The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “He was a gigolo, they say.”

  “Good for you,” he blurted out in relief. “So you know all about that. The word’s out.”

  He’d begun by addressing me with the formal siz but had switched to the more familiar sen at some point. I wasn’t entirely pleased about that.

  “He was a good-looking guy, knew how to please old ladies and homosexuals . . . for the right price, of course.”

  The fact that he’d avoided a word more disparaging than “homosexual” was another indication of his left-wing background.

  “Handy, was he?”

  “How do I know? It’s not like I took him to bed . . .” he guffawed, showing tar-blackened teeth.

  “Once he started earning money on the side he stopped coming to work regularly. He handed his minibus over to his brother. Not a smart move that. Okan would spend all day getting high, then pick a fight with whoever was using the minibus for the day, claiming they hadn’t handed over enough cash. And whatever he did get, he spent on booze and dope. Anyone with sense wouldn’t work for him again, but some were desperate for a job.”

  “And their brother-in-law, Ziya?”

  “He’s another brand of troublemaker. The kind who gives us all a bad name. A shifty sort, no sense of right and wrong, doesn’t know the meaning of words like ‘sin’ and ‘justice’ and ‘shame.’ ”

  “I see,” I said, not really seeing at all what he meant.

  “There’s a lot I could tell you, but it’d be wrong to say too much. I’m not the sort to run my mouth. I was raised different.”

  We spent the rest of the trip talking about Istanbul’s problems and life in general. He told me how we could save our country, how working conditions were going downhill, how his earnings were adding up to less, how ashamed he was to bring home so little money at the end of the day.

  Just before I got out, I asked one more question about Volkan’s death.

  “Do you think the guy who’s been arrested is the one who killed Volkan?”

  “It could be anyone,” he said knowingly. “Anyone. He was mixed up with a bad crowd. There’s a price to pay for easy money. He’d managed to buy a minibus in just three years. Brand new. Including rights to the line he drove. They say you reap what you sow. I believe that’s what he did.”

  Volkan Sarıdoğan was an even richer, more popular gigolo than I’d imagined.

  Chapter 9

  Waiting for me when I got home was a large manila envelope from Selçuk and an enormous bouquet sent by Money-counter Ali. I was truly astonished by the flowers. The gesture was as unexpected as it was secretly hoped for. I really had to thank them both.

  Ponpon was sitting in front of the TV mesmerized by her favorite BBC cooking program, offering barely an indication that she’d noticed my arrival. On the screen, a lively black man gushed and enthused and jabbered as he diced potatoes. Sitting across from Ponpon, I opened the envelope from Selçuk. It contained copies of the report filed by the policemen who’d discovered the body, official records from the nearest precinct, the coroner’s report, and details of the initial investigation—all of them classified, of course. How sweet of Selçuk to send them along. Of course, he was fully aware that it was my taxes that paid for them—that is, that paid for the transport, water, electricity, and whatnot of the police force. But still, confidential is confidential.

  Volkan Sarıdoğan’s body was found in the forest just past the Kilyos junction. Whoever discovered him could not have been on a routine foot patrol. A child or woodsman had most likely stumbled upon it and called the police.

  He’d been stabbed to death. The stab wounds were all on the front of the body, seven of them, of varied depths, in the chest and stomach, but all from the same knife. So he must have come face-to-face with the killer. The coroner estimated that forty-eight hours had elapsed before the body was discovered. The assailant was right-handed.

  Found on the body were an ID card, a wallet, and a cell phone. It appeared that the killer had not stolen any personal items. Well, if Faruk Hanoğlu was indeed the murderer, why would he? It isn’t as though he’d need cash or a phone.

  It had been impossible to identify the footprints of the assailant: The area near the body was muddy, due to recent rain, and a number of individuals had approached the body, including the police. Tire tracks were faintly visible near the scene of the crime, but it was not possible to trace them any further.

  For whatever reason, no one had made off with Volkan’s phone, despite the fact that it was switched on and the PIN code already entered; the last three calls had been made to Faruk Hanoğlu. Twice cell phone to cell phone, and once to a fixed-line phone.

  So Faruk Hanoğlu really had been detained on what would seem to be the flimsiest of evidence. No prosecutor in his right mind would dream of accusing him on the evidence at hand, let alone having him jailed. It was just as Haluk, my Haluk, had said: He would be free in a day or two.

  What was missing from the envelope was a print-out of all the calls made to and from Volkan’s cell phone. There must be a copy somewhere, but Selçuk hadn’t forwarded it to me. I compiled an imaginary list of my own, one full of society figures, each name enough to cause a citywide scandal.

  Ponpon’s program finished, she turned off the TV and faced me.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “How’s what going?” I countered.

  “How’s whatever it is you’re up to going?”

  “I’m not up to anything,” I protested. “Yet.”

  “I know you. The way you’re sitting, the way you move, the glint in your eyes. The way you were just scrutinizing whatever’s in that envelope . . . You’re up to something. Miss Marple is back in business.”

  “But she’s so old,” I cried in mock dismay.

  The Agatha Christie heroine, who manages to solve innumerable murder cases on the basis of what she overhears in the garden of her country home, where she seldom leaves her chair, is an elderly, white-haired spinster. I was nothing like her!

  “What do I know? It’s been years since I’ve read a detective novel. Hercule Poirot would have been a stretch of the imagination, so I hit on Miss Marple.”

  “You could have said Miss Peel. You know, Diana Rigg in The Avengers.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed. “The way you hop about and beat men up.”

  “I practice what is known as aikido,” I informed her. “As well as a bit of Thai boxing.”

  Actually, I hadn’t done any training for weeks. I was rusty, and would be unable to jump more than a foot. Not all that long ago I’d been able to soar nearly two meters, simultaneously delivering a sharp kick to the head with either my left or right foot.

  Curling her feet under her, Ponpon settled into her armchair.

  “So, tell me. What are you up to? What have you stumbled on? What have you unearthed?”

  Ponpon was grinning at me.

  “Nothing much” was all I said.

  “I don’t believe you! You never return empty-handed. What’s in that envelope Selçuk sent you?”

  Even engrossed in her cooking program, Ponpon hadn’t missed a thing. And hadn’t she already learned my computer password?

  “If you call Selçuk to thank him, send my greetings. I suppose you won’t object to that much,” she added.

  “I’m just about to call.”

  “Oh, and remind him that he and his wife were going to come see me perform. They still haven’t. Do convey my sense of disappointment, would you?”

  A wicked grin had spread across her face. Her eyes were shining. I’d forgotten how beautiful Ponpon’s eyes were. The color of rich honey, with chocolate speckles. Her pupils were huge, and made her eyes look all the warmer. They dominated her face. Her Roman nose had been whittled away by the scalpel to next to nothing, and she was forever reflexively pursing her tiny mouth. The only distinguishing feature left on that face was a pair of larger-than-life, luminous eyes.

  “What are you grinning ab
out?” I asked. “Someone’s got a secret. Out with it.”

  At first she was coy, feigning reluctance. Then she let her little bombshell drop:

  “Faruk Hanoğlu was released on lack of evidence.”

  “That quickly?”

  “Well, how could they keep him without any evidence?”

  Selçuk had implied they’d simply manufacture something. It sounded like someone had other ideas.

  “It’s proof once again of what a fine attorney Haluk is,” Ponpon continued. “If I ever have legal problems, I’m going straight to him. It’s true he’s a bit pricey, but he deserves every penny. Good for him!”

  “How did you find out he’d been released? Was it on television?”

  “No, sweetie. When I called Canan to offer my sympathies, she told me. They were elated, of course. But it’s still just too horrid: accused of murder, detained in a cell. May Allah not visit such a fate on even my worst enemies. Protect us, O mighty one!”

  “But he still has some explaining to do. Why had a gigolo phoned him? If you’re looking for a scandal, you’ve got it in spades. It’s a bit early to pop open the champagne.”

  “That’s true, honey, but you do agree that there’s a world of difference between hiring a gigolo and killing one. I mean, any number of couples dabble in that sort of thing to spice up their sex lives. Some prefer a call girl, others get hold of a rent boy. There are even some who opt for a TV. What’s the big deal?”

  “I’m hardly one to judge, but try telling all that to his business partners,” I reminded Ponpon, who was badly in need of a reality check. “The financial markets are full of constipated types who frown on that sort of thing. Don’t you remember all the talk about that businessman who traveled in drag every time he went overseas?”

  “So they talked. Then it was all forgotten,” she argued. “You’d think those doing the gossiping were different! They’ve all got something to hide. Each and every one. The ones who haven’t done anything yet are still fantasizing about it. You know that as well as me.”

  Wagging her head in a world-weary I’ve-seen-it-all-and-then-some sort of way, Ponpon got up.

  “Now I’ll go make us some ekşili köfte; we’ll have a nice meal together.”

  Just the mention of the dish made my mouth water.

  Chapter 10

  Two days of Ponpon’s devoted care had worked wonders on me. I scanned myself in the mirror. The shadows under my eyes were gone. I could still count my ribs, but I looked thin rather than wasted.

  I’m no stranger to the transformative magic of makeup. While in New York on a tourist visa, broke and jobless, I worked for a spell at an undertaker’s. Illegally, of course. Young and fond of risks, I was struggling to establish a brand-new life, starting from zero. It didn’t last long.

  I was paid a pittance at the funeral home, but I learned all the tricks of the trade when it came to makeup. My boss, Alberto, a queer old Italian, was the best in the business, working wonders on even the most damaged corpses in order to make open casket viewings less distressing.

  With his heavily accented English, and the odd exclamation and curse in Italian, he’d flounce his way through the task of making a body beautiful. And instruct me along the way. He was incredibly painstaking when it came to the male bodies, examining them in detail and at length; as for the women, he devoted considerably less time to them. No matter what the age, the object was to create an air of girlish innocence, and he was big on pale pink lipsticks and light peach powder. A dab of rouge on each cheek was deemed essential for the older ladies, as well as a bit of white powder on their foreheads. The young ones inevitably received brown eyeliner and a thick coating of mascara, carefully brushed from the root to the tip of the lash. That’s the way families like it, he’d claim. The more innocent looking the corpse, the more cathartic the mourning process.

  I also learned how to apply makeup to hands, which usually occupied pride of place, as it were, folded and clutching a string of rosary beads or a cross. Because the veins had collapsed, that is, because they’d been drained of blood, there were no unsightly bulges to deal with. Just a bit of powder was all that was needed, with some concealer if necessary. If the surface had been so damaged that even several coats of paint failed to create the illusion of dewy youth, warm paraffin was injected just below the skin. Alberto claimed the warm wax method was a family secret handed down from his late uncle, who was also a confirmed bachelor—that is, queer. Perhaps, by some twisted logic, my own sexual bent made him consider me a member of the family, for Alberto never hesitated to divulge all he knew.

  When he died peacefully in his sleep one morning, I once again found myself alone, jobless and penniless, in deepest New York. I finally ditched the fantasy of starting a new life. I was an idealist back then, determined to earn whatever I got the old-fashioned way, through pluck and toil. I wouldn’t have considered relying on my sexual charms. And when confronted by the odd sexual predator, I would protest in the affronted tones I’d learned from watching Hülya Koçyiğit films for so many years.

  While reminiscing over those long ago days with dear old Alberto, I’d been busily making myself up. Although tastefully restrained, the result was stunning. It was now time to pay a call on Haluk Pekerdem. Just as the ugly duckling was transformed into the beautiful swan, so had Ponpon’s snotty-nosed friend turned into a real showgirl.

  The colors that suit me best are baby pink and baby blue. And black, of course, which suits everyone. I was far too thin to pull off anything black, though, so I settled on a pair of pink trousers with a matching coat over a white sweater. White gloves completed the effect.

  When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon let loose a low wolf whistle.

  “Maşallah! You look wonderful . . .”

  “Thanks to you.”

  We embraced, our heads held back far enough that we wouldn’t accidentally brush cheeks and spoil our makeup.

  “You could use a bit more color,” Ponpon observed. “You look pale.”

  Ponpon makes no distinction between everyday makeup and stage makeup. Subtlety is not her forte: it’s either absolutely nothing or buckets of whatever’s on hand!

  But she’d managed to shake my self-confidence, if only slightly. I looked in the mirror again. The lipstick I’d selected did look a bit dull. I could at least apply a bit of gloss.

  As I got closer to Haluk Pekerdem’s office in Harbiye, I realized how excited I was. I really must be head over heels. The thought of shaking hands, mine clasped ever so firmly in his, sent shivers down my spine.

  The office was near the Hilton, on the side overlooking the sea. It was one of those prestige buildings from the forties and fifties, with high ceilings and impractically spacious rooms. Haluk Pekerdem’s office was like a showcase for select art deco pieces.

  My first major obstacle presented itself in the form of a secretary/ receptionist well into upper middle age, the sort who insists on an exhaustive grilling before ushering guests to the magic door. Judging from the plaque on that door, Haluk has no partners or fellow attorneys using the premises. So the entire place, including every stick of furniture, was the exclusive property of Haluk Pekerdem.

  “Have you got an appointment?” demanded the woman, after scrutinizing me for several long moments.

  No, I didn’t.

  “We’re quite busy today,” she explained dismissively.

  In the same way a nurse asks if “we” have a fever or have remembered to take “our” medicine, the gorgon at the gate had so identified with her boss that “they” were apparently too busy to see me. As far as I could tell, the only item of business on her plate was to subject me to impertinent questions.

  “You can wait if you like, but he may not be able to see you,” she said. “Or you could speak to Sibel Hanım or Ertunç Bey.”

  My blank expression at the mention of the two names elicited the information that they were “Haluk Bey’s assistants” and a preliminary meeting with one of them w
ould be advisable.

  “I really must see Mr. Pekerdem in confidence,” I said firmly.

  Damn Ponpon! It was because of her that I used dated expressions like “in confidence.” I felt like an a la turca stage actress.

  “Please wait here for a moment.”

  I was deposited into a room that was once no doubt used as a broom closet in this stately apartment, furnished with only a small conference table and two enormous armchairs covered in Moroccan leather. There was a window, but no view.

  Spinning on her heel as she left the room, the secretary asked if I’d care for refreshments.

  “A glass of water, please, at room temperature.”

  Fashionable blends of tea or coffee don’t hold a candle to the source of life, plain old water. Unless they drink expensive malt whiskeys or imported beer, health-conscious society tends to favor aqua these days.

  I was turning over in my mind what I would say to Haluk, and how I would say it, when the door opened and a girl with glasses poked her head into the room.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”

  But she kept her eyes locked on me. I smiled lightly, staring back. We were still sizing each other up when she decided she’d seen enough to satisfy her curiosity and shut the door.

  The professional secretary/receptionist must have flown straight to her colleague and fellow gossip with the news that I had arrived. And she’d come for a quick peek. It was probably the Sibel Hanım mentioned as an assistant. She couldn’t be called ugly, but she was unlovely, slightly sour, and far too curious.

  I fought off boredom by going over in my mind the chronological order of Audrey Hepburn films, and also trying to remember her costars and costumes. My favorites were Roman Holiday, Love in the Afternoon, How to Steal a Million, Charade, and Sabrina. My least favorite ones were Green Mansions and The Unforgiven, directed by John Huston, whom I still admire. The former is set in a forest and features Audrey in tattered frocks. Nothing there for me. The latter is a western flick, with no changes of costume.