The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  I searched through some old newspapers to find a photograph of him. He wasn’t particularly media-friendly, and was well known for his scathing indictments of the press. He certainly wasn’t given much coverage in my own favorite paper. After a thorough search, though, I was able to find a photo. I examined it. Just imagining him with one of our girls would be an insult to the dear things.

  Many more names were named in the remainder of the tape. I recognized some, while others were strangers. None of them were particularly dangerous types, as far as I knew. At least half had been the subject of so much gossip there was really nothing to add. Blackmail may have been possible, but a measure as drastic as murder would have been extremely unlikely.

  I couldn’t decide what to do with the tape. The most entertaining alternative was to leak it to the media. But then again, it had reached me through the media, by way of the lady journalist. If they’d failed to recognize how newsworthy it was, that was their problem.

  Another option was to try to get the tape to Süreyya Eronat. That would be dangerous. If I posted it, it would be impossible to trace the sender. There was the risk, however, that they would identify the voice of the lady journalist, and somehow reach me through her. That would be a real mess, like sorting through rice to find a pebble. They’d get me in the end.

  The only other choice was either to destroy the tape or hide it. Which would be preferable? Even if I destroyed it, how could I prove that I did? Let’s say they came after me. Would they believe me? How would I persuade them? As long as the lady journalist kept her mouth shut, no one would know I had a copy. I decided to keep it.

  And now for the bonus question, one that carried no cash prize: Where would I hide it? And once it was hidden, what good would it do me? But that was yet another riddle.

  Chapter 21

  I needed to stop thinking about the tape and get ready for the night. Otherwise I’d be late getting to the club. As always on the weekends, it would be packed—a real circus. I thought about the people I would have to bar at the door.

  The lady journalist, whatever her name was, would not be admitted. I had a ready excuse: women were not allowed on the weekends.

  Ferruh, the husband of Belkıs, the boutique owner, would not be let in if he arrived on his own. I had already made that mistake the previous night. If he had left with one of the girls, Belkıs would have raised hell yet again. And I didn’t appreciate his flirting with me.

  As for the so-called “gays” who only came on weekends when they had had no luck at their own bars, staying until dawn in order to spare the expense of staying at a hotel, they would also not be allowed to pass through my doors. They were the sort who made a great show of friendship when it suited them, but had nothing but the worst insults for us at other times. I will not stand for such class consciousness.

  And the penniless merrymakers, those who nursed a single beer the entire night, would also be barred. On weeknights I tolerated them, but the club was just too full on Friday and Saturday nights. Cüneyt had a special ability for spotting them. A natural-born talent.

  As for the nerve-wracking Sofya—who probably wouldn’t deign to come in any case—she would be politely refused.

  The decrepit actor Ahmet Kuyu regularly beat up his dates so badly they would be out of commission for a week. He was to be barred as well. It would be no trouble to keep him out since he always arrived in a drunken stupor.

  Nalan and Mehtap were two girls who had grown rather too fond of drugs lately, and would not be permitted to enter. I didn’t want any trouble.

  Dumper Beyza had picked a fight with Sırma the previous week, and she was out. The size of the party she arrived with would make no difference.

  Serap’s skinny little lover would be barred. Cüneyt could find a reason to do so. I couldn’t be expected to justify all of my decisions myself.

  Even as I busied myself with the list, my mind was occupied with another gnawing question. Why was it that Buse had revealed so much to the lady journalist in the course of the interview? When she told me she never had, and never would, betray an old lover, what exactly had she meant? It appeared that at the first opportunity she had freely divulged every detail of her adventures with Süreyya Eronat, and to a reporter, no less.

  It just didn’t make sense. I kept turning it over in my head. Yes, she had smoked a joint and downed a few drinks during the interview. That explanation wouldn’t satisfy me, though. Not completely. Buse was no stranger to dope. She had gone from keeping a well-guarded secret for years to singing like a canary. A few tokes wouldn’t create that kind of transformation.

  I ran through some highly unlikely explanations for her suddenly loose tongue. Perhaps the reporter—now, what was her name?—had administered sodium pentothal, some kind of truth serum. No, that was ridiculous. How would she have suspected in advance that a middle-aged transvestite harbored such explosive secrets?

  Then there was the possibility that Buse had formed some sort of romantic attachment to the journalist, that their closeness made it possible for her to confide without fear. That was impossible. Buse was extremely picky when it came to sex with women. Also, there was no indication that the reporter had lesbian tendencies. The fact that she had hit on me meant nothing. After all, it was my male side she was attracted to—I didn’t even have breasts, like Buse. And the reporter seemed completely unfazed by Buse’s death. She hadn’t seemed the slightest bit upset, even considering that Buse was an acquaintance of sorts.

  Another possibility was the opening of old wounds. That is, Süreyya Eronat may have caused her suffering just before the interview. Buse claimed that they had stayed in touch as close friends, and that she would never betray him. But the saying “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” would certainly hold true for Buse, too. The desire for revenge may have surged to the forefront, especially after a drink and a few joints had loosened her tongue. It couldn’t be ruled out. But it didn’t wash when I remembered her ladylike airs the night we talked in my office.

  Finally, the possibility of hypnosis popped into my head. I’d been doing some reading up on the subject recently. At least in theory, hypnosis can induce anyone to say anything. As a plot device, the technique had become fairly common in the crime novels I read. Why couldn’t that be the case in real life, as well? But the obvious question would then be: Who hypnotized her? I couldn’t rule out the possibility that the lady journalist possessed such skills. But why would she have decided to practice her arts on Buse?

  Despite my reservations, I decided to consult a hypnotherapist whose number I have in my phone book. The person in question claims to be the foremost authority on the practice, proclaiming as much in large type on the front and back covers of his books. When we met, he presented me with autographed copies of all three. He’d asked me to help him set up a Web site on hypnosis, and I worked with him for a few weeks. While involved in the project, I would call him every morning, afternoon, and night to ask him how business was going. It is my habit to cultivate close relations with my clients—at least until I have collected my fee. That isn’t to say that I answered his phone calls once our business was concluded.

  I called the hypnotist twice. There was no reply either time. He must not have been at home. I hesitated over whether or not to leave a message, then decided to do so when I recalled how infuriated I am when people hang up without leaving a message on my machine. I would telephone again later if he didn’t return my call.

  I really had to put all thoughts of Buse out of my mind so I could concentrate on getting dressed. While I may not wear an entirely original outfit every single night, I do at least select accessories that help me stand out from the crowd. As the boss, I also felt it was my duty to deserve such an honor, and to set an example for the girls. I am of course beautifully groomed at all times, and expect no less from my employees.

  I take as my main inspiration the film stars of yesteryear. Nowadays, there’s no one worth impersonating, with the possible
exception of Cher and Madonna. But Cher is like a transvestite herself. What’s there to imitate? As for Madonna, she’s taken to cultivating an image of unstudied simplicity, a laid-back look that seems to have been thrown on without a thought. That simply won’t do. Now, back in the days when she sported a bustier . . . that was different. We’d all copy her costumes. These days, we content ourselves with her music. I mean, really, can you imagine one of our girls in a pair of low-slung dungarees and a ten-gallon cowboy hat? Studied showiness is the name of our game.

  I decided to model myself on Audrey Hepburn. Something elegant and understated. While it’s true that I’m not all that subtle, the illusion can be created with the right clothing and makeup. No one would confuse me with the real Audrey, but my source of inspiration is obvious. I have to admit that I learned the finer points of maquillage from Sofya. I have since refined them over the years, and my technique is now superior to hers.

  In the winter, I favor a chic adaptation of the outfit worn by Audrey in Funny Face, the one in the dance scene in the underground club in Paris. A tight black sweater and tapered trousers with a pair of unadorned black loafers. And my hair drawn back into a tight ponytail. Thank God for hair extensions, wigs, and hairpieces! In the summer heat, such a costume would be entirely inappropriate, not to mention uncomfortable. Instead, I opted for a dress similar to the one she wore starring opposite Gary Cooper in Love in the Afternoon. I slipped into a baby-blue collarless, sleeveless frock that extended to just below the knee and had a matching cloth belt. It fit like a dream. In deference to Audrey’s rather bony chest, I decided to forgo my padded bra. Applying liberal amounts of gel, I achieved the desired hairstyle. Around my neck, I flung a fluttery white chiffon scarf. The outfit was completed with a pair of white kid gloves and white loafers. But then again, the gloves may be a bit much. Our girls just wouldn’t get it. They’d think I was trying to hide my hands. I’d have to deal with silly gossip about a breakout of eczema or warts. I took them off and tucked them into my belt. I examined myself approvingly in the full-length mirror: nine points out of a possible ten. An honest judge, I was forced to deduct a full point for wearing daywear at night.

  I rang for a taxi, requesting that Hüseyin not be sent. He wasn’t there in any case. I wondered where he was. What’s the fun in refusing his services if he’s not even aware he’s not wanted?

  As I left the flat I noticed that one of the pictures was slightly askew. It’s a photograph I had taken with RuPaul at Gay Pride Day in London. We see RuPaul as our patron saint. Those who don’t view him that way are quickly encouraged by me to do so.

  As I sorted out the picture frame I was hit by a sense of déjà vu. I recently did the same thing. But where, and when?

  I suddenly remembered: It was at Chubby Cheeks’s, the framed photograph on the living room wall! And in that photograph, her husband was shaking hands with . . . Süreyya Eronat. Damn it!

  Chapter 22

  The club is positively overrun on weekends. There was a huge crowd at the door. I felt a surge of pride when I swept past. However, the pinches and pats I was subjected to as I forced my way through the bodies did nothing to heighten my sense of superiority. As a blond guy reached over to feel me up I caught him, pulling his arm behind his back. A bit more pressure and I could have dislocated his shoulder, but I decided it would be heartless to take such drastic measures. The night was young, after all.

  Hearing the guy’s cries, Cüneyt emerged from the crowd and escorted me to the door.

  “Hello, boss. I see you’re as beautiful as ever.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” I replied. Then I pulled him to one side to recite tonight’s list of undesirables. He leaned forward, listening intently.

  “Which one is Mehtap?” he asked. “The tall one, or the one who always wears a red wig?”

  “What difference does it make?” I snapped. “One’s Nalan, the other’s Mehtap.”

  “I really should be able to tell them apart. Customers appreciate being addressed by name. You know what we always say about customer satisfaction . . .”

  The boy really did make me laugh. He’s absolutely devoted to his work and asked his question in all seriousness, but that sort of solemnity always cracks me up. After all, we’re talking about a third-rate tranny club. Who gives a hoot about our customers?

  “Out of my way!” I said, chuckling. Our boys know that any show of anger on my part is usually a joke.

  “Oh, and before I forget, boss, it seems to be your lucky night. Two men have asked about you separately. I looked them over real good. They seemed like regular, good-looking men, so I let them both in. One arrived only about ten minutes ago. The choice is all yours.”

  Cüneyt concluded with a mischievous wink and held the door open for me. As I entered, he gave me a military salute. He’s quite the comedian.

  The moment I set foot through the door I was swept up in the pulsating dance music. I found myself walking in time to the beat. My frock glowed phosphorescent under the club’s black light. I was, as always, a sight to behold.

  I immediately bumped into Refik Altın, the gay writer. He’s a regular at the club, but usually arrives much later, to pick up the men not interested in the girls. Because he doesn’t charge for his services, he’s a hit at that hour with smashed boys from impoverished neighborhoods. Refik is a bit arrogant and aggressive. Although he doesn’t pay me a commission like the girls do, he spends a lot on drinks and is a big tipper. His latest sensation had him very much in the public eye at the moment: He recently announced, to those who didn’t already know, that he’s a homosexual. On television, as well as in newspaper and magazine interviews, he described in detail the sort of men he likes. The uproar seemed to have given his self-esteem a boost, and he was more arrogant than ever.

  “Ayol, what’s that getup of yours? You look like a young wallflower at a wedding hall, the type who eventually dances with her big sister.”

  As an introductory line, it did not offer much hope for a warm conversation. Being compared to a girlish wallflower the moment I arrived in my Audrey Hepburn finery could have been rather dispiriting. A counterattack was always an option, but I decided it was unnecessary.

  “That’s exactly the effect I was after,” I said, flashing a fake smile. He responded with an equally unconvincing cackle that exposed all his teeth.

  “Aren’t you the comedienne,” he said.

  As I walked past, he grabbed my arm again.

  “Have you found what you’re after?” he asked.

  At first I didn’t understand. He’d stopped laughing. He was completely serious.

  “Buse’s pictures,” he clarified.

  He was still clutching my arm.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Come on, sweetie,” he said. “I know all about it. You don’t need to hide anything from me.”

  What was going on here? How did he know about Buse’s pictures? Was that the reason he had come to the club early tonight?

  “I’m not looking for anything. If I were, I’d have found it.”

  “Cut out the ‘poor dumb thing from a bad neighborhood’ routine,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you. If you find anything, let me know. I’ll help you sell it. I know the market. I’ve got contacts.”

  The filthy bastard! So Refik Altın was also after the pictures, for reasons of his own. I wondered if he knew who they belonged to. But I wasn’t about to mention the name Süreyya Eronat.

  From now on, I’d have to keep an eye on Refik as well.

  “Good luck, abla,” were his parting words.

  I do not appreciate being addressed as “big sister.” And when gays use the expression it’s even worse. The girls can say it as a sign of solidarity, but not people like him!

  Added to my list of possible suspects, along with the innocent-looking Apple Cheeks, whose husband had been photographed with Süreyya Eronat, was that bastard Refik Altın.

  In order to avoid further irritation, I decided to h
ave nothing more to do with him. I headed for the bar to greet the boys and get my drink. Şükrü was busy. He muttered to himself as he prepared a drink, without looking up.

  A cool hand touched my arm. I turned. It was a man in a dark suit. He was fairly young.

  “Good evening,” he said in a dry voice.

  “Good evening,” I responded. I looked him up and down. He must have been one of the two men asking after me. I tried to place his face. No, I didn’t know him. He seemed respectable enough. Other than those cold hands, there was nothing objectionable about him. His hand remained on my arm. That was a good sign.

  His suit was well tailored; his face clean-shaven; his white shirt pressed. His dark tie was fastened snugly. He was well groomed, smelled good, and was taller than me. His greenish blue eyes were a bit small for his face, but went well with his light brown hair. His chin was strong, his neck thick. Although he was no John Pruitt, he was most definitely what is conventionally known as handsome.