The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  My cozy home was empty. There was no sign of Ponpon. I resented her for having disappeared right when I needed her most. Of course she couldn’t have known, but even so . . . One doesn’t need a good reason to take offense. Just the impulse.

  Remembering my aromatic state, I raced to the shower. Standing under the stinging hot water, I asked myself why I keep getting mixed up in things that are none of my business. Actually, this time things had landed right in my lap. Still, I needn’t have rushed in as an amateur sleuth. Had I left well enough alone, the case would most likely have been closed. Why had I gone digging? What was I trying to prove to myself—and others? Knowing full well that the answer to that last question would be far from agreeable, I dropped it. I stepped out of the shower. My stomach was grumbling with hunger. When I saw that Ponpon had stocked the fridge, I felt better. I helped myself, loading a large plate, buffet style. Alcina had been left in the CD player, and I pushed “play.” Handel’s soothing strings filled the room. Self-reflection had done nothing to dent my appetite; I gobbled up everything on the plate.

  There was no getting out of it. The time had come to pay a little call on Faruk Hanoğlu. I wouldn’t be able to arrive unannounced. Men like him are always sheltered from surprise visitors; even if not flanked twenty-four hours a day by bodyguards, he’d be living in a high-security walled estate. I’d have to find a less conventional way to impose myself on him.

  I called Ponpon, who answered drowsily.

  “Merhaba. I must have dozed in front of the television.”

  “Have I been abandoned?” I half joked, half grumbled.

  “What kind of talk is that?! Consider it unsaid!”

  “Just kidding.” I laughed. Then I got straight to the point: “Arrange a meeting with Faruk Bey. If possible, for tonight.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Hello? Ponpon? Are you there?”

  “Yes, ayol. I was thinking.”

  Ponpon never thinks in silence. She must have been trying to come out of her sleepy stupor. It wasn’t long before she had the presence of mind to fire a question back at me.

  “Why?”

  “I suspect he’s got me involved in something dodgy. We need to talk, face-to-face.”

  “You mean about that boy with the big thingy?”

  “It could be relevant. I’m not sure. I did something I’m not entirely comfortable with. I need to get the bottom of it. Only then will I be able to relax.”

  “Hmmm . . .”

  I didn’t know how to interpret Ponpon’s response. Silence. I waited.

  “I’ll give him a call and get back to you.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t mention that funny business! I don’t want to raise his suspicions.”

  “I figured out that much, ayol! Good-bye!”

  I decided to give Cihad2000 a call while I waited for Ponpon. By now he could have calmed down, had a good look at the records he’d downloaded, and discovered something useful. He didn’t answer his private phone. Convinced he was busy, I didn’t persist. I also didn’t want to drive the sad-eyed mother to answer her son’s phone, forcing me to speak to her. Instead, I tried reaching him on the Internet, but there was no sign of him in any of the usual chat rooms. Sorting through my extensive porn collection for two pictures I knew would appeal to his tastes, I attached them to a message and sent it. They’d pop up the second he went online.

  I had a million and one things to do, but no intention of doing any of them. No, I’d savor the tension of waiting, the discomfort of being unable to do anything. The picture hanging on the wall directly across was slightly crooked. It showed me posing with RuPaul at the London Gay Pride Parade. My eyes were closed, but my outfit was fabulous. Even RuPaul had admired it. I’d just returned to my seat when the phone rang. Certain it was Ponpon, I lunged for the receiver.

  On the other end, drawing out every syllable of his “Merhaba” as always, was Hasan. “I called to ask how you were. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “Thank you. Much better now.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that. So, will you be round tonight?”

  I hadn’t yet decided whether or not to drop by the club. It depended on the news from Ponpon. Actually, Faruk Hanoğlu was not likely to devote an entire night to me, even if we did meet.

  “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “We’ll talk then,” he said, and hung up.

  Chatterbox Hasan had hung up in record time. Something was up. I rang him back immediately.

  “Yes?” he asked. “Did you forget something?”

  “No, but you always have something to say. Anything wrong? Don’t go getting all funny on me. You know I’ve only just come right. I can’t handle another shock.”

  I managed a light laugh, but I was dead serious.

  Hasan was silent. Something had come over everyone tonight. No one was prepared to give me a quick answer or response.

  “It’s nothing . . .” he finally said. Then, he reversed himself with “Well, there is something, but we’ll talk when you get here. It’ll take time.”

  I wanted to tell him that I had plenty of time, or even ask him to come over, but I was expecting an important call from Ponpon. I left it at “fine.”

  I could have mulled over all I hadn’t told Hasan. I could even have produced a tiny prick of conscience for having left him in the dark. But I didn’t do either.

  Chapter 22

  Faruk Hanoğlu lives in Yeniköy, right on the shores of the Bosphorus. At the front gate, apparently expecting me, was an elderly creature in the early stages of fossilization. As soon as I told him my name, I was waved through into an enormous, beautifully manicured garden that stretched from the main road all the way to the sea. Although it was night, I was certain not a single dried leaf had been allowed to fall to the ground, not a single wayward branch allowed to live. It was a secret paradise hidden behind high walls. The house stood in a small wood at the end of a long, well-lit path lined with ancient trees. A few steps led up to the glass door of the main building, in which a rather younger, better-dressed figure waited to greet me. In his forties, he wasn’t in traditional butler gear, wasn’t even in a suit. Over a beige shirt, he wore a brown V-neck sweater.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Faruk Bey will see you in a moment. Come in.”

  I was led to a ground floor room built virtually over the sea.

  “Could I get you any refreshments while you wait?”

  It was the most cordial offer I’d had for some time. His tone was refined and reflected a perfectly modulated courtesy, the correct balance of respectful distance and gracious warmth. Whatever he was, he did it beautifully.

  He ushered me into a room at least half the size of my entire flat but clearly not furnished as a living room, or even a sitting room. It served only as a waiting room for guests like me. Facing each other were a pair of antique sofas. Two spindly chairs with wooden arms and threadbare Gobelin cushions stood guard. Heavy, matching gilt framed a series of wall mirrors and an ominous still life of a watermelon and a bunch of grapes.

  As for the view from the window, only a string of adjectives like “fabulous,” “marvelous,” and “extraordinary” could begin to describe it. The dark of night lent the scene an element of mystery and otherworldliness; in the murky waters of the strait glowed the lights of the opposite shore and passing ships. I felt that if I leaped through the window I would become a part of the fairy-tale world outside.

  As I sipped water from a fine antique glass, I tried to decide what to say to Faruk Hanoğlu. I’d just begun losing myself in the watery view when the door opened and the master of the house entered dressed in a Muzaffer Tema costume: a silk dressing gown and crimson ascot. I had no idea that anyone actually dressed like that anymore. A film had come to life. On his face was a smile of the sort favored by his sister, an affectation of snobbish nobility.

  “Merhaba,” he said, shaking my hand. “Welcome. I hope you haven’t waited long. Po
npon’s call took me by surprise. But when she said it was urgent I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her. We’re so fond of Ponpon, you see.”

  I thanked him.

  “Do forgive me,” he said, “but I haven’t got much time. As you know, we don’t normally work nights.”

  Right from the start the guy was trying to make me feel guilty. He was still standing and his smile couldn’t conceal the tension around his lips. I had been granted an audience under duress, and I was meant to realize as much.

  “How funny, we just get going at night,” I chirped. “You know, the nightclub business.”

  “Look,” he said, “let me be frank. Normally I don’t offer special treatment in cases like this. But Ponpon called. And was most insistent. She told me you required a fairly insignificant sum, and that you needed it immediately, tonight . . . Something about a difficult creditor or a routine payment of some kind. Of course, none of that interests us.”

  “Yes . . .” was all I managed in reply.

  “I think you’ll appreciate that large amounts of cash are not kept in the house. In fact, we don’t deal in cash at all. Our business is making money from money. We put everything to work, all we have. But you’re in luck. We’ve retrieved a certain amount just tonight.”

  “Well, aren’t I the lucky one?” I grinned.

  If he detected a note of sarcasm, he didn’t let on.

  “How much do you require?”

  When I didn’t answer, he continued, “As I told you, we never have much cash at hand.”

  We’d never get anywhere if we went on in this vein. He was anxious to slap a cash loan into my hand at a not entirely exorbitant rate of interest and to see the back of me. And the sooner the better. The thought of taking his money and never paying him back gave me a certain wicked pleasure. After all, in his eyes I was the manager of a fifth-rate tranny club, a lowlife in difficult straits for reasons undoubtedly connected to the underworld, a credit risk who happened to be a friend of Ponpon’s. But I hadn’t come here to rip him off.

  It was time to lay my cards on the table.

  “Look,” I said, “the loan was just a ruse to get my foot in the door. There’s something else we need to talk about.”

  As I talked, he became less smug, his shoulders falling along with his face. He even deigned to sit down across from me, growing more and more tense as he listened.

  As I was finishing, I added, “Don’t forget. I’m on your side. I never really thought you’d killed Volkan. With your help, I can find out who did, and why. But I wasn’t happy about that business with the phone records. Just what did you think you were doing?”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “What can you prove?” he finally said. “You haven’t got a shred of evidence.”

  “I have all I need.”

  He laughed nervously.

  “You mean nothing!”

  His voice had reached a new pitch.

  “I have enough evidence both for myself and—if it’s appropriate—the police.”

  Once again, I was winging it. But I sincerely believed that with Cihad2000’s help we would turn up something.

  He carefully scrutinized my face before looking deeply into my eyes. His left eye seemed slightly out of synch. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up cross-eyed. It could be a blood sugar problem, I mused.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. I told the police all they need to know. They’re doing their jobs. None of this concerns you.”

  “Perhaps. But the police know nothing about the phone records.”

  “That’s your problem. It has nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know about it. You’re making unfounded accusations and nonexistent connections.”

  “But I can prove it . . .”

  “Sure you can,” he said. “We’ll never get anywhere like this.”

  Standing up, he walked over to the door.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  I was being thrown out. Slowly rising to my feet, I stole one last glance at the amazing view, hoping to keep the image alive forever.

  “You know best,” I said. “I have no choice but to protect myself. If I find myself in trouble, don’t blame me for getting others involved—and that includes the police.”

  Icy eyes were on my back as I left the room. I wished I had long hair, or at least a shoulder-length wig. I’d have proudly raised my chin, narrowed my eyes . . . and delivered a crushing toss of the head. Just a single toss. Like so. Humph!

  The same two silent servants relayed me back out of the house and to the front gate.

  Faruk Hanoğlu could only have treated me this way because he had something to hide, or perhaps because of his intolerable insolence. But whatever the reason, I’d been unceremoniously thrown out! It was an official declaration of war. If that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d get!

  A dark red BMW slowed in front of me, blocking my path to the opposite pavement. Thinking the vehicle may have decelerated just for me, I leaned down and looked inside. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the car entering the front gate, which had silently swung open to allow access to the garden I’d left seconds earlier, was none other than Haluk Pekerdem, in all his glory.

  He hadn’t even noticed me. Haluk Pekerdem! Me! Unnoticed! I was furious! Hurt! I took it hard . . . I needed to be loved and desired, especially by someone like him. I ran to the opposite pavement.

  Waiting for a taxi in the chill air of the Bosphorus, I hissed out a cloud of steam and the words “This means war.”

  Chapter 23

  I’d had more than enough humiliation, degradation, and mortification for one night, and was now filled with a burning desire for revenge. I mean, really, who did they think they were? Fire smoldering in my belly, I applied the most exquisite makeup.

  “A real doll. What a doll . . . Maşallah!” I said to the reflection in the mirror, taking care to spray it with a healthy dose of spit to ward off the evil eye.

  I was on a roll. Unless my fury faded away, I’d be hell on wheels at the club tonight, taking it out on the boys, making them hop and jump. I considered the way they treated me when they were cross and their transparent efforts to hide their resentment.

  If DJ Osman played ludicrous tracks, claiming they were the latest hits, I’d shit in his mouth. He’d had it coming for a long time. The second I turned my back he’d play Sertab Erener, stretching my nerves like an overly taut bowstring. And when I’d intervene, he’d grin an apology out of the corner of his mouth. How many times had I told him that I simply would not have either that voice or its vessel in my club. If he tried it tonight, he’d be eating the shattered pieces of that shrill siren’s CD before he knew what hit him.

  And as for Cüneyt, that groveling excuse for a doorman . . . the slightest slipup in manner, word, or conduct would be noted ruthlessly on the spot. In any case, the boy was too simpleminded and pure of heart to take a hint, and his earnest response would only serve to sharpen my wrath further. So be it. Once I was through the door there would be any number of targets to choose from.

  It would be tough to stick it to that incorrigible boy lover Şükrü. He’d put up with whatever I dished out. After all, the club was his idea of paradise, and he wouldn’t allow it to be spoiled by anything I, his nominal boss, said. He’d simply tilt his head to one side, gaze into the distance, and put his trust in God.

  And then there was Hasan! I had a real mouthful for him, an unending litany of abuse. I suddenly remembered that Hasan had wanted to talk to me. Even though we couldn’t be considered close, he’d always come through for me, no questions asked. It’s funny, though. He’d never expected me to reciprocate, almost as though he was determined to keep his distance.

  I realized that I’d never made a special effort to get to know him better, or to lend him a hand. All I’d done was criticize and condemn. He, too, surely needed a kind word and a show of respect from time to time. I thou
ght about his family, the one he never mentions but that I know live somewhere in Istanbul . . . the men, women, or boys he’d no doubt fallen for but never spoken of . . . the fact that to date he had not once complained or grumbled about his life to me or anyone I knew . . . Who knew what he suffered in private, the difficulties he faced in coming to terms with himself and his place in the world?

  As I pondered the riddle of Hasan, the wind went out of my sails, blustery malice replaced by an almost maternal inner stillness. It was an unfortunate development: The grudge I harbored against Haluk also vanished. Those amazing eyes and wondrous face appeared in my mind’s eye, and all was forgiven. He’d been reelevated to divine status. I imagined myself folded in his arms. And instantly turned to jelly. As I caught myself caressing my own arms, which were wrapped around my own body, I cursed aloud. Had I fallen in love, just like that? Where would it lead? Let’s say my wildest fantasies came true, just once. Would he be prepared to divorce that rich, condescending, and stylish wife of his? Or would I become his mistress? An unfortunate and unreciprocated love. A tiresome and tiring adventure, the ill-fated course of which was clear from the start! That’s all I needed right now!

  Resentment welled up once more, buoyed by a bubbling pool of self-pity. Bonjour, tristesse . . . Good morning, hüzün! Merhaba and welcome back, depression!

  “Hey!” I scolded myself aloud. I had no intention of returning to those dark days, of becoming a sorry creature with the mental faculties and joie de vivre of a sponge. Erkan Koray’s “Sevince” always raises my spirits. I set the song to continuous play. Singing along, I completed my preparations. As always when determined to be cheerful, I’d laid it on a bit thick: sylphlike Audrey Hepburn buried under garish early Madonna gear. Now, if I only had a pistachio green fake fox fur detachable collar. And I did, of course. I had to laugh at myself in the full-length mirror. The impression I made tonight would be a lasting one indeed!