The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

“Here I am,” he announced.

  He was staring at me.

  “It was a nearby drop. I came right over. I was afraid of getting stuck at the rank if I went back there.”

  “You did well,” I praised him.

  Opening the door all the way, I ushered him in.

  “Wait right over there,” I said. “I’ll go put something on.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said with a wink. “It’s fine with me; I could get comfortable too.”

  We’d just made up, and I had work for him, so there was no point in overreacting. Ignoring his remark, I headed down the hallway, certain he was watching my ass and sighing as he did so. Spotting Ponpon’s kimono, I threw it on and returned to the living room.

  He’d wasted no time settling into my favorite armchair.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked.

  “Whatever’s easiest . . . Nescafé?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “And bring me a glass of water, okay?”

  Not only the familiar sen, but the imperative, bossing me around in my own home! Still, I held my tongue. We had work to do, and patience is one of my many virtues.

  Handing him his coffee, I put on some soothing music. The fourth, fifth, and sixth discs of Haydn’s Opus 33 Quartets.

  “That’s nice,” he said.

  I smiled but didn’t feel the need to furnish any further information. He could always go over and look at the cover of the CD if he was curious.

  “So tell me what you know,” I prompted.

  “I hadn’t heard of any of the three. That is, until they appeared in the newspaper. You know how we read all the papers to pass time at the rank. That’s when I first heard of the guy. Actually, it’s Nazmi the Catamite who knew them personally. He used to be a minibus driver, too. Working on the same route. Knows them from way back. Anyway, he repented, got married, and gave up minibus driving. Then he came to our stand.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Brother Nazmi the Catamite,” he replied. “That’s a nickname he picked up from back then. I’ve never seen any signs that it’s true, but we call him that sometimes just to get him going. You should see him whip out his knife. And the curses when he gets really mad!”

  “What does he say about Volkan?” I asked. I didn’t have time for taxi rank antics. It’d be best to finish with Hüseyin before Ponpon returned.

  “Well,” he said, taking a gulp of coffee, “Volkan was a fare collector back then, working with his brother-in-law.”

  “That’s nothing new,” I said. “I already found that out.”

  “The real bombshell’s about to come, but it seems someone’s a little impatient,” Hüseyin teased.

  “Out with it,” I commanded. “There’s no point in trying to build up suspense.”

  “Back when Volkan was a fresh-faced boy, Ziya, that is, his uncle, would use him.”

  In order to be certain I understood what he meant, Hüseyin opened his eyes wide and carefully enunciated each word, with special emphasis on the word “use.” When he was finished, he looked at me expectantly, to gauge my reaction. My eyes, too, had flown wide open. We gaped at each other for a moment.

  “The guy was a pederast. He used the boy until he went off to do his military service.”

  I was truly astounded.

  “You look surprised,” Hüseyin said, all pleased with himself.

  “I’m sure I do; I am. That’s the last thing I expected.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” he said. “Why do you think he married Volkan’s big sister? So he could be near Volkan! When they got married, they had Volkan live with them. In the same house! Perfect. Not only were they working all day in the same minibus, but they spent nights under the same roof. Volkan must have been about thirteen or fourteen back then, but from what Brother Nazmi the Catamite says, he was a real knock-out. Everyone had eyes for him.”

  “Anything else?” I asked, still stunned.

  “Isn’t that enough? It’s incredible news! Sell it to a TV channel and they’d run it for a year.”

  “Yes, it’s a real bombshell and all that, but what else did Nazmi say?”

  He thought for a moment, sipping his coffee.

  “He says that if you ask him, it was Ziya who killed Volkan.”

  “What makes him so certain?”

  “Jealousy,” he says. “When Volkan came back from the army he didn’t give Ziya the time of day. It’s true that our Nazmi wasn’t working as a minibus driver then, but he’d still get news of them from time to time. Ziya was mad as hell. He even threatened the boy, I mean Volkan. Pulled a knife on him and everything.”

  “A bloody love story,” I remarked.

  “I wouldn’t say for sure that it was love,” Hüseyin objected.

  “What is it then? You told me yourself that he was jealous.”

  “So just because I act like a gentleman and don’t pull a knife on you, what I feel isn’t love?”

  Here we go again, having the conversation I least wanted. Yes, Hüseyin was fond of me. I understood that. And it was only natural that he would desire me. What wasn’t natural was Haluk Pekerdem not desiring me. But it was just like Hüseyin to confuse lust with love. Perhaps he respected me, even liked me as a person, but that didn’t mean he loved me. There should be no such thing as unrequited love. It’s just so unfair. To him, and to me.

  Chapter 13

  Having sent Hüseyin on his way, I reviewed all I knew before Ponpon came back. It was getting more and more confusing. Volkan, the ardent lover, had died, leaving behind scores of men and women with broken hearts, teary eyes, and unsatisfied libidos. Apparently, everyone within spitting distance of the late gigolo had fallen head over heels and embarked on some sort of adventure with him.

  Even if Faruk Hanoğlu was not responsible for the vicious slaying, and the media had, as usual, been overhasty in its pronouncement of guilt, there were still plenty of other suspects. Everyone I knew seemed to know something that would implicate someone.

  That wonderful man, Haluk Pekerdem, had been cold to me and not the least bit helpful, but if he thought he had slipped through my clutches, he was taking me far too lightly. I would be visiting him on at least a few more occasions. I am nothing if not tenacious.

  The list of people I wished to interview was growing: Volkan’s sodomite of a brother-in-law, Ziya; his addict brother, Okan; Refik Altın, despite his seeming innocence; Faruk Hanoğlu, despite the difficulties I’d face in seeing him alone and in person; a separate meeting with Faruk’s wife, whose name I didn’t even know; and finally, there was the blue-blood lady herself, Canan Hanoğlu Pekerdem. I’d already started sharpening my claws and tongue when it came to the wife of dearest Haluk.

  I didn’t feel like haunting far-off minibus stands again. That meant I would postpone my interviews with Okan and Ziya for the moment. Ponpon could be tapped to arrange a meeting with Canan and her sister-in-law, Faruk’s wife. Once she returned from the sauna, all relaxed and glowing, I’d put her to work on that. That left only one person: Refik Altın.

  I dialed his number. A mournful voice answered. Explaining I’d heard of his loss from Hasan, I offered my condolences.

  “Thank you, nursie,” he said. “You can’t imagine the depths of my despair . . . I was unable to attend the funeral of my lover. I shrank from contact with the family. Forbidden love and all its attendant complications. Deprived even of a simple burial service.”

  His possessive insistence on describing as his “lover,” a person openly described in the newspapers as a gigolo, was a bit odd.

  “I haven’t been out and about much lately,” I said. “Had you been together long?”

  “Concepts like time are meaningless,” he chided me. “It’s the intensity of what is shared . . . You know that. I mean, look, you’re only just recovering. And your affair ended so quickly, surely you remember that much . . .”

  He was a master of rubbing salt in wounds. While he may have had a poi
nt, I still bristled.

  “How can I help you?” I asked.

  “I really don’t need anything, nursie. I’ve been alone with my pain, letting it slowly flow to a place deep inside. In silence. I’ve been writing about it. Would you like to hear?”

  That last question was a welcome one, but he began reciting his latest poem before I’d had a chance to respond no. So I imagined it was inspired by Haluk and listened to the end. I was actually quite moved.

  “Beautiful,” I praised him. “So beautifully expressed!”

  I remembered what Hasan had told me. Refik really was pouring his grief into his work.

  He wasn’t going to tell me anything useful on the telephone. In fact, no one had told me anything of much use so far.

  “Shall I stop around?” I asked.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “But if you do insist . . .”

  It wouldn’t be any trouble, but neither was I insisting. I wasn’t even certain whether or not I wanted to see Refik. But I did want to see the photos of Volkan. The picture in the paper and the descriptions I’d heard wouldn’t suffice.

  I jotted down his address and we agreed on a time.

  The phone began ringing the second I put it down. Whoever was on the other end would know that I was at home. It was Ali. Judging from his tone of voice and careful choice of words, whatever he expected of me was extremely important. He suggested we meet at the office as soon as possible. What he wanted to tell me was too detailed and confidential for the phone.

  I’d been dodging Ali and our work for some time, and his polite and friendly tone could only mean that a major account was in the balance. He’d even sent me a huge bouquet of flowers. I decided to postpone my visit to Refik in order to see Ali first.

  I called Refik to explain.

  “Nursie, don’t bother coming if it’s an inconvenience,” he said. “I only suggested it because you seemed so determined. I’m actually quite busy.”

  Taking into consideration his recently broken heart, I listened patiently to his barbed monologue. I promised to stop by as soon as I had concluded my business with Ali.

  I taped a large note to Ponpon on the full-length mirror in the hallway. It was the first thing she’d see when she walked into the flat. Ponpon never misses a mirror.

  I dressed and hopped into a taxi, arriving at the office twenty minutes later. Insipid Figen met me at the door.

  “It’s been so long,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”

  Under rather different, more sincere circumstances there was nothing to object to in what she said. There was Ali, who must have heard my voice and suddenly appeared right next to me. No doubt afraid of being misinterpreted by the dour secretary, he skipped the usual bear hug and, taking me by the arm, propelled me straight to the room I occasionally use as an office.

  As usual, Ali got straight to the point, one of his more admirable traits. After asking Figen to prepare two coffees, he shut the door and began outlining the task at hand.

  An anonymous client or clients wanted me to crash their computer system, and to do it so thoroughly that it would never function again. Furthermore, I had to ensure that my work could not be traced. That was it, and it would be no problem. Previous clients had requested similar services in order to avoid the tax man or inspectors. Even if charged with fraudulent tampering or falsification, they would simply have their day in court and get off with a moderate fine. Or get whoever was on their tails off their backs.

  Our work was to be confidential. No signed agreements. Just a handshake and the promised payment once our work was done. What was strange was their request that we do our job remotely. That is, not on their premises but long distance, using data cables or even telephones. And, of course, without leaving any tracks that could be traced later.

  I asked for the name of the company we’d be working for.

  “They sent an intermediary. I have no idea who they are,” said Ali.

  There was no reason not to believe him.

  “They’ll provide us with all the necessary telephone numbers and passwords. Easy as pie. Just go through their system like you were carding wool, leaving no records behind.”

  “We could be falling into a trap,” I said. “What if they’re having us crash someone else’s system, not their own?”

  “What difference does it make?” Ali objected. “They’re the ones paying us; we’ll do whatever they want. And if it really is someone else’s system we crash, we may have just created a new client. Then we’d fix their system and earn even more.”

  “Look, Ali,” I said, “if I do the job right, even I won’t be able to get the system up and running again. It’s easier to destroy than to create.”

  “So we’d ask for extra money.”

  “Look,” I warned Ali, once again, “I’m not so sure about this. You know I’m not one to go on about principles, but wrecking someone’s system because someone else is paying you for it seems a bit much to me.”

  “Princess, you’ve gone all soft on me,” Ali said. “You never had a problem with this before. What’s happened to you?”

  “That was the old me.”

  “Oh, come on. Surely you remember all the systems we crashed just because the client didn’t agree to meet our price. You do remember?”

  I did. It was our favored response to companies that went too far in trying to drive down our fee. Once we’d crashed their systems, they’d come running, and would give us whatever we demanded.

  “If we don’t do it, Cihad2000 will. You know that! He’s been undercutting us, snagging all our business. I’ve had to stop communicating over the Internet because of him, and I even have my doubts about using my cell phone. I’ve taken to arranging meetings in person.”

  As I sat there, silent, Ali continued for some time to try to persuade me to accept the project.

  “All right,” I finally relented. “I’ll do it.”

  “They’ll tell us the day and time.”

  “How systematic of them.”

  Once I’d agreed to do the job, Ali suddenly decided to agree with my reservations.

  “Maybe you’re right about this one. It does seem like something funny is going on, but as long as we don’t know what it is, it won’t affect us. We’ll still have clean hands and clear consciences!”

  “Give me the numbers and codes,” I said.

  “I don’t know them. They’re going to let us know over the phone.”

  “You mean I’m supposed to sit here day and night waiting for their call? Forget it!”

  “Of course you don’t have to sit here,” he said soothingly. “I’ll get in touch with the intermediary and he’ll stay in touch with the client. We’ve only just agreed to do this in any case, haven’t we?”

  Ali went to his office to make the necessary phone call, leaving me alone. I sorted through my mail and scanned the latest magazines.

  Figen brought in a cup of Turkish coffee, served with a piece of chocolate.

  “I just got engaged,” she announced. “The chocolate’s from the party.”

  Hiding my surprise, I congratulated her. So Figen had landed a husband. Miracle of miracles! Ever since I met her she’s been dreaming of finding a man, and considered each one she met, regardless of age and marital status, a potential suitor.

  “Oh, by the way, I wonder if I could ask you something?”

  “Go on, dear,” I replied. That “dear” was in honor of her engagement.

  “I wondered where you picked up your two-piece. I just love it.”

  I’d purchased the suit in question at NetWork but would never wear it again on the chance that Figen would now run out and buy the same thing. The very idea of appearing in public in the same costume as Figen sent a shudder down my spine. For one thing, she had a huge rear. Her acquisition of a fiancé did not mean she was in my league and could copy my dress sense.

  “I bought it overseas,” I lied.

  “It’s so cute,” she gushed.

>   I thanked her once again.

  “There’s a photograph of my fiancé on my desk; I could show you if you’re curious.”

  That’s all I needed.

  I continued flipping the pages of the magazine without really looking at them.

  “I’m busy right now. Another time maybe,” I said.

  She was tactful enough to take a hint, and left the room without comment.

  In less than the time it took me to flip through a second magazine, Ali returned.

  “They want us to start today,” he said.

  “Perfect,” I said. “We won’t have to wait around. I’ll get started immediately and you’ll get your money.”

  “Perfect. I agree.”

  “Did you know that Ponpon calls you Money-counter?” I said.

  “Who’s Ponpon?”

  Ali inevitably forgets every face and name who isn’t in some way connected to earning money.

  “She remembers you,” I said. “You know, my big sister.”

  “Ah, that’s right, that friend of yours,” Ali lied, clearly as clueless as ever. “Anyway, about those numbers and passwords.”

  He handed me a sheet of pink paper.

  “This evening,” he instructed, “after seven p.m. will be suitable. They suggested between nine and ten as the ideal time.”

  “Talk about fussy!” I said.

  “They pay; we listen,” said Ali.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I admitted.

  “And please, whatever you do, don’t leave any tracks. You may even want to go online at a café. Working from home or here at the office could be risky.”

  He was right. Just as I was sometimes able to trace Cihad2000, he and others like him could do the same when it came to me.

  Then I had a stroke of genius: Why not make it look as though Cihad2000 had done it? I could easily access his connections. Yes, I was taking a chance. If he found out, it would be considered a declaration of war. But I had learned all his tricks, and it would be no trouble to imitate his methods. And if I went online at an Internet café, it would be impossible to trace me.

  I didn’t tell Ali what I was thinking. We agreed on a code I’d use to let him know my work was done.