As he’d opened the door and lightly pushed me in, Ziya had copped a feel of my arm and my shoulder.
“You’re him!” he exclaimed, once he’d closed the door. “I knew it the minute you walked in. Well, I’ve got to admit it. Our boy had good taste.”
There was nowhere to sit but the bed. I didn’t want to sit right next to him and be subjected to more groping, so I headed toward the window, intending to sit at the foot of the bed, as far away from him as possible. I pretended to look outside at the dark courtyard garden, which contained two fruit trees and a pile of junked furniture.
“Volkan and I were real close,” he said. “He showed me some of your poems.”
So that was it! The idiot thought I was Refik Altın, the latest lover Volkan had sponged off of. I decided not to correct him for as long as the mix-up suited my purposes.
“I needed to see you,” I said, “to clear some things up.”
“Come sit next to me,” he coaxed. “Let me give you a hug.”
“Volkan told me all about you,” I said, as I pushed him off. It wasn’t as though Volkan was going to come and contradict anything I said. Ziya changed color.
“Aman!” he exclaimed. “Keep those pretty lips sealed. You hear me?”
I studied him for a moment. I tend to purse my lips while I think. He misunderstood.
“I could eat those beautiful lips,” he leered. What a creep.
“You pulled a knife on him,” I continued.
“That’s a lie!”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You claim to be in love with him, then you pull a knife on him when he leaves you.”
That same villainous look was still plastered on his face as he lewdly looked me up and down. Pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, he lit it.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said. “Burning love! It’d be great if all love affairs were like that . . . such passion . . . lasting for years.”
Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he looked thoughtful.
“Is that what he said?”
I figured flattery would be the best way to get him to talk. “Of course,” I replied. “He told me so much about you.”
After another puff of his cigarette, he paused for a moment. I was watching him. He seemed lost in thought, like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
“That’s right, I loved him,” he said finally. “I’d never met anyone like him, and I haven’t since. Such airs, so beautiful. You wouldn’t know. You should have seen him when he was young. Like an angel. Before his beard grew . . . Before hair grew on his pink and white body. Skin like cream, and he smelled so fresh. And what a fast learner. You know what I mean? Even at that age . . .”
I have never understood pedophilia. It may be because I prefer more mature men, but I just don’t get it. In fact, it’s deeply disturbing.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. A young boy like that . . .”
“He wasn’t that young,” Ziya argued. “When his stepdad came, they gave him to me. He’d finished middle school. He was old enough to come. And he enjoyed it, too. I’m no child molester. You know what I mean?”
So there were apparently alternative definitions of pedophilia.
He must have sensed my discomfort, even disgust.
“In a lot of countries in Europe the age of consent is sixteen,” he pointed out. Had this brute of a man actually bothered to research this?
“What difference does it make?” I countered. “A child is a child!”
“It’s not like that at all. Why won’t you understand me? I mean, what about here in Turkey? Girls of thirteen and fourteen get married off all the time. My dad got married in the village when he was only sixteen or seventeen. He hadn’t even done his military service yet. He went off to the army after I was born. It’s not what you think!”
“I see,” I said, just to put the conversation to an end.
He was lost in the “old days,” and absentmindedly reached under the bed, pulling out a bottle of cheap cognac. He’d obviously been making frequent visits to the bottle all morning long. Taking a swallow, he offered me the bottle.
“It’ll warm you up . . .”
If I intended to get him talking—and I did—I would have to join in. Most of the mouthful I took under his watchful eye went right back into the bottle.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
I nodded, grimacing as though my throat was burning from the cognac.
“He loved me too . . .” he said. He was staring off into the distance again. “I had to keep him to myself, so I went and married his sister. She’s a good person, but she doesn’t know how to be a real woman. All these years, and she still hasn’t learned how to really get me going. She won’t even suck on it . . . But Volkan, he was something else. I’d go straight from his sister’s bed to his. I’d make up excuses, tell her the boy was crying, that I couldn’t sleep. I knocked her up three times just so she’d be too busy to notice. She was too busy nursing and looking after our kids to catch me, even once. Summers I’d send her off to her mother’s, along with the kids . . . And it would be just the two of us. Then we’d get to sleep in the big bed. All night long . . .”
I’d known about their relationship, but hadn’t expected such passion. At the mention of Volkan, his eyes shone and he practically licked his chops.
“Enthralling” was all I said.
“I can tell you’re a poet,” he commented, with not a hint of irony.
“But how did it all start?” I prompted. “Weren’t you afraid? Or wasn’t he?”
“I’ve always had a thing for young guys. When I first saw Volkan I just melted. Like a tall glass of cool water, he was. I took him on as my assistant. I wanted him so bad, I couldn’t look at him. I stopped hanging out with the other fellows at the coffeehouse, and would sit with him in the minibus waiting for my turn to come. Oh, he was interested, too. Interested in just about everything. His dad was dead, his mother living with another man . . . You get the picture? He was all mine . . . Finally, one day, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I drove off with him toward Kilyos, pulled over onto one of those dirt roads. I told him how I felt . . . the way he made me feel . . . then I offered him money, said I’d increase his weekly wage.”
So that’s how Volkan began his career as a gigolo. Gay for pay right from the start. Ziya took another swig from the bottle.
“And did he agree?”
“Did he ever . . . Knew how to drive a bargain even back then . . . And he deserved every penny. I’d do it again. When I think of the pleasure he gave me . . . I’d hand over a hundred times more and no regrets!”
He started crying. I had a lovesick villain on my hands, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. There’s something about a badly dressed ruffian in tears that gets to me. I can’t take it.
I waited for the unhappy spectacle to end. He wept silently, tears streaming, face screwed up in anguish.
“Come, let me give you a hug,” he said.
A shoulder drenched in spit and snot would have been bad enough, but there was the possibility that I’d have to deal with even worse. If he crossed a line, I could always incapacitate him with a few aikido moves, but that was hardly appropriate behavior in a house of mourning. As a man, I found him revolting; but as the abandoned partner in a tragic and marginal love story, I was sorry for him nonetheless. Fighting competing feelings of pity and disgust, and a not inconsequential but grudging sense of respect, I gently sat down next to him on the bed. He took me in his hairy arms and continued crying—on my shoulder, just as I’d feared.
“I gave him everything I had . . . Did everything I could for him . . . I closed my ears to what they said behind my back. They called me a child molester, a boy bugger, a pervert. You name it, they said it. But I just ignored them. He was worth it! He was never treated like a minibus fare collector. He was like a little prince. The sultan of my soul . . . And when he grew up, I kept on loving him as much as ever . . . even mo
re . . . and when he came of age, thinking he might have needs, I took him by the hand to a brothel . . . nothing happened . . . but the whores were amazed by his tool . . . You know, he was something else down there . . . a feast for the eye and the hand.”
Actually, I didn’t know, I’d never seen it. But Dump Truck Beyza’s account had left us all drooling. I nodded, and even managed a rather convincing sigh.
“So why did you two separate?”
“I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t, couldn’t . . . He left me. There was something strange about him when he came back from his military service. He was distant. Something had come between us, something cold. I wondered what had happened to him, tried to get him to talk. I mean, he was a stunner, and just that whopping big thing of his was enough to get him more than enough attention . . . But no, nothing had happened, or at least he didn’t tell me anything . . . I offered to take him on holiday . . . He wanted to go to Bodrum. I’d never been. Okay, I said. I rented out the minibus to another driver . . . And we went . . . He changed completely. The way he sat, stood up, dressed . . . When we walked together, he’d keep a few steps ahead or hang back, pretend to be looking at the shop windows. Like he was ashamed of me. Like he didn’t want to be seen with me.”
He swilled down another mouthful of cognac, the searing liquid no doubt the perfect accompaniment to his burning emotions. He paused for a moment, eyes shut, jaw clenched. Then, as he went on with his story, he seemed lost, hesitant, his voice rising and falling. All the time, as a surrogate Volkan, I was squeezed in a most unpleasant way.
“The ones who know tell me to put it behind me, to forget all about him. How can I forget him? He’s not the kind you forget. Do you think it’s easy? Could you forget him?”
“No,” I murmured, with some feeling. “I’m sure I won’t.”
“He’s unforgettable. Just unforgettable . . . We’ll find you a boy, I said, if that’s what you want . . . or if you’d rather have a preop tranny, we’ll get you one of those . . . I was willing to get him whatever he wanted. We shared women and boys, but we’d always end up in each other’s arms. It was real love! If that’s not love, what is?
“When we came to Istanbul he started talking about living in separate flats. I agreed. We fixed him up with a place . . . All the furniture and trimmings . . . Like a dowry. I went up to my ears in debt to get him the best of everything. Then one day he just changed the lock. He wouldn’t let me in. Can you believe it?”
“You’re kidding,” I exclaimed.
“I couldn’t believe it. It wrecked me something terrible. I waited outside for him, just to have a word or two . . . he wouldn’t give me the time of day! So I sent his sister, but he kicked her out.”
“What about Okan?”
“That was later. Okan was back home with their mother. That’s where the pimp grew up. Volkan hadn’t seen his face for years. But then, for some reason, he found him and brought him to Istanbul. He said something about not letting him be raised by a stepfather. That’s where the trouble started. It was all downhill from there.”
This version of the story was different from what Dump Truck and Catamite Nazmi had suggested earlier.
“It seems Okan is . . . fond of a drink . . .”
“A drink! The boy’s a junkie! Stoned out of his mind half the time . . . Supposedly got hooked back in the village. Claimed his stepdad would put opium in his milk to keep him from bawling. What a load of crap! Well, I’m not buying it. Never did.”
Ziya was off on a bender. And his hands began moving across my body. I ignored them.
“So why’d you pull a knife on him? You haven’t explained that one,” I pumped him.
“It’s like I told you. He wouldn’t let me into his house, our home, the flat I bought and decked out for the two of us to live in. You can imagine how I felt about that. Like I told you . . .”
“I don’t recall your mentioning a knife,” I said. “I suppose I missed that bit.”
He was now openly and unashamedly caressing me.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you?” he leered. “With big bright eyes like that, not a thing . . .”
Seconds earlier he’d been blubbering over the love of his life, Volkan, declaring he’d never forget him. Now he was slobbering all over me.
I gave him a hard push as I rose to my feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “Shame on you, ayol!”
“I could eat that ayol of yours!”
“I’m going,” I said, raising my voice a little.
“Where are you going? Stay a while for a bit of nookie.”
He grabbed me with one arm and clasped his free hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.
“Just a kiss,” he said.
His breath smelled of stale tobacco and cheap cognac. I gave him a little push.
“But I like you,” he said. “You’re a reminder of my Volkan!”
I had no wish to be anyone’s memento. Nor would I be.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I was tempted to admit that I’d never even laid eyes on Volkan, and that I’d come here only to satisfy my curiosity about his family, but I thought better of it. He was emotionally unbalanced as it was, and I didn’t have the heart. I held my tongue.
“Try it one more time and I’m leaving,” I warned him. “Or I’ll yell. Don’t say I didn’t tell you. Everyone will know your little secret.”
“Don’t get so angry, dear. So much rage and grace squeezed into one little package . . .”
The cognac was definitely going to his head.
“You’re drunk.”
“It’s you who’s turned my head. It’d take more than cognac to get me drunk.”
“Think of Volkan!” I scolded in a last-ditch effort.
“But I’m trying to forget him!”
“The police suspect you. You do know that,” I changed the subject. “They know you threatened Volkan, pulled a knife on him. Someone at the minibus stand must have told them.”
“You’re kidding? Which of those troublemakers spilled the beans . . . I’m clean. I swear, I’m clean. The police know that.”
“How’s that?” I asked. “Did you tell the police what happened?”
“There’s no need for that. I pull a knife on someone about once a week. There’s not a guy in the whole apartment building I haven’t pulled a knife on. That’s different, though! I’m not out for blood. Anyone who knows me knows that. If they’re looking for a real scoundrel, why don’t they go talk to that infidel Okan! He’s the parasite who was feeding off my Volkan.”
Again, this is where his story differed from what I’d heard earlier. So Okan and Ziya didn’t get along. And judging from his squalid flat and shabby clothes, it wasn’t Ziya who’d gotten his hands on Volkan’s earnings.
“He worked for a while as a gigolo,” I said. “He told me.”
“For a while?” he snorted. “He was doing it when he was with you, too. You must have been blind with love. Where do you think he got his money? He never wore the same thing twice. He used aftershave. Stuff he paid a fortune for! He bought a brand-new minibus. Brought it to our route, just to spite me. But he knew he wouldn’t be up for it forever . . . knew he wouldn’t be young forever . . . no matter how big his tool, no matter how good in bed . . . he wouldn’t be getting paid for it forever. That’s why he always said he had to put something aside for later.”
I was supposed to look stunned and hurt at this revelation. I duly did. He seized the opportunity to console me with a bear hug.
“Don’t worry. I’m here to comfort you anytime you want,” he said. “I may not be as hung as Volkan, but I’m packing a pretty good one myself.”
When he pulled my hand down to his crouch I let him have it. He was shaken, but smiled.
“Wow! Looks like I’ve got a real wildcat on my hands!”
I’d heard all I needed to. I left him there, rubbing his cheek. There was one more thing left to do this morning while I was in the neighborhoo
d.
Chapter 18
I headed off to Beşiktaş in the first taxi that passed, to the Akdoğan Sokak address of Kemal Barutçu, otherwise known as Cihad2000. The apartment building was every bit as shabby and every bit as redolent of cooking as I’d remembered. I couldn’t help wondering what he spent his money on. He had to be pulling in a tidy sum. But he was still stuck in this run-down building with his mother and overworked, largely absent father. And that meant he was constantly under their supervision and control.
His mother answered the door, the same worn expression on her face.
“Welcome, my son,” she said. “Kemal’s expecting you. He’s a bit uptight today. Come on in . . .”
Showing due respect, I leaned over and kissed her hand. It reeked of onions.
“Go on in. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll make you two some sahlep. I’ve made a fresh batch of poğaca, too. Once they cool you can have some with your tea.”
If Cihad2000 let his mother have her way, he’d be the size of an elephant. It wasn’t like he got any exercise. Actually, as far as I knew he never left his chair in front of the computer.
“I’ve got a wonderful surprise for you,” I cooed as I walked into his room, all ready to tell him about leather-clad Pamir.
“We’re in trouble,” he said.
It seemed we weren’t reading from the same page.
“And I mean big trouble,” he continued gravely. “I’ve been researching since last night. The place we hacked was Türk Telekom. The phone records. If we get caught, we’re really done for. If the police find out—and they’re bound to sooner or later—we’ll have everyone from the National Security Agency to the State Security Council on our backs. We’re in deep shit!”
The Gigolo Murder Page 11
