My Fair Lady had clothes galore, one outrageously over-the-top outfit after another . . . but nothing suitable for everyday wear. And I went cold on the film when I learned that they’d dubbed all of Audrey’s singing parts. I still hadn’t decided if I could rate it an overall success. My head hurt.
Just then the door opened and in came the gossip of a secretary to inform me that Haluk Bey was expecting me in his office.
Haluk greeted me on his feet and with the same insincere smile I imagine he presents to clients. His teeth were amazing, and he oozed charm in a light blue shirt and loosened striped red, white, and ultramarine tie. Not a trace of a belly. Were I to unbutton that shirt, well-toned muscle and golden chest hairs would await me. Of that much at least, I was certain.
The room had a splendid view over the gardens of the Hilton to the distant decorative bridges of the Bosphorus, smooth as a plate of china blue.
As he presented me with a chair, he murmured, “So pleased to see you again,” without even looking at my face. He was a professional liar.
“As am I,” I murmured breathily back.
He looked directly at me for the first time. He seemed to have detected a change in my appearance but couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.
He must have noticed me blushing.
We sat across from each other, on ultrasuede art deco chairs with black lacquer sloping armrests, our knees so close they’d have touched if I’d dared to inch forward.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. He was still looking me full in the face. I searched for a spark of interest in his eyes. They were most decidedly sparkle-free.
“I’ve just had something,” I said. “Thank you.”
“If you’d like something later, let me know,” he said.
And that was that.
He was still addressing me with the formal siz. That beguiling specimen of manhood, honed and polished through years of work and play, full of self-assurance and effortlessly able to put any guest at ease, was looking straight at me, directly into my eyes. “So, what’s this all about?” his eyes said.
I could have explained, at some length and with numerous asides, that it was “about” the fact that I fancied the pants off him.
“The murder that Faruk Bey’s been accused of,” I said instead.
He seemed impervious to my intense stare, burning with love and admiration.
“I’m often a bit captivated by cases like this,” I explained. “They fascinate me. I like to do a little research on my own. Sometimes I stumble across things.”
“A bit of an amateur sleuth, are you?” he said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied, a bit peevishly. “I have managed to contribute to the solving of a number of murder mysteries.”
He shifted in his seat, simultaneously shifting the expression on his face. I wasn’t sure if he was now looking at me with grudging admiration or as though he’d just realized he had a crazy tranny on his hands.
“I’ve stumbled across some things in this case, too.”
I didn’t know what else to say. It would have been nice of him to help me out. But he just sat there, raking me over with those dreamy eyes, making me even more tongue-tied.
I wanted to reach over and caress his cheek, then lean forward and plant a kiss on those hungry lips. I restrained myself.
“So, what have you found?” he finally asked.
“Volkan Sarıdoğan, the late Volkan Sarıdoğan, wasn’t particularly loved by those who knew him. He was a gigolo who managed to make a considerable amount of money in a short period of time.”
“Yes,” he drawled, not the least surprised.
The hand cupping his chin was exquisite. Was it possible to have come-hither cuticles?
“It appears I’m not telling you anything new.”
“No, you’re not . . . It’s not exactly a closely guarded secret that the, ah, victim, was not popularly esteemed.”
“He has a brother who’s a drunk and a junkie. They say there’s nothing he won’t do for money. Nothing he won’t do to feed his habit,” I continued.
I waited for his reaction. Nothing.
“Go on,” he said, after a moment.
“And there’s the question of the cell phone. Were the police to trace all the dialed numbers and received calls on his cell phone, I imagine there’d be quite a series of scandals.”
His laughter was genuine.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said.
“Don’t be too sure either way,” I said.
“The murder was most certainly not motivated by robbery,” he said thoughtfully. “Whoever did it didn’t touch his wallet, which contained some cash, nor his gold watch and chain or his cell phone.”
Haluk was as up-to-date on the police records as I was.
“Don’t you think the murderer made a stupid mistake, then?” I asked. “Why leave behind an important piece of evidence like a cell phone?”
Eyes narrowed, he studied my face for a moment. He was nibbling the thumb of his right hand. Delicious.
“It may have been deliberate,” he offered. “Done specifically to implicate Faruk.”
“But just as you said, planting a cell phone on the body wouldn’t be enough to incriminate Faruk Bey. And if he didn’t do it, who did? And why are they trying to make it look as though he’s the murderer?”
“Bravo!” said Haluk. “Those are all perfectly reasonable questions, but I suggest you let the police answer them. I’ve done all I could, which was to get Faruk released and cleared of the charges as quickly as possible.”
“But he hasn’t been cleared,” I pointed out.
“Well, he can’t be charged either,” he countered. “In a worst-case scenario he could be accused of having contacted a gigolo. That would be unpleasant but not damning. Rumors die down as quickly as they flare up. I only hope that his family won’t be affected. His wife must be standing behind him. Otherwise, she’d have made a statement by now. At worst, he’ll be branded immoral, a sexual pervert. A few people may turn their backs on him. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” I asked incredulously.
Leaning forward, he placed a hand on my knee.
I was overwhelmed.
“When we consider that you must overcome this sort of thing, and far worse, every day of the week . . .”
I wanted to respond. But couldn’t. All I really wanted was to take him in my arms. I wanted that hand to remain on my knee forever. A warm glow spread through my body.
I placed a hand on his.
“You’re so right,” I whispered. “But it’s not that difficult. One just has to be strong.”
An electrical current passed between us. My spine tingled. Our faces were inches apart. I felt his warm breath on my face, my throat, my skin. I breathed in his scent, my eyes traveling to his, then to his lips. Just looking at him set me aflame.
“I have friends at the force,” I suddenly said.
I had no idea why those words left my lips. It was important to continue to talk, to maintain our pose. What we said didn’t matter.
“I’ll have access to more information, if necessary. Like the list of phone numbers.”
He removed his hand from my knee and leaned back.
“That could be interesting,” he mused.
I’d provoked his interest.
“I wonder how far back they can trace his calls,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
Looking deep into his eyes, I smiled.
“That would be a good starting point,” he said.
He’d found something for me to research. I’d do anything for him, I thought to myself. But I also had a few questions of my own.
“I heard that Faruk Bey isn’t very popular.”
“Who is popular in the markets? Successful men are envied.”
On his neck, just above his collar, a few stray hairs glinted. Clearly, even his wi
fe, Canan, hadn’t noticed after he’d shaven that morning. If he were my man, I would never send him off to work like that, I thought.
As he saw me off, he only shook my hand. Yes, he held it in a tight caress, but I’d been hoping for so much more.
Chapter 11
If you like a man enough, you dote on whatever he does. Years ago, a vivacious great aunt of mine not greatly treasured by the family had said something that shocked us all: “After a certain point, every man I see turns my head.”
She never married, and some of our family elders could be heard to remark, “born a virgin and going to die a virgin.” But that’s not what I overheard them saying behind closed doors. When I heard my mother and her friends refer to my aunt as a “nymphomaniac,” I’d hauled down the unabridged family dictionary. I never looked at my aunt the same way again.
I don’t take after my aunt: My sexual appetites are healthy, not excessive. But when it came to Haluk Pekerdem, I could see myself becoming a nymphomaniac, or anything else. Just the thought of him left me breathless and weak-kneed.
I floated out of his office. I don’t remember how I walked to Taksim, how I got down the hill to my flat. I reenacted in my mind, over and over again, everything he’d said and done, every word and every gesture.
I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high. I’d barely recovered from a breakup and couldn’t face refusal at the moment.
Yes, it was true that he didn’t fancy me as much as I fancied him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. He hadn’t refused me; he’d fitted me into his busy day, put aside time just to chat with me. He’d touched me; I’d touched him. He hadn’t retracted his hand after placing it on my knee. Just that one act was surely a sign of something.
As I approached my apartment building I noticed Hüseyin at the taxi rank. His was the only taxi there. He was alone. I’d once taken him into my bed, worn down by his insistence and pleas. But then he thought he owned me. I’d been forced to correct him, to demonstrate to him with a good public thrashing that he’d gotten me all wrong.
He turned his head away when he saw me coming. He hadn’t been my driver since the beating. Either it wasn’t his turn every time I called for a cab, or he was avoiding me.
I still had to find Okan Sarıdoğan and Ziya. I knew taxi drivers and minibus drivers weren’t on the best of terms, but they were both members of the same general community, members of the fraternity of the steering wheel. Perhaps the taxi drivers could be enlisted for help. And Hüseyin wasn’t such a bad sort; he’d even proven to be quite handy on a few occasions, and he adored being involved in sleuthing.
I’m not one to stay put out with anyone, barring a few names I won’t mention here. It was time to offer the peace pipe. I walked up to Hüseyin’s cab; he pretended to be adjusting the rearview mirror, but I knew for a fact that he had seen me.
“Hello, Hüseyin,” I said.
Lowering his eyes and turning his head, he looked at me. He was tense and hesitant.
“You’re not cross with me still, are you?” I smiled.
He got out of his cab and stood there sulkily, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Aren’t I?” he asked.
A sulky child, he scratched at the ground with his left foot, his eyes never leaving mine.
“There’s no reason to be, is there?”
“You . . .” he began, the informal sen slipping out before he switched to the formal form, “know best, I suppose.”
That he’d remembered my insistence on good manners was a point in his favor.
“You hit me in the patisserie in front of everyone . . .”
My response was brisk and pleasant. “You asked for it, hitting on me all the time. Everywhere I looked, there you were. On my tail every second of the day.”
“I can’t face the other guys,” he complained. “After they heard about it, they all laughed at me. Thanks to you, my reputation’s shot to hell.”
“Surely you exaggerate. And I didn’t hit you. I knocked you flat with a couple of well-placed kicks to the head. That’s all.”
“That’s all, huh, baby.”
He pretended to have tacked on the “baby” by mistake. I knew all his tricks; he was quite the performer. Now he was pretending to be embarrassed, peering out at me from below his heavy eyebrows.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I gave him a friendly thump on the shoulder.
“All’s forgiven,” I beamed.
Then I extended my hand, taking care to remove my glove first, of course.
“Still friends?”
He took my hand without hesitation. His was rough and cold.
He made an “uh-huh” sound, which I interpreted as a response in the affirmative.
Smiling sweetly, I asked if he would be willing to help me out. Raising his head, he looked into my eyes.
No, that’s not what I was after.
“I need some information about a couple of minibus drivers. I haven’t been able to find out much. When I ask about them, everyone talks them up. I’m not entirely convinced. You’ve got sharp ears. You might overhear them saying things they wouldn’t say to my face. Could you keep your ears pricked for me?”
“Not more of that detective business, I hope. I got the stuffing knocked out of me last time.”
He’d once done an errand for me, just the innocent delivery of a package, as a result of which a bunch of thugs had worked him over. Now that’s what I call a thrashing, not the couple of kicks I’d delivered.
“I’m afraid it is detective work,” I said. “A driver was murdered. I indirectly knew both the guy who was killed and the one who’s been accused of killing him. But there doesn’t appear to be a motive, and the driver didn’t exactly have clean hands.”
“You don’t mean that minibus driver from Sariyer, do you?”
“Volkan Sarıdoğan!”
“Yeah, that’s him. Everyone’s talking about him. If he’d been so famous when he was alive, he could have retired. Life’s funny like that.”
“What have you heard?” I pressed him.
The phone rang. There were no other cabs. Gesturing for me to wait, Hüseyin went into the taxi shelter to answer the phone.
When he returned he was smirking. Just two words from me, and he already was becoming insolent.
“I gotta run,” he said. “But I’ll stop by for a tea later, if you want. You can tell me all about it.”
Here we go again.
“He’s got a brother. A druggie they say. And a brother-in-law. Okan and Ziya. Ask around,” I shouted after him as he drove off.
He gave me a military salute in his rearview mirror, flooring the accelerator of his Şahin taxi, even managing to lay a little rubber.
I suppose he thought I’d be impressed.
Chapter 12
By the time I opened the door to my flat I’d forgotten all about Hüseyin, my mind having flown back to Haluk. I was too horny to sit still. But it wouldn’t do to sleep with just anyone, either. I know plenty of girls, and indeed real women, who are able to shut their eyes and pretend that whoever is screwing them is the man of their dreams. But I’m not one of them. I want to focus on whoever I’m in bed with. I expect both my mind and my body to be possessed by the same man, or, on rare occasions, very rare occasions, woman.
The house was filled once more with the tantalizing smells of Ponpon’s cooking. I didn’t like the thought of a roll in the hay with her around. If I were alone, I’d be able to do as I wished.
Before I had the chance to drop a subtle hint, Ponpon apparently read my mind and broached the subject herself.
“I’m going to the sauna. Would you like to come?”
I didn’t know what to say. Ponpon and I have totally different approaches to saunas. She thinks it’s a practical way to burn calories; I take a more sensual approach. Naturally, we go to different saunas: Hers are the sterile ones; mine are more like overheated
dungeons.
“I just reek of onions,” she said, untying her apron, “and I’m all sweaty. I thought it’d be nice to get rid of some toxins. And peek at a few prowling willies while I do it.”
Anyone else would have used the verb “grab” or even “gobble,” but it was just like Ponpon to satisfy herself with a peek. She wasn’t far from what they call “asexual.” I’d never known her to get horny. If she did get down and dirty with someone, it was always done in the name of love. Then she’d bitterly regret it for days afterward. After a series of blood tests and negative results, she’d finally relax and shut up. A period of repentance lasted for what we creatures of fleshly desires would consider an “eternity” before she’d “sin” once more.
“I’m a little tired,” I lied. “I thought I’d lie down.” My second sentence was closer to the truth, if lacking in detail.
“Of course you are, dear,” she exclaimed. “I can stay here with you if you’d like. It’s not like I have to go to the sauna. Just say the word and I’ll stay.”
“That’s alright,” I assured her. “I’m a big girl now. I’m not afraid of the dark. Go on, have fun.”
“I’d better hit the road before my sweat dries, then. All primed, as it were,” she sang out.
Once Ponpon was out of the house I switched on the PC and began clicking though my collection of rare porn. Some of the men looked a bit like Haluk. I searched for them, and found one. His name was Taylor Burbank. He had a mustache in some pictures, a beard in a few others. So be it. Through squinted eyes he still reminded me of Haluk Pekerdem. That would have to do for now. I began undressing.
And the doorbell rang. Just as I got started. Ponpon must have forgotten something. Not bothering to switch off the computer, I raced to the door, wrapped in a pink jacket. I’d get whatever she wanted and send her on her way.
When I opened the door it was Hüseyin who stood across from me. I’d rather not have met him at the door nearly naked. I struggled to cover myself with the jacket. Unsuccessfully. I concealed myself behind the door.
The Gigolo Murder Page 7