The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  I glanced over at Mehmet Sebil. The look he gave me was a masculine version of Sofya’s. That is, I didn’t mistake the pursed lips for a kiss blown in my direction. Sebil seemed to have grown somewhat slovenly—sluggish, even. Either that or I hadn’t noticed it before.

  I did as they wished. I was quiet. The menacing atmosphere seemed to have worked its spell on me, as well.

  Frosty continued staring into space, apparently deep in thought. I, too, began thinking. Who knew the unsavory ways the girls I had arranged for Sebil had been used for blackmail purposes? Fortunately, most of them must have been blissfully unaware. Otherwise, I’d have heard about it by now. Never again would I send him one.

  The thinking process completed, he spoke:

  “We will evaluate what you’ve told us.”

  When Sofya immediately rose to her feet, I understood that we had been ordered to leave. I got up as well.

  “As for you, watch your step. Stop popping up from under every stone. Just so you know, you got off easy this time. But your file is getting fatter with each passing day. Decide whose side you’re on. We’ll contact you if necessary.”

  For the second time that day, I was being instructed not to get involved. First, Süreyya Eronat had politely suggested as much, now this ox was openly threatening me.

  “Sofya will keep you informed,” he said.

  I had learned not to shake his hand, and ignored Mehmet Sebil. I mutely followed Sofya, who quickly strode toward the door.

  As Sparkly Eyes rose to open the door for us, the dictatorial voice of our antisocial host called after us:

  “Who’s in the car?”

  We both froze. He must have seen Hasan.

  “Why did you bring him?”

  “We came here straight from the funeral. He’s reliable, sir,” said Sofya. “A close friend.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t let it happen again!”

  I decided that one day I would laugh at the sight of Sofya, wind completely gone from her sails, as she quailed and cowered in the presence of overpowering authority.

  The second we were outside I asked, “Who’s the ox?”

  “Shhh . . .” hissed Sofya.

  We didn’t talk all the way back to the car.

  Chapter 33

  My spirits were low indeed when I got home. Even back in the car, while listening to Sofya, I’d decided to block out all she said. I wanted to flee, to be somewhere far from her reach, in another country, to assume a completely new identity and take up residence in Shangri-la or Panama.

  But it seemed like the best thing to do was to follow the instructions that I’d received from two sources today: forget what had happened and stay out of it. I had solved the mystery of Buse’s murder, and that was enough.

  Satı Hanım was still hard at work cleaning.

  “Welcome, beyefendi,” she greeted me.

  “Sir” strolled in wearing a short skirt. He wore a tray of a hat on his head. I asked if anyone had called.

  “I didn’t answer the phone, sir. There were some calls; they left massages,” she said. “You’ll have to listen.”

  “That’s ‘message,’ not ‘massage,’ ” I corrected her as I went into my bedroom.

  I’d begun to perspire. I removed my dark dress before it became stained with sweat. A cool shower would be nice. If I stayed in long enough, I might even find my mind and soul becoming as cleansed as my body. But first I would listen to the messages.

  Hasan was the first caller. He was suggesting that we go to the funeral together if I hadn’t already left. I’d deal with him later. We needed to talk. His behavior had been atrocious, especially considering his ability to look me straight in the eye the entire time. He was immature and far too eager to get mixed up in everything. I was sure he wasn’t a bad person, but he was definitely a bit too green, and far too nosy. On top of all this, he even claimed he wasn’t gay. No, Hasan was difficult to pin down or place. And what was all that prancing about with his ass exposed supposed to mean? Just thinking about it infuriated me.

  Ali had left two messages, one after the other. In the first, he confirmed having received the envelope from the courier. He hadn’t yet looked at it, and had not been treated to the sight of John Pruitt. The second message informed me that Wish & Fire had called and was interested in our proposal. As always when discussing the prospect of money, his voice was all blooming roses and fluttering butterfly wings.

  The next message was total silence. After that came one impossible to make out. It was a male voice, calling from a noisy place on a cell phone with a weak signal. I decided it was a fan. I didn’t recognize the voice, but judging from the odd comprehensible word we had once enjoyed intimate relations. I silently prayed Satı hadn’t heard this one.

  Then Kenan called. He said he had tried to leave a message and apologized for the noise. This time, the message he left was clear as a bell. He desired me, and told me so in the most graphic terms. Satı would have turned red as a beet if she had heard what he said.

  Last of all was another nontalker. The phone must have been ringing the entire two hours I was gone.

  “Satı Hanım, cut up the watermelon in the kitchen, would you? I’ll be in the shower. Put a few slices in the freezer so it gets nice and cold by the time I get out,” I instructed, heading for the bathroom.

  The watermelon was ready. Satı was up to her usual tricks. When I’m at home, she draws her work out, meticulously dusting bric-a-brac she’d normally just ignore. I don’t consider myself to be overly fastidious, but a clean house is my natural right. I suspect she sometimes does no more than iron a couple of shirts.

  What I really needed was for her to sort out the accumulated magazines, cluttered CDs, and tangled cords and cables in the office. Oh, and wipe the keyboard. I mentioned what I had in mind. When I said “cable” she interrupted:

  “But I’m afraid. Electric shocks and all . . .” she said. “Getting electrocuted on a summer day like this!”

  Would it be any more pleasant on a winter day?

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “Everything will be all right. We’ll unplug them. Straighten them out and then I’ll handle it.”

  “All right, then,” she agreed. “If you’d like, I’ll even connect the cables myself. Should I braid them for you?”

  No, I really didn’t see the need for braided computer cables.

  “Get it done, then we’ll see.”

  As she went into the office she called out, “Come and unplug everything so I can clean.”

  You’d have thought she’d never used a vacuum cleaner, iron, or food processor. I did as she asked. She disappeared under the desk, where she attacked the tangle of cords and cables. She even disconnected the keyboard. I told her to wipe it with a damp cloth, just a drop of detergent and not too wet.

  I began sorting through the backlog of magazines and reading a bit, intending to do so until Satı finished her work and left. She wouldn’t stay much longer. It was her habit to leave at four. And that’s what she did.

  “Would you like me to do anything else?” she asked, having already changed into her street clothes.

  After she left I checked the keyboard. It was virtually dripping. That was one way of getting the message across that such tasks were not to be assigned in the future. We were no strangers to each other. I knew her ways. I placed the keyboard upside down on a sunny windowsill, cursing Satı the whole time. If it didn’t work when it dried out I’d have to buy a new one. Though that one would at least be clean.

  She hadn’t braided the cables, but had tied them with a thick red bow. It looked ridiculous. I’d leave it like that for a while.

  I needed a nap before going out to the club. If Kenan called again, I’d consider his offer.

  I had barely stretched out when the doorbell rang. The apparent link between my getting into bed and the ringing of the bell had started to get on my nerves. I rushed to the door anyway, on the chance that it was Kenan.

>   Crushing disappointment! Standing before me was Hüseyin, his face a wreck. I’d intended to give him a good scolding, but the sight of him stopped me cold. It wasn’t difficult to guess what had happened. I invited him in.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Your gang did it.” He looked at me plaintively, like a homeless kitten.

  “And just who exactly is in ‘my gang’?”

  “You know, the ones who are trying to get whatever it is you’re hiding. They took the envelope. When they couldn’t figure out what it was, they beat me up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “When they realized it wasn’t what they were after, they let me go. At first I thought they were going to kill me. They turned out to be merciful.”

  “Did you go to the police?” I asked.

  “What would the police do? I’m a taxi driver. Have you forgotten? If I was lucky enough to get a sympathetic cop he’d listen, say he was sorry, and send me on my way.”

  Hüseyin was the second person that day who had trouble speaking to me. Sofya had managed to mask the worst of the damage to her face. Hüseyin hadn’t used any makeup.

  “I’ve been getting thrashed for two days. There’s not a single spot that doesn’t ache.”

  I apologized again.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said.

  “I still feel responsible for all this,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “I was an idiot. I’m the one who was after you. When I heard it was your package, I jumped at the chance to deliver it. Someone else from the stand was going to take it. I wanted to be able to stop by and tell you I’d dropped it off. I was itching for it.”

  My inner Florence Nightingale was awakened. His eyebrow was split open. I moved closer to him, lightly touching the wound. The blood had dried.

  “Did you go to the doctor, at least?”

  “No, I came straight to you.”

  The traces of iodine on his face told another story. He understood my look of disbelief.

  “I went to the pharmacy. They dressed it.”

  “Good,” I said. I withdrew my hand, pausing. Florence would have to wait.

  He was looking deep into my eyes. Like a little kitten saying, Take me.

  “It’s my back that’s bad; my face is nothing,” he said.

  He pulled off his shirt. They really had beat him good. I ran my hand along his back.

  “Don’t touch it! It hurts like hell,” he said.

  “You need a good alcohol dressing,” I said.

  “Would you mind doing it? I can’t reach . . .” he said.

  There wasn’t a trace of a grin. Florence Nightingale was back with a vengeance.

  “So what did you do with Müjde?” I asked.

  I shouldn’t have asked. But I couldn’t help it.

  “Nothing,” he said. “What else? I just wanted to make you jealous. That’s all. When you left the club I went home.”

  It was nice to believe him. A smile must have spread across my face. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have dared to kiss me. Despite the swollen lip, he was a good kisser. I have to admit I enjoyed it. I responded. He then pulled me into his arms. A hand found a nipple, which hardened at his touch. As I caressed him, he gasped slightly and gritted his teeth from the pain. Then he let out a deep sigh. I withdrew my hand. He retrieved it in his, drawing it down to a more suitable spot.

  It was early evening, but things were heating up.

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks for everything Mr. Ros, Barba Ros . . .