The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “I see,” I said.

  He must have detected the hurt feelings in my voice.

  “Still, thank you for your offer,” he said. “It was most thoughtful of you to call.”

  There wasn’t a hint of emotion behind his words. Spoken like a professional. No gratitude, no pleasure at hearing my voice.

  Wishing him a good night, I prepared to hang up, then added, “Greetings to your wife” at the last second.

  Haluk Pekerdem was a tough nut. If I played my cards right, he would be mine. But I’d have to work for it. And I couldn’t blame him. The person he’d met had not been me. He’d met a badly dressed tranny in face paint. Me at my most clumsy and insecure. He was right not to have anything to do with that person. I accepted, when I put himself in his shoes, that I would have behaved exactly the same way. But I also had to admit that the person sitting at the table that night, smiling nervously, fabric hanging off her emaciated frame, was none other than me.

  Dressed to the nines, I would visit him at the first opportunity! He was going to meet the real me.

  Chapter 7

  I was asleep before Ponpon returned, and up before she’d risen. Taking my morning cup of coffee, I sat in front of the computer. Hundreds of e-mails had accumulated during my depression and I’d keep busy sorting them until Ponpon woke up and we had breakfast together.

  Off went all the spam to the recycle bin, unopened. Ali had forwarded every work-related e-mail to me. Some included a line or two asking how I was; to others he’d attached a joke of some kind. But most were simply forwarded. It would take at least a few days to go over them all. I sent them to a folder for later inspection.

  Cihad2000, that is, Kemal Barutçu, had increased the frequency and intensity of the messages he sent me. The more fervent, the more likely they were to contain elements of Islamic radicalism. The latest was full of prayers, scripture, and condemnation. I replied with a brief e-mail explaining my silence. The last thing I wanted was to antagonize Kemal. He’s one of the few computer geeks who faze me. At first I’d felt pity for the Stephen Hawking- like figure in the wheelchair, but the minute we’d moved on to the subject of sex—and that happened in no time—he was audacious to the extreme.

  From the four corners of the globe hundreds of my fellow hackers, their true identities and faces unknown to me, had showered me with new codes, hacking suggestions, and the latest on gaining access to proprietary systems. I answered the shorter messages and filed away those I thought would be of interest, naturally deleting the identity of the senders.

  Selçuk and Ayla Tayanç had sent me New Year’s greetings. The three of us had grown up together in the same neighborhood. We’d played doctor. Up until we reached puberty, Selçuk would suck my lips till they swelled up; I’d do the same to Ayla. But then he fixed on Ayla exclusively and later married her. Our friendship had remained fast all these years, but no mention was ever made of my swollen lips. Actually, that was just as well. Selçuk was now pot-bellied and going bald. They had a pair of pimply sons, and wrote to me that it was with the older one’s assistance and his new computer that they’d managed to send an e-mail. And they’d attached a family photograph. Selçuk was still a big shot at the police department. I often turned to him for help and was constantly indebted.

  I was more pleased than usual to hear from Selçuk. I’d be indebted to him once again, this time over Volkan Sarıdoğan, whose demise obsessed me only because of my dream man, Haluk Pekerdem. I replied to the letter, attaching two photographs: one of me as a man and one as an all-out vamp. Beneath the pair of pictures I wrote “before” and “after.” Just as I was about to hit the reply button, I remembered that the letter had come from the son. There was no need to confuse the dear boy, or undermine the morality of that little family. I had no way of knowing if he’d yet come face-to-face with the facts of life. Detaching the pictures, I sent just the message.

  It was high time Ponpon got out of bed and fixed us breakfast. The handfuls of vitamins had whetted my appetite. It didn’t matter how many crackers, cookies, and biscuits I ate, I never felt full. I put on a CD, planning to turn up the volume every five minutes. Dalida’s rhythmic “Salma ya Salama” reverberated throughout the flat. The rain had stopped, and for the second morning in a row the sun shone brightly.

  Before I’d had to ratchet up the sound another notch, Ponpon appeared, sleepy-eyed but with a cheery “good morning,” singing out each syllable.

  As Dalida finished the second chorus, Ponpon, wrapped tightly in a kimono, back straight and face free of makeup, began heading for the bathroom with tiny geisha steps, the floorboards groaning under her delicately placed feet.

  While she took a shower, I began making phone calls. First I called Selçuk. It took a little while before they put me through, but Ponpon’s morning rituals would last for some time to come.

  “There’s the fugitive!” boomed Selçuk. “Where have you been? Unless you’re hot on some trail, you never think to call. Who knows what you’ve been up to, or where.”

  “I haven’t been up to a thing. I’ve been here at home. I’ve just been going through a bad patch.”

  “So that’s it! Just tell me what I can do for you. Whatever you need, just spell it out.”

  The sincerity in his voice, his eagerness to help me whenever I called, touched me deeply. But that doesn’t mean tears came to my eyes.

  “I was going through a bad patch in my personal life. It’s all past now; I’m trying to get it together,” I began. “I just wanted to sort out my thoughts and feelings, spend some time alone.”

  “But now you’re okay?” he said hesitantly, unsure what else to say. “It happens sometimes. To all of us.”

  “How true,” I concurred. “Anyway, the worst is behind me.”

  “Good . . . good,” he said. “I’m glad.”

  “I got your New Year’s message,” I said, changing the subject.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. Now that the boys are using the Internet, the wife and I are learning it, too.”

  “They must be growing up so fast. They’re nearly full-grown men by now.”

  “You should come and see them. Çetin is thirteen and Metin just turned ten. Really, come by for dinner one night. You’ll have a chance to see the boys and we can talk about old times.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to have me over?” I asked. “Don’t you worry I may set a bad example for the boys? You never know, I may even fancy one of them.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” he laughed.

  I had to laugh, too.

  “There’s something I’d like to ask you,” I said.

  “I should have known,” he responded. “Here we go again . . .”

  I filled Selçuk in on the Volkan Sarıdoğan murder, and gave him some background on Faruk Hanoğlu.

  “I know it’s not your job, but I’d appreciate any information you could get,” I said. “I’m quite intrigued by the whole thing.”

  “One thing I do know is that nobody likes the guy. He’s a real shady character,” said Selçuk. “We also know about his loansharking. A troublemaker if ever there was one. I’m sure we’ve got a fat folder on him. Doesn’t have many friends.”

  “They say there’s no proof linking him to the murder.”

  “That’s nonsense. If there wasn’t any evidence, they’d find some.”

  I shivered. He was right. The police would surely have “found” some incriminating piece of evidence.

  “Put your feelers out, if you would.”

  “If it’ll help get you out of that depression, I’m happy to,” Selçuk promised.

  “And,” I continued, “about that murdered fellow . . .”

  “Will do. His family, his friends. I’ll gather what I can and have it sent to you.”

  “Thank you; you’re a real friend.”

  “An underappreciated real friend.”

  We said good-bye and hung up.

  I had time for one more phon
e call before Ponpon took over the house. I called Beyza. Though sleepy, she still answered all of my questions.

  “I’m looking for some more information about that Volkan of yours,” I began.

  “Actually, he’s a real piece of shit.”

  “That’s not what you said yesterday.”

  “Well, he was great in the sack. That much I’ll give him. But as a human being, he was worse than useless. The things he did! Not just to me . . . to everyone . . . See what I mean . . . But I . . . How can I put this: He had a tainted heart. Always up to some evil. Things that helped no one but himself . . . Actually, it wasn’t him who thought it all up, it was that brother-in-law of his. He was the real piece of shit.”

  “Tell me a little about him. I’m intrigued,” I urged her.

  “What more can I say,” Beyza snapped. “He’s a minibus driver, too. But a real asshole. You know the type, not a toilet or sewer he hasn’t jumped in. If you ask me, he’s a cesspool of a person himself! So he takes a good look at Volkan: young, handsome, full of airs. He pulls his strings, pushes his buttons, and gets him right where he wants him. Not that it was difficult. Volkan was devoted to his brother-in-law, saw him as a real father figure and all that crap. Seems he was raised by this brother-in-law, learned all about life from him and so on . . . You know, the classic story. Volkan kowtowed to his every whim. But the guy’s a real piece of shit . . . I did mention that, didn’t I? . . . A total sleazeball and greedy as all hell . . . He starts working on Volkan, softening him up, brainwashing him . . . ‘That one’s good for some cash, sleep with that one, too’ . . . He’s the one who corrupted the boy. And I bet he’s responsible for what happened to him! It’s the brother-in-law they should have killed.”

  “How can I find him?”

  “What for! Haven’t you been listening to me? What good would it do?”

  “I just might uncover something,” I said. “There’s something funny about the whole business, but I haven’t put my finger on it yet.”

  “It’s clear as day. He wanted too much money, or threatened someone or something. It would be just like him. Someone wasn’t taking it and that was that . . .”

  “I’d still like to talk to him.”

  “You know best, sweetie, but don’t say I didn’t tell you. He’s not the talking type. I think he works the Bosphorus minibus routes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Completely slipped my mind. He’s a big guy with a mustache . . . an unshaven, badly dressed piece of shit. Zeki or Zekai or something was the name.”

  “If he hasn’t cleaned up, he shouldn’t be much trouble to find,” I said, half joking.

  “Cut the wisecracking,” snarled Beyza. “If you find him, let me know. I got a word or two of my own for him. The way he ruined poor Volkan . . . And be careful. He’s a real piece of shit.”

  Ponpon emerged from the bathroom singing her lungs out.

  Chapter 8

  Finding Ziya Göktaş, Volkan’s brother-in-law, was a piece of cake. When I phoned the association of minibus drivers they were more helpful than I’d expected. They didn’t know why I was calling, but clearly assumed from my questions that I was a reporter. The secretary did her best to be polite, addressing me as “sir” and answering my questions one by one, a real nightingale.

  The association condemned the attacks on its drivers. This wasn’t the first one. In fact, as a form of protest and to enlighten the general public, they intended to turn out in force at the funeral. It was hoped that taxi drivers, too, would show up and swell their numbers.

  The entire community was in mourning. They blamed the state for not providing security. If they weren’t safe, what difference did it make if they had insurance and health care? But they paid their taxes like everyone else. I was informed at length of the deep distress of the family, how brother Okan Sarıdoğan and brother-in-law Ziya Göktaş had the support and solidarity not only of the minibus drivers on the Sariyer line, but of all the drivers across Istanbul. So I was able to confirm what line the brother-in-law worked on, and learned that there was a brother: Okan. An interview with him could be helpful. The most useful tidbits often pop out of the least promising mouths.

  I had just one problem to consider: In what guise should I pay a call? As a foxy lady journalist, or as a slightly camp correspondent? A short skirt surely would get me more information, but I would be a helpless sheep among a horny pack of wolves. I decided to go as a man.

  I didn’t tell Ponpon what I was up to. She was liable to revert to her role of guardian angel and refuse to leave my side. I dressed and left, taking with me as accessories a huge old camera and my minirecorder.

  The old minibus stop in Taksim was gone, and I had no idea where they’d moved it to. I was sorry I hadn’t thought to ask the association. It would be difficult to find in the hubbub of Beşsiktaş. I hailed the next cab, and the driver’s face lit up when I told him to take me to Sariyer. He even stopped slouching in anticipation of the fare. I seized the opportunity to tell him to switch off the harrowing music. I simply will not tolerate anguished songs drumming the message into my subconscious that life is full of pain and sorrow. Particularly when I’m just emerging from a deep depression.

  I’d intended to use the long drive to the other end of the Bosphorus as an opportunity to do some serious thinking. But as we passed Maslak and traveled through forested land, I couldn’t help reflecting instead on how few and far between green spaces are in Istanbul today, and how people like me, who live in the heart of the city and rarely travel farther than a kilometer from their homes, seldom have the opportunity to see the few trees that are left.

  The final stop was full of minibuses. They were parked in a long line, as they always are, except for rush hour. Everyone had heard about Volkan, and they all had different theories concerning his end. Most subscribed to the belief that he had been robbed. A few ventured the possibility of a jealous husband or boyfriend. None mentioned the fact that Volkan had been a gigolo. In fact, they pretended they weren’t even aware of it. After listening to a couple of the drivers I decided they spent too much time watching films on TV. One fact was obvious: a highflier like Faruk Hanoğlu wouldn’t have been caught dead getting into a minibus.

  They graciously supplied me with a glass of tea while they looked for Okan and Ziya. Neither could be found, but I was assured that if I waited, they’d come.

  “Ziya is a total wreck,” confided the older one. “He loved that boy like a son.”

  The virtues of Volkan were listed at length. Such a good heart, so multitalented and ready to help anyone in need; the story of his rise from a boyish fare collector to the owner of a minibus was repeated several times, either by a single voice or as a gruff chorus.

  I sipped the awful tea. My stomach would be skinned from the inside if I drank it, but failure to do so would be a terrible discourtesy. I took tiny sips for the better part of half an hour. As various drivers headed for the road, others replaced them, each doing his bit to contribute to the legend springing up around Saint Volkan. But there was still no sign of the brother-in-law, Ziya, or the brother, Okan.

  I was getting bored. If any of the girls were here they’d be astonished I could get sick of sitting amid so many hairy men. But bored I was. It must have been the waiting.

  Finally, I thanked them and stood up. A man in his forties rose to accompany me. He clearly wished to have a private word. I thought I’d been fairly discreet, but someone had spotted what I was. Yes, that must be it. He threw a friendly arm around my shoulder and walked with me as far as the main road.

  His name was Tuncer.

  “Don’t let on that you heard it from me, but Okan, Volkan, and Ziya—the three of them—are all trouble. Don’t believe anything the others said. They think they’re showing solidarity. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  Interesting.

  “What do you mean?” I prompted.

  “I’m heading home, to Kurtuluş,” he said. “If you lik
e, I can drop you off somewhere.”

  “Thank you so much,” I accepted.

  It was too good to be true.

  Between deep drags on a cigarette, Tuncer talked the entire length of the trip. The brand he smoked and his choice of words pinned him as an old left-winger.

  “Okan’s a substance abuser,” he began. “Totally useless.”

  “An alcoholic?” I asked.

  “At first he was, now he smokes hash. Actually, he takes whatever he can get his hands on. Then he runs out of money, of course. And he can’t work. Not all spaced-out. He had a couple of accidents, nothing serious. Realized he couldn’t go on. Couldn’t keep driving. He started leasing his minibus by the day. Started sitting in the coffeehouse all day, waiting to collect his cut. Once he got his money, he’d go and buy booze, hash, grass.”

  “No one mentioned that.”

  “They’d all clam up if you asked about it. That’s our way. All in the name of solidarity.”

  “So why are you telling me?”

  “So that someone knows the truth, knows the truth so they can write about it,” he said. “But like I said, I didn’t tell you.”

  “I understand.”

  We drove for a while in silence. Traffic grew worse near Maslak; we slowed to a crawl.

  “Another accident,” Tuncer muttered. “At the sight of an empty road they floor it. And for what! We’ve all got the same gas pedals under our feet.”

  “How true.”

  It was a perfect time to change the subject and calm him down.

  “I know about Okan now,” I said. “What about Volkan and Ziya?”

  “They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Volkan wasn’t anything like what they told you. You’d think he was some kind of angel. Far from it. Those manicured sideburns, tall and fit, full of himself, hitting on anyone in a skirt. He was nothing but trouble.”

  He seemed hesitant to elaborate, unsure of exactly how much I already knew. I cut to the chase.