When I hung up, I scanned the list of messages Ponpon had written in a flowing hand perfected at a series of French schools. The name Hüseyin jumped out at me several times as I vainly looked for the name Haluk Pekerdem. How was I supposed to concentrate on anything until I’d landed that man?
I knew I’d see Hüseyin on my way to the club in any case. Now that we’d made up he’d be waiting at the rank at the usual time. If he had anything to say to me, he could do it on the way to the club.
I put on my favorite sleek black dress, collarless and sleeveless like the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The effect was completed with three strands of large fake pearls and a pair of long satin gloves. All that was missing was the cigarette holder and French twist. I was at least as thin as Audrey, but far sexier.
When I called for a taxi, Hüseyin arrived, as expected. He began speaking before I’d even settled in.
“I’ve been ringing you all day, but you were out. And I left a message, but you didn’t call back. Brother Nazmi the Catamite had some more amazing news. It’s about that minibus driver you were asking about, the brother of the dead guy . . . He’s disappeared! Hasn’t been seen for days. The whole taxi stand is looking for him.”
“You might have tried ‘good evening’ first,” I reprimanded Hüseyin.
“Yeah, right, good evening and all that. I suppose I got a little wound up, and I thought you’d be excited too.”
“So how did this Nazmi of yours find out he’d disappeared?”
“Some guys from the stand stopped by to offer condolences. The minibus guys over there said Volkan had socked away a lot of cash. They think the brother ran off with it when he was killed.”
“It’s entirely possible,” I reflected. “Likely, in fact.”
Huseyin paused. “I swear there’s something funny about you tonight. You didn’t use to sit there like a statue when I brought news like this.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“If that’s how you feel . . .”
“Let’s get going. I haven’t been to the club for days. I miss it.”
“Where have you been all day?” Hüseyin asked, as soon as we were on the road, driving up the hill.
“Since when do I answer to you?” I replied, raising my voice. “I was wherever I was.”
I wasn’t having any impertinence just because we’d slept together twice.
“Get a grip and don’t bother getting your hopes up,” I continued. “Whatever happened, happened. Don’t go reading anything into it.”
He slammed on the brakes, stopping in the middle of the road. Throwing an arm over the seat, he spun around to face me.
“You’re like a cat playing with a mouse,” he said. “I know you’ll thrash me if you get mad. You’ve done it before. But I’ve got feelings, too. I’m not a toy. You can’t order me to come and go whenever you feel like it.”
“Then don’t,” I snapped. “And keep driving.”
“Then get yourself another taxi!” he shouted.
“Don’t be silly, Hüseyin! We’re halfway there.”
“I’ll drop you off back at the rank,” he said.
“So are you going to sulk like a child again?”
He started driving.
“Well, you treat me like a child. Why shouldn’t I act like one?”
“Stop being so stupid!” I said. “Let’s get going. I’m tired, you’re cross . . . Let’s not drag this out.”
“I waited for you at the stand all day long. I didn’t take any other fares.”
“Did I tell you to wait for me?”
“No,” he admitted.
“So?”
Cüneyt the bodyguard met me at the door to the club, holding it open for me. He even kissed my hand. I must have looked as surprised as I felt. Where on earth had Cüneyt learned that?
“They always do that on The Hülya Avşar Show,” he explained. “And what has she got that you haven’t got?”
“Quite right. And I’ve got something she can never have,” I said. I had only a split second to feel ashamed of my little joke, for the moment I stepped into the club flashes popped and confetti dropped and Hasan was squeezing me so hard I thought I’d suffocate.
When Hasan found out I’d be dropping by the club, he, along with the other boys—Cüneyt, Şükran the barman, DJ Osman, and the regular girls—had organized a surprise party. I was touched, despite myself. Amid cries of “welcome home,” I was dragged onto the dance floor.
My favorite song of all time, “It’s Raining Men,” as performed by the Weather Girls, began playing. I was given even more space than usual on the floor, and had barely finished my second twirl when it filled with well-wishers hugging and kissing me in turn. I was about to burst into tears of joy, gratitude, and pride.
No doubt my high spirits were a bit too much for Hasan, who danced his way to my side to say, “Refik called you twice. You were supposed to stop by. He’s been waiting for you all night long.”
Congratulations. He’d manage to spoil my good mood. I’d completely forgotten about Refik Altın. It was just like him to track me down at the club. Refik had been talking down his nose to me for months, humiliating me at every opportunity. But he still didn’t hesitate to come to the club—my club.
“Oh, I forgot all about him,” I said. “That’s not like me at all. Remind me to give him a call and apologize.”
“He’s the last person who deserves an apology from you.”
“If anyone has any apologizing to do, it’s him,” added Hairy Demet. So, no doubt due to Hasan’s big mouth, everyone at the club knew I hadn’t kept my rendezvous with Refik Altın.
They’d immediately misinterpreted the concerned look on my face.
“Don’t worry about it,” continued Demet. “If he doesn’t come here anymore, so be it. We don’t need the likes of him!”
Hairy Demet was right, I thought, but Refik Altın and his sort did lend a certain intellectual air to the premises.
I was distracted by the front door. It had opened, and three people were walking in. Three men. I glanced hopefully at each in turn. Was that Haluk Pekerdem bringing up the rear? . . . No. In the dimly lit club, whoever it was had looked remarkably like my Haluk, and I’d held my breath, waiting for him to turn toward me. What was I thinking? What would someone like him be doing in our club? He’d be terrified just to walk through that door.
The excitement I’d felt at seeing a pale imitation of Haluk turned to frustration. I was hooked. I had to get my hands on him one way or another, or I’d lose it.
My pulse was still racing. “It’s Raining Men” was still playing, but I stood stock-still. Breasts straining against filmy fabric, as always, Aylin came up and took my arm.
“Sister, are you all right? You’ve gone all pale.” Screeching,
“Clear the way!” Aylin led me off the dance floor and made me sit down.
Hasan and Şükrü pushed their way through the crowd, coming to my side with worried looks.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re awfully pale,” said Hasan. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute? Şükrü, go and get a lemon soda.”
“Soda won’t help,” Nalan intervened. “Get something sweet. Her blood sugar’s dropped.”
A serious junkie, Nalan was considered an authority on such subjects.
“Get some cola then, and throw in some sugar! Run!” said Hasan, still bossing Şükrü around.
“Cola won’t do it either. It’s carbonated,” Nalan informed them.
“Plain sugar water is best.”
“It’ll make me sick. I don’t want any,” I said. “I’m fine. Look!”
As I stood up, I toppled over. Either my blood pressure had dropped or a lack of sleep was taking its toll.
Chapter 16
Opening my eyes to the sight of Haluk Pekerdem would have been wonderful, but it was Hasan who was leaning over me. Yes, it was Hasan who was bringing me around by slapping me r
epeatedly. And I do mean slapping. One of the girls was massaging perfume onto my wrists, probably because there was none of the customary cologne on hand. The intoxicating scent of Guerlain Samsara filled the air.
“His eyes are open!”
No doubt hoping they’d remain closed forever!
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just give me a little air.”
Chief fusser Hasan began barking orders. The crowd moved back. Taking an arm each, Hasan and Cüneyt assisted me to the door. I must have been grinning foolishly, perhaps even sheepishly.
It was only the second time I’d passed out in my life. The first time had happened years ago. A headstrong little boy, I’d thrown a hysterical fit when my mother had refused to buy me a pair of gold lamé boots. When I came to, the boots were resting next to my bed, with the stipulation that they were to be worn only at home, and never in front of guests. Blacking out had helped me get my way. But that hadn’t happened this time. There was no Haluk Pekerdem waiting for me to open my eyes, his strong arms ready to scoop me up and carry me off.
Instead, I was flanked by Cüneyt, who’s considered cute only because of muscles regularly inflated at the gym, and Hasan, whose orientation and tastes remain a mystery, but who works for pennies at a transvestite bar, traipses around with his butt crack showing, and refuses to put out for man, woman, or anything in-between. This must be what they mean when they talk of cruel fate.
“Shall I drop you off at home?” Hasan asked.
“No!” I said. “I’ve just come to. And I’m fine. I just need a bit of air.”
“Boss, you gave us such a scare,” Cüneyt chimed in, his eyes like saucers. “And you’ve only just risen from your sickbed.”
“Do you want me to tell Ponpon?”
“No, Hasan,” I said. “It was hard enough to get rid of her. Let me rest in peace.”
“But you’ve been resting for weeks,” said Cüneyt.
“Keep out of this!” I scolded him, before turning on Hasan. “It looks like everyone knows everything. I’ll have a word with you about that later.”
“Oh, come on, is Cüneyt a stranger?”
He imagined he’d get off the hook by seeming to spring to Cüneyt’s defense. He was wrong.
“I’ve had quite enough air, and quite enough of you,” I snapped. “Let’s go back in.”
A special table had been prepared for me, the one Hasan dubs the VIP corner. At a strategic point just between the dance floor and the room, it’s the best place to see and be seen. I sat down. Şükrü brought me my virgin Mary. It was perfect, the best I’ve had except for mixes imported from America. Not only could he make a perfect drink, Şükrü was also one of the last of the twink-chasers. Just Şükrü and Ziya, the brother-in-law of that most accommodating of gigolos, Volkan.
The girls took turns sitting with me, outdoing each other in expressions of concern and sympathy. But even as I nodded mechanically and smiled graciously, I continued thinking of Ziya Göktaş. What was he up to these days? And what about his wife, Volkan’s sister? Did she know?
The moment I felt stronger, barring any more fainting spells, I’d go see Ziya. Yes, first thing tomorrow morning. Then I’d pay a visit to Cihad2000 to get the data he’d promised to download for me. He’d hit on me, as usual, and I’d either have to ignore him or give him a good dressing down. Not that the latter would do any good: He loves nothing better than being humiliated and abused.
My body still felt a bit wooden, but my mind was working a mile a minute. I fastened my eyes on Shrewish Pamir, who was dancing up a storm and almost certainly looking to start a brawl. As far as I knew she enjoyed playing the dominatrix with her tricks. With her tall muscular frame, toned by years of basketball in her youth, long legs, tiny leather skirt, and vinyl stiletto boots reaching hip high, she’d be perfect for the little job I had in mind. I called her over.
“Yes, abla,” she droned as she made her way over to me. Pamir is one of those who imagine that speaking through one’s nose produces a more ladylike effect.
“Have a seat,” I said. “I need to have a word with you.”
“Anything wrong? What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve got a little proposal to make you.”
She listened intently as I gave a brief sketch of Cihad2000: a computer genius in a wheelchair who looks a bit like Stephen Hawking and is an insatiable masochist.
“Just have a go,” I said. “If it’s too much for you, I understand. I’ll pay your fee no matter what. I owe him a favor.”
“What do you mean, sister? I wouldn’t dream of taking money from you . . . When I think of all you’ve done for us . . . Wasn’t it you who took me to the emergency room when my eyebrow was split open and made them promise not to leave a scar? You saved my face. I’ve never forgotten it. And I tell everyone about it.”
“Really?” I said, truly touched.
I could feel myself beaming, just as I had been earlier that night.
“Of course,” she went on. “No one ever helps anyone anymore. I can never repay you. Think of all the times you got me out of jail; I’m not even counting that. Just tell me who you want me to do—I don’t care if it’s Woody Allen or Yılmaz Erdoğan. And not just once, for a whole week, if you want.”
So Pamir had no idea who Stephen Hawking was. As specimens of manhood, I’m not an Allen or an Erdoğan fan myself, but she hadn’t yet seen Kemal, alias Cihad2000.
“You may want to meet him first,” I warned her, “before you decide anything.”
“No problem, if I have to I’ll just shut my eyes and do my duty . . .”
Rising from the table, she exploded in a nasal guffaw, still convinced she was a tempting siren.
My creative solution to the problem of Cihad2000 had improved my mood immensely. If only someone would speak to Haluk Pekerdem on my behalf, win him over for me! Just once! Once would be enough. Like winning an Oscar, Grammy, or Nobel prize. If I could just seduce him once, he’d be back for more. I knew it. One taste, and he was mine.
Watching the girls display their most erotic, even obscene, dance moves for prospective customers, I sat at my table dreaming of Haluk until dawn.
Chapter 17
With the address Selçuk had given me in hand, finding Ziya Göktaş’s home was dead easy. His apartment building was on one of those narrow streets in Ihlamur where the weekly market is held. He lived on the top floor of a nondescript building distinguishable from the others only by the smells of cooking that wafted out onto the street.
The stairwell looked as though it hadn’t been painted since the building was constructed. The steps were shiny with years of constant wiping and smelled faintly of soap.
The doormat of his flat was completely concealed by shoes, as was much of the floor on either side of the hallway. Shoes of all shapes and sizes, the men’s unpolished with heels worn down.
The door was opened by a young girl wearing the self-important expression of a school monitor. In this case, she’d been assigned the task of receiving guests coming to offer their condolences. Determined to live up to her grown-up duty, she was suitably somber, with just the hint of a proud smile playing around her lips. Moving to one side, she gestured for me to come in.
“Come in, uncle,” she said.
I wasn’t about to let that one word spoil my mood. “Uncle” indeed!
Heading toward the sound of soft weeping, I was cut off by a neighbor determined to play the role of hostess. She was way past middle age, her bracelets and gold earrings a calculated display of wealth and status.
“Welcome, my son,” she said. “I was like an aunt to him. His mother and my mother suckled together . . .”
She was expecting me to make a similar announcement. I quickly made something up.
“My condolences,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“So many loved him. They’ve been coming to pay their respects all day long. Bless them all. Come in . . .”
I was waved into the living roo
m. It was full of men. The women must be sitting in a second parlor, with the guests separated by gender. The man with bleary eyes sitting right across from the TV had to be Ziya Göktaş. He looked like the typical baddie in an old Turkish film: dark and mustachioed. Right out of the school of Erol Taş, Bilal Inci, and Hayati Hamzaoğlu. He looked up at me. His expert eye immediately determined what I was, and assigned me points. Suddenly, he rose to his feet and embraced me.
He reeked of tobacco.
I was taken aback by the unexpected attention. He must have confused me with someone else.
“Have a seat, chum,” he said.
The word “chum” spoke volumes. He wasn’t at all upset. Or if he was, he’d recovered in no time. Beneath black brows, his eyes shone with the shifty cunning of the film villain plotting some dastardly plan.
As is the tradition, everyone in the room droned at length about the flawless character of the newly departed and his endless good deeds. I would have to say a word or two. I did.
The brother-in-law stared at me, the kind of look that imprisons its target. He was on to me; in fact, he fancied me. But he had no idea who I was, why I had come, or how he could make a move on me without anyone else noticing.
I, too, wished to be alone with him. But for entirely different reasons.
None of the sitters seemed to have any intention of leaving their chairs. Whenever there was silence, someone would emit a long, heartfelt “ahhhh,” and begin a lengthy monologue on the implications of death and the relative meaninglessness of life. Ziya and I appeared to be the only ones there who actually looked at each other. Everyone else was either staring at the floor or contemplating the distant corners of the universe.
Like any troublemaker, Ziya was quick on his feet.
“Come, my lion, let me show you Volkan’s old room,” he said. I assumed I was the “lion” he referred to, since he didn’t know my name.
Holding up an arm in a gesture meant to urge the others not to interrupt their floor gazing, he threw the other one around my shoulders and led me off. I was able to shake it off with a light shrug, but he then moved behind me. I could feel his eyes on my bottom as we walked down the hallway and into a tiny bedroom. There was no indication that the room had ever belonged to Volkan. In it was only a single bed, a chair piled high with blankets, and a rickety-looking wardrobe.
The Gigolo Murder Page 10