they came out and read them right away, even memorize the ones I liked best. Of course, I didn’t know him as a person. It was his poems I admired. Anyway, I was still young. A child, really.”

  “You’re too much of a smart aleck to have ever been a child,” Ponpon cut in.

  “Hear me out if you want to. If not, don’t. Anyway, I don’t have to answer to you.”

  Hasan turned to me and continued his story.

  “After a book signing we followed him home to learn where he lived. Then, one day, I gathered up all his books and went to visit him.”

  “Just who do you think you are?” asked Ponpon.

  “Myself,” Hasan answered coolly.

  “So why are you using the plural? You said ‘we followed him.’ I suppose you went with your lady-in-waiting.”

  Ponpon was patiently pushing each of Hasan’s buttons, one by one.

  “Must be the ‘royal we,’ ” she cackled scornfully.

  Ponpon’s laughter is a sight to behold. First, her entire body quivers, in all its bulk. Then, if she’s still not finished, she repeatedly slaps her hands on her knees. Even when her laughter has finally died down, she continues shouting in the same ear-piercing tone. That’s what she did now.

  This was the first I’d heard about the apparent friendship between Refik Altın and Hasan. I was surprised. But it had all happened a long time ago, so I didn’t take it seriously. And I’d long since resigned myself to the fact that Hasan had formed some sort of attachment to every dodgy character in town. What’s more, everyone I knew had had some fort of feud, run-in, or disagreement with Refik.

  Having dispensed with the subject of Refik Altın, we moved on to Istanbul in general. Hasan asked when I’d be stopping by the club.

  “As soon as possible,” Ponpon answered for me.

  “Not tonight,” I added.

  “Well, what are your plans for tonight?” Hasan asked. “Why not go to the cinema? There’s a fabulous Cate Blanchett film out. It’s just super. You’d love her. She plays a whore in this one. Just the most appealing thing you’ve ever seen.”

  “At the very mention of the word ‘whore’ he starts drooling. But still all the protests: ‘I wouldn’t; I couldn’t!’ ”

  “Really, it’s a wonderful film. And Cate is something else! Go see it; you won’t regret it. Just watching her will bring you around.”

  Ponpon was watching me with questioning eyes.

  “I’m in no shape to go out,” I said. “I want to sleep.”

  “At this hour?” asked Hasan. “It’s not even six yet.”

  True, but it was getting dark.

  “Come on, let’s go out. You’ll feel better,” Ponpon urged. “Even if we don’t go to the film, we’ll have a nice walk and come back. Then you can come with me.”

  “To your pavyon?” asked Hasan, spotting an opening for revenge.

  Ponpon can’t bear to have the nightclubs she works at referred to as “pavilions,” which in Turkish implies a clip joint with shady ladies sipping five-hundred-dollar bottles of watered-down champagne. For her, a gig at a pavilion is as low as it goes, and even whorehouse workers are a mark above. “At least they make dozens of men happy every day of the week,” she remarks.

  Ponpon wasn’t about to let Hasan’s comment go unanswered. Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, she hissed sharply as she drew breath. If her exhalation was as dramatic as that intake of breath, all hell was about to break loose.

  I had to do something.

  “All right,” I blurted out. “I’ll go to the cinema. Where’s that film playing?”

  I placed a hand on Ponpon’s knee. Her lungs slowly deflated, but she fairly crackled with electricity.

  Hasan picked up a newspaper and began reading out cinemas and screen times. When he was done, he began flipping idly through the pages.

  “That’s him!”

  “Who?”

  “Refik’s lover! The one who’s gone missing!”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “This one here,” Hasan said, pointing to a picture of Volkan Sarıdoğan.

  “But you said Refik never took him out or showed him to anyone. How do you know it’s him?” demanded Ponpon.

  “He showed me a photo. One he took at home.”

  “And you’re certain this is the same man?” I asked.

  “Of course I am,” he said. “Volkan. His name’s even written right here.”

  He quickly read the article, then raised his eyes to ours.

  “So they killed the guy,” he said. “Refik’s going to take it hard.”

  He thought for a moment, his expression morphing from surprise to sadness, then to something rather alarming.

  “But just think of the poems he’ll write,” Hasan cooed with an evil grin.

  Chapter 6

  Cate Blanchett really was fabulous. But becoming enamored of another willowy woman would mean betrayal of my all-time idol, Audrey Hepburn. Audrey would remain top of the list, while Cate would be given second place. I refuse to assign any rank at all to uncharismatic fashion model types.

  As we left the cinema Ponpon said we’d have to dash back home to gather her things and head straight for the club. She was clearly determined that I accompany her. But I was preoccupied with thoughts of Volkan Sarıdoğan. Cate Blanchett’s porcelain beauty had driven him from my mind during the length of the film, but now my mind returned to him. I wanted to sit alone, thinking, and perhaps even researching. I had somehow found myself sitting atop another unsolved murder. Back to my role of amateur detective. And all because of that dish of a man!

  Feigning fatigue, I managed to push Ponpon out the door. Then I prepared myself a large mug of fennel tea and began thinking. In order to focus, I switched on the TV, looking for an idiotic game show. No luck. I quickly decided a music video channel would not do. They’re more useful as a sedative or hypnotic agent.

  My tea was nearly finished, but my mind was as confused as ever. The best medicine would be Handel. Scanning the shelves, I couldn’t decide between the Athalia oratorio and the opera Alcina. Alcina would be best. The exquisite coloratura soprano of Arleen Auger, who died unexpectedly at the height of her career, trilled from my speakers. Like a bracing tonic.

  Working-class lad Volkan had graduated from driving a minibus to a career as a gigolo. He’d bedded Dump Truck Beyza, God knows how many others, and then finally Refik Altın before being killed by loan shark Faruk Hanoğlu for reasons unknown but perfectly obvious to me.

  The thought of Faruk Hanoğlu brought to mind an image of Haluk Pekerdem: that strong chin, the thick hair of the young Franco Nero, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, his incredibly even white teeth. Every bit as tasty as John Pruitt, every known photograph of whom I owned and treasured. It had been ages since I’d encountered such a perfect specimen of manhood outside pictures and films, that is, in the flesh. He had awakened such deep desires.

  It was still early. I decided to call him. After all, he had given me his card. I could always just thank him for the previous night. Just the thought of his voice gave me hot flashes. I imagined him holding the receiver, speaking to me. Naked, of course. His reciprocal desire for me boldly apparent . . . I shivered.

  He answered the phone himself. Even his self-assured hello oozed masculine mystique. My first disappointment was his failure to recognize my voice. Bastard! I reintroduced myself. He remembered now. I thanked him for the previous night, assured him how charmed I had been to meet him. I was careful not mention the wife, Canan. I didn’t signify that I’d met her as well. I spoke of our night together as though it had been just the two of us.

  “I saw the papers today,” I began. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were Faruk Bey’s brother-in-law.”

  He listened, d
emoralizing me by making no attempt to prolong the conversation.

  “I just wondered,” I said, “if there have been any further developments.”

  “We’ll handle it,” was the terse reply.

  I had no idea what he intended to handle, or how, but contented myself with a simple “good.” I heard him take a breath. He cleared his throat with a light cough.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I’m here.” Silence.

  “I thought the line had been cut.”

  He couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t feel the same pleasure talking to me that I felt talking to him. I fought a sinking feeling. I had no intention of giving up so easily.

  “It seems Volkan Sarıdoğan, the late Volkan Sarıdoğan, was a gigolo,” I informed him, hoping to provoke a response. “Some of our girls knew him; even some of our gay friends.”

  If he didn’t take the bait, there was really nothing more I could do.

  “We know,” he said.

  “What I mean is, if there’s anything I could do . . . I know everyone in those circles.”

  “That’s kind of you. There’s no evidence to incriminate Faruk. But they’ve detained him anyway. It’s all sensation. There are those who like him. And those who don’t. There’s more to all this than meets the eye. He’ll be out in a couple of days.”

  Now that’s more like it. A bit terse, but he was speaking. I’d loosen his tongue yet.

  “They can’t pin it on Faruk just because the last three phone calls made by the deceased were to him, can they?”

  “Apparently they can try,” he said dryly.

  “An acquaintance of mine claims to have been Volkan’s lover.” I hesitated at the word “acquaintance.” Should I have said “friend”? No, Refik Altın couldn’t be described as a friend of mine. I only knew him from the club. “If any information would . . .”

  He cut me off.

  “It’s the police’s job to find the killer. Whether it’s an acquaintance of yours or not. It’s my job to prove Faruk’s innocence.”

  He’d interpreted my offer of help as a finger-pointing at another suspect. Funny, it had never occurred to me, but Refik Altın could well have been the killer.