I summarized things for her as we went inside.
“I’ll shit in their mouths! Break in, did they? And in the middle of the night, no less. And you still nursing a broken heart. Well, I never!”
“What’s that got to do with it? . . .” I began.
“Maybe it’s irrelevant, maybe it’s not! That’s not the point. The point is, they’re clearly deranged. It’s a wound in the social fabric, it is. Completely sociological. Did I say logical? Well, there’s not a trace of that, honey! That’s the problem. I’ll knock some sense into them. They’re all mine now. Dr. Mengele has nothing on me.”
“Sweetie,” I pleaded, “please don’t ramble on. I’m just not up to it. I don’t think I can take it.”
“Well, alright then, hubby . . . You’re in a deep depression, after all. You think you’re over it, but you’re not, of course. Who can snap out of something like that in just a couple of days? Don’t you agree? I mean, look what happened to Virginia Woolf. You’ve seen The Hours. And there are other films, too . . . This is serious stuff. No one pulls through just like that. No, it always leaves a scar. Deep down . . .”
“Ipekten!”
“Alright, alright!” she pouted. “If you invited me over just to shut me up . . .”
I handed her one of the guns.
“Do you know how to use this?” I asked.
“Ayol, I did my military service, same as everyone else. And I never miss. Don’t worry, hubby.”
I let her know that the body on the floor was a mute.
“I’ll have him singing like a pressure cooker,” she trilled. “That tongue’ll be wagging in no time! . . . ”
Purple Cheek had come out of the bathroom, trousers down around his ankles, and taken penguin steps as far as the door to the bedroom.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t flush it,” he apologized sardonically.
İpekten turned her head to look at the newcomer.
“Ah! Sarp? What are you doing here?”
For several moments, three pair of eyes traveled from face to face. There was deadly silence.
“Who on earth is Sarp?” I finally asked, surprised and a bit panicked.
İpekten eyes’s shifted from me, to Sarp, down to his limp manhood, and then back to me again.
“You see . . .”
“You slept with him?” I interrupted.
“You could say that . . .”
Either they had or they hadn’t.
“So you did . . .” I said, pointing the gun at the floor. It suddenly seemed heavy.
“Uh-huh . . .” she said, feigning embarrassment. The shameless hussy.
Now we all avoided each other’s eyes. What an unpleasant development. The person I’d called for help turned out to be my assailant’s lover.
We both turned to look at Sarp, who was speaking.
“Would one of you mind pulling up my underwear?”
İpekten sprang to his side, seizing the opportunity to plant a small kiss just where his waistband snapped into place.
“İpekten! Really!”
“Oh, come on, he’s a good kid, actually.”
She was standing right next to him, one of the guns in her hand. It was like one of those scenes where the heroine switches sides, goes over to the forces of evil.
“But he broke into my house. Assault and battery with a deadly weapon,” I protested, getting a firmer grip on my gun and waving it about a bit. “And he won’t even tell me who put him up to it.”
İpekten took two steps in my direction, glancing now and again at me, then back at Sarp. Nothing’s worse than doubting an old friend. But once you’ve got a man in the picture, friendship goes out the window. She made up her mind.
“Who hired you? You’ll tell us, won’t you?” she said to him.
“Don’t be stupid!” Sarp muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“What kind of an answer is that?” asked İpekten, running her fingers through his hair. It wasn’t a good sign, but it was still too early to take action. “Talking like that to me of all people. And in front of my best friend, no less . . . Well, I won’t stand for it!”
“You just don’t get it!” shouted Sarp. “You’re a couple of clueless shitheads!”
“Look, lion boy, watch who you’re calling ‘shithead.’ When I blow my top, I blow it big time. I’ll shit in your mouth, I will. I’ll wipe that sneer right off your face. That tackle you’re so proud of won’t do you any good when I get through with it. Do I make myself clear?”
She dug the gun into Sarp’s crotch and opened the safety with a click chillingly audible to us all.
This was getting interesting.
Sarp had no intention of talking. Even worse, he was insolent about it. A crooked smile on his face, he even threatened us with a long list of likely retributions.
We had no choice but to wrap more tape around his ankles and turn our attention to the mute.
“If you don’t talk, we’ll torture you,” said İpekten.
She was serious. Even I believed her.
Eyes wide with fright, the mute stared at us.
Of course, meddlesome Sarp did all he could to discourage him.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“None of your business. It’s not like you’re going to get married.”
Sarp seemed to think that a formal introduction inevitably leads to nuptials. It was the second time tonight he’d said that. Either he had an extremely limited vocabulary and utter lack of imagination, or he was obsessed with the wedding ceremony.
“Sorry, İpekten,” I said, giving Sarp a good kick to the ribs. He’d begun to irritate me.
“Look, shake your head if you have something to say!”
İpekten was kneeling next to the mute.
“If you write a single word, you’re dead. No one’ll be able to save your ass. You can count on it!”
Clearly, Sarp hadn’t been satisfied with a single kick. And İpekten wasn’t helping me reprimand him.
Then she motioned with her head for me to follow her. The two of us went off to the kitchen, shutting the door behind us.
“I’ve got a plan,” she whispered.
It was simple. First, we put them in separate rooms. We also had to muzzle Sarp. He was quite the chatty Cathy. And he’d gone as far as calling us “a couple of stupid fags.” I have zero tolerance for the word “stupid.”
We filled a hypodermic needle with the saline solution I use to clean the colored lenses I sometimes wear.
Brandishing the needle, İpekten went up to Sarp.
“It’s truth serum, honey. Rohypnol. Once we inject you with this, you’ll be singing like there’s no tomorrow. We’ll find out even more than we’d care to,” she said, holding the needle in front of his nose.
The lens solution would, of course, have no physiological effect of any kind, but as a placebo we might get results. Anyway, it wasn’t entirely unscientific and certainly worth a try. We’d try it out on both Sarp and the mute. It would be enough that they believed us.
“Where should we stick it in?” I asked.
“Where would it hurt most?”
“Down there, I suppose . . .” I fairly cackled.
Sarp was trembling. The cords in his neck had come out and his eyes had grown into dinner plates. I stifled a giggle.
“Pull down his pants. I’ll do it,” said İpekten.
Sarp struggled to move, but failed. We’d made a tidy little package out of him, nicely gagged and bound. I managed to get his trousers and underwear down and grabbed his hips so he couldn’t move.
“Look here,” said İpekten, “if you shake like that the tip of the needle will break off in your dick. So lie still, darling. Or talk . . .”
He was a big, strong boy, our Sarp. A regular commando. But when the needle pricked his privates he was out cold. I could have roused him with cold water but decided a good slap would work just as well.
“Open your eyes, you big lug!” I shouted. “We hav
en’t even done it yet! You’ll miss the show!”
I could only guess at the curses and threats building up inside him, but his mouth was taped shut. Those liquid eyes were petrified, glassy. It seemed we were finally getting through.
“I’m asking you for the last time,” said İpekten, giving his pee-pee a poke with the needle. “Are you ready to talk?”
Sarp nodded.
I took great delight in tearing the tape off his mouth, once again uprooting mustache and beard hair in the process. His eyes flashed fire.
Gritting his teeth, he gave us our name.
“Nimet Hanım.”
And he passed out again.
Chapter 33
The wife of our newly departed loan shark, Faruk Hanoğlu, came from an old family of good stock and enjoyed a reputation as a traditional lady of impeccably conservative credentials. Her name was none other than Nimet Hanoğlu! Life’s full of surprises, and this one was a real doozy. Gracious wife and mother Nimet Hanoğlu had sent a pair of thugs after me. There I was, hard at work salvaging my own reputation and the good name of her husband, and she’d arranged for a couple of shantytown roughs to break into my flat! Great favors are so often repaid with ingratitude.
It was now morning. I had things to do, places to go, people to meet—and two thugs bound and gagged on my bedroom floor. I felt like a busy executive with no time to pick his teeth.
Full of energy, I took a shower, shaved quickly (twice), and applied a light coat of makeup. Meanwhile, İpekten sat in front of the TV with an enormous cup of milky coffee, a gun, and a can of pepper spray, watching a Queer as Folk episode she’d selected from my extensive DVD collection.
Sarp and the mute had been dragged out of the way but were still in plain view. Sarp hadn’t yet regained consciousness. The mute was still trembling.
The day was sunny and my spirits high. I decided on pastels. I was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting to the bottom of this murder case. Slipping into the sweetest little beige pantsuit, I knotted a pink and yellow Hermès scarf just above the Mao collar, around which I draped a faux gold chain that hung nearly to my waist. The seventies had sprung to life. With a wide-brimmed hat I would be the spitting image of Faye Dunaway in the original 1968 version of The Thomas Crown Affair. A hint of Chanel No. 5 and I was set to go.
Every time I pick up a bottle of Chanel I think of the magnificently icy demeanor of Catherine Deneuve in that old ad, then I remember Marilyn Monroe replying “two drops of Chanel No. 5” when asked what she wore in bed.
I suddenly felt like Monroe, Deneuve, Dunaway, and Audrey all rolled into one. It was a bit unsettling. Such a rare cocktail of beauty and elegance could prove overly potent. I decided to remove the hat.
“Hey hubby, why’d you ditch that tray on your head?”
“Ayol, İpekten, just keep watching your DVD. There are some real cuties in it,” I said.
“I can’t concentrate. I’m keeping an eye on them . . .”
With her big toe, she pointed to Sarp and the mute.
I’d have a look at Cihad2000’s e-mail when I got back home. I was determined to get into the safe-deposit box the moment the bank opened.
Under İpekten’s hawklike eye, I checked my pocket any number of times to ensure that I’d remembered the key to the box. She didn’t say a word, just watched. There are times when a steely eye is far more unsettling than a river of well-chosen words.
I cautioned İpekten, making her promise to keep the door bolted and not to let in any strangers until I got back.
“Don’t worry, hubby,” she called out after I’d closed the door behind me, deviant smile no doubt in place.
I’d been so excited I’d forgotten to call a taxi. I’d have to walk down to the main street and hail one.
Volkan’s safe-deposit box was at a huge bank branch in Şişli. It was always packed. I’d been there a few times before and went straight to the assistant manager. I realized now that despite my best intentions I was a bit overdressed, but I had enough faith in my Chanel No. 5 to take a seat right across from her.
Full cheeked and under the mistaken impression that minimal makeup and unkempt hair would make her look younger, she smiled at me expectantly. In dignified, ladylike tones I explained my business, adding that I was in something of a hurry.
“Just a moment, madam,” she said.
I’d expected her to ask for ID, but she dialed a number instead. The other party must have answered immediately.
“The guest we’ve been expecting has arrived,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I thought to myself. Expected guest? Me? Who was expecting me? I’d found out about the key just the day before. Crazy Okan wouldn’t have dared to tell anyone. He couldn’t have. It was impossible.
I must have gone white as sheet, and hoped I’d applied enough makeup to conceal it. I held my breath and waited. Or was I simply unable to breathe? In a word, I froze. I ran through every worst-case scenario, but still couldn’t imagine who had been the recipient of that phone call.
The assistant manager continued smiling at me sweetly. I studied her eyes and expression. No curiosity, excitement, or concern . . . Nothing. She faced me wearing the same pleasant mask of a few moments earlier.
Soon, in would walk the general manager, chairman of the board, or worse, and I would be discreetly led away. The police might even come. Or agents from MIT, the National Intelligence Agency. Flanked and handcuffed, I’d be asked for my name, the male name I’d been given at birth. I’d be thoroughly disgraced. Audrey Hepburn would abandon me in disgust, never to return.
Perhaps I could fight back? That depended on who came to confront me. I wouldn’t hesitate to resist ordinary bank guards . . . But the police, MIT?
I could run away right now, make it out to the pavement in record time. If anyone tried to stop me, and someone surely would, I’d fight for dear life: aikido, Thai boxing, a flurry of desperate punches, kicks, and slaps.
My brain was working, but my body had frozen. I couldn’t move a finger. Not a finger! I tried . . . I tried to move the hand I’d placed on the desk. Nothing. There was no response to the signals my brain was sending. I was petrified. Or paralyzed, perhaps.
I couldn’t hear anything, not a sound. The clocks had frozen; time stood still. Surely no one could remain motionless and not breathing for such a long time. But I was doing just that. The woman sitting opposite me wasn’t breathing either.
The telephone was ringing, ringing endlessly. Why was no one picking up?
I tested myself to see if I could remember Selçuk’s phone number. I could. If worst came to worst, I could rely on him again. Anyway, it wasn’t like they’d lock me up or torture me just for being in possession of a key.
“Please follow me, madam,” she said as she stood up. Her silk shirt and designer scarf confirmed her position as assistant manager.
She walked round the desk, stopping directly in front of me.
I followed her out of the door. I seemed to have forgotten how to walk like a lady, had adopted the springy lope my big brother taught me when I was a boy. The manager’s office seemed miles away. We walked forever. The other customers all stopped and stared, eyes filled with fear, curiosity, surprise, and even a little pity.
The general manager’s office was suitably spacious and decorated in cool, modern colors. There were no policemen or bodyguards. I relaxed, breathing normally. But I was convinced that my face was waxen.
Rising from behind his desk, the general manager came over to shake my hand. He must have had a background as a bank inspector. Chin thrust forward, he was overbearing, and the hand he reached out was held higher than necessary.
“Would you be the decedent’s next of kin?” he asked, obviously more out of a sense of duty than of genuine interest or sympathy.
“Uh, no,” I said. “I’m a friend . . .”
“As you no doubt realize, an application form for the release of safe-deposit box contents must be completed
by an executor, the attorney for the estate, or the decedent’s next of kin . . .”
He looked at me as though he were unraveling all the secrets of the universe for my benefit.
“You must also realize that here we face a highly unusual situation. The key holder of the box did not die as a result of what we would normally deem . . . natural causes.”
“So?” I asked.
“However, if you can prove that you are an executor or next of kin, we might be able to make special arrangements. Otherwise, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”
The beaming assistant shut her eyes and nodded her approval.
“Furthermore, we’re aware that a criminal investigation is currently underway.”
“Well then, the police should come and have a look. Wouldn’t you agree?” I asked.
“Unless you possess documentation demonstrating your relationship . . .”
“I don’t,” I said. “I wasn’t his wife or anything like that.”
“Yes, we can see that” was his dry response.
Normally I would have been mortified, but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less.
“So then,” I said, “you have, of course, informed the police?”
“Not yet . . .”
“Why not?” I persisted. “As far as I understand, the police are to be notified immediately in these circumstances.”
“There are certain . . . sensitivities involved,” he continued, carefully choosing his words. “We make every effort, whatever the circumstances, to protect the interests of our customers . . .”
“Hmmm,” I said. I raised my left eyebrow as high as it could go. “But I’ve got the key.”
“I’m afraid that’s irrelevant.”
The cheery assistant was there to rubberstamp her boss’s every remark. Once again, she shut her eyes and nodded affirmation. She probably had a limited set of facial expressions, smiles, and head movements, each of them appropriate to a particular situation.
We eyed one another. I looked them up and down; they did the same to me. All three of us were perfectly calm. We were still in the early stages of sizing up and assessing.
The Gigolo Murder Page 20