The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  He was taller than me. I was impressed by the way he stood, the way he carried himself. He had a narrow face but broad shoulders. I had no doubt that his stomach was flat and his bottom tight and well-rounded. Even standing there in a shapeless school uniform his wiry body promised so much. He swallowed, his well-developed Adam’s apple rising and falling. His fingers were long and tapered. How could I resist?

  “I’m not interested in the others,” I said. “Just you.”

  He relaxed, relieved that I’d caved in so soon. He was now more confident than ever.

  “But it’d be rude to my friends,” he said.

  I have no tolerance for being treated like the neighborhood whore. But the boy was a dish, and he’d gotten my blood flowing. Fortune had smiled on me, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day horny and full of regret. I decided to flatter him.

  “What do you mean ‘rude’? You’re the only one I like. And you’re the only one I want to be with.”

  “They’re good guys. And one of them’s hung like you wouldn’t believe. Like in those dirty movies. Come on, it won’t take long. They’re dying to be with you. They’re only kids! Don’t leave them high and dry . . . Please, do what you can . . .”

  “Stop insisting. It’s not going to happen!”

  “What’s the big deal? If there’s someone you don’t like you don’t have to do anything. No one’s going to push you. Just suck on it, or let them rub against you. Some of them have no experience. They just about lost it when they saw you.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you are experienced?”

  He smiled wickedly.

  “You don’t know me yet,” he said. “I’ve been together lots of times.”

  “Where and how?”

  “At the cinema . . . at the hamam . . . with some friends from the beer house. I also met a couple of people on the Internet . . .”

  I believed him. He clearly knew what he was doing. In fact, he was even a bit jaded.

  “Which cinemas and hamam?” I asked, just to confirm.

  He told me. He knew all the ones in Beyoğlu and Aksaray. Considering where he apparently spent much of his free time, it was no wonder he was still in high school.

  He interpreted my silence as a refusal. He had no intention of letting me get away so easily.

  “We could go to the hamam if you’re afraid to go to a strange flat . . .”

  I wasn’t afraid of anything. At any sign of the slightest misbehavior, the theft of my wallet, request for money, or discourtesy . . . I’d beat them all up. I’d leave the five of them in a bruised heap and simply proceed with my business.

  It was funny, but I couldn’t even remember the other boys; I suppose I’d been too busy looking at the dark one. As a public service, in the name of furthering the education of callow youth, helping them to gain experience and become better acquainted with their own bodies, I wasn’t particularly averse to “getting men off,” as the girls put it. And depending on the degree of pleasure this selfless service gave me, I would most likely invite the dark one to visit me one day.

  “Go on, introduce us,” I said.

  A warm glow induced by the pride of seeing a potentially tricky mission accomplished with flying colors spread across the boy’s face. The day was growing cooler, positively bracing. When the other boys saw us approaching they stopped talking and shifted positions in a valiant effort to appear taller. All eyes were on me. I took my time as I walked over to meet them, looking into their eyes, those eyes widening with desire, as I approached their table, savoring the attention and carrying myself as regally as Queen Elizabeth herself.

  We were formally introduced.

  I politely refused their offers of cola, tea, coffee, and toast.

  The house was, in fact, nearby. And I ended up staying there far longer than I’d anticipated.

  Chapter 20

  Unexpected developments were forever forcing me to alter my best-laid plans. By the time I got back to Ali, that is, to his office, it was getting dark. I felt completely smoothed out, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. Yes, I was a bit spent, but that sensation of sweet limpness was just what I needed. Tension gone, I had a completely new take on myself, on life, and even on the dark night pressing in on the inhabitants of blessed Istanbul.

  My mind was blissfully clear as I flew into the office on winged feet. Soulless Figen was getting ready to leave. Unused to seeing me at this hour, she didn’t know what to say. In any case, she was off to meet with her fiancé and in a big hurry. Her makeup had been freshened, with predictably dire results. It would be well worth my while to take the poor girl aside one day and give her some tips.

  After requesting that, before she left for the day, Figen bring in some coffee for me and Ali, I burst into his office like a bat out of hell.

  “Where on earth have you been? First you get me all wound up on the phone, then you disappear until evening!”

  “Well, I’m here now,” I said. “I think we need to have a serious talk. Why not have a seat and wait for our coffee. Then we’ll get started.”

  “You’re making me even more curious. I hope you’re not getting me worked up for nothing, abi . . .”

  I was, of course, the “big brother” to whom he referred. And he was older than me. Deciding to take him to task later, I let it pass for the moment.

  “Just wait till you hear.”

  “Come on then!” he said. “Tell me!”

  Eager to run off to lover boy, Figen was unusually swift in serving the coffee.

  “I’ll be leaving now if there’s nothing else you need.”

  “That’ll be all, dear,” I said, with meaningful emphasis on the word “dear.”

  As Figen rushed out the door, Ali had already taken his first swallow of coffee.

  “Oh, and I really have to tell you. I don’t know what it is, but whatever you’ve done, you look great. Just bursting with life. Ever since you walked through the door, I’ve been unable to keep my eyes off you.”

  “That’s my little secret,” I purred. “A secret formula.”

  “Well, whatever it is, abi, let me in on the secret. I’m green with envy.”

  “You wouldn’t dare try it.” I smiled knowingly. And that was the truth. For as long as I’d known Ali, and we’d been working together for years, I hadn’t sensed, heard, or seen the faintest evidence of any interest in such things.

  He knew me well enough to appreciate what my smile implied. And didn’t insist I divulge any details. Ali simply returned my knowing smile and the subject was closed.

  “Well then, tell me what’s going on. What were you talking about on the phone?”

  I gave him a quick rundown. Taking small sips from his mug, his eyes were serious and he didn’t interrupt even once.

  “I know the job came from an intermediary, but we’ve got to find out who the real client was,” I concluded. “It’s critical. Considering that they’ve used not only us but also Cihad2000, they can’t be all that clean. And they seem to have taken every precaution.”

  Now it was my turn to sip coffee.

  “I did what you said and began investigating. Not wanting to raise any suspicions, I asked just a few casual questions. So much for extracting a name or two; I wasn’t able to get the smallest clue.”

  “And who is this intermediary?”

  “A lawyer,” he said. “The lawyer of a friend of mine.”

  Haluk Pekerdem wasn’t necessarily the lawyer he was talking about, of course. And it certainly wasn’t normal for the mere mention of the word “lawyer” to make me think of him. Had I become the victim of a one-sided crush, turned into the type of person I mercilessly tease about their so-called platonic relationships?

  “So you don’t really know him or her?”

  “I do, actually. We have friends in common. That’s how we met.”

  His halting speech patterns could only mean he was holding something back.

  “And?”

  “Unles
s you drop that significant stare, I’ve got nothing else to add,” he warned.

  I’d be the first to admit that mockery could be read in my eyes. Tilting back my head as though to finish the last swallow of coffee, I hid my face behind my mug.

  “We went out a few times, that’s all,” he said.

  “So it’s a woman . . .”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “And when she has work for you, she still calls,” I continued. “How nice . . .”

  “We’re still on social terms. We have friends in common. There just wasn’t any chemistry. Still, whenever we run into each other, and we do from time to time, we exchange greetings, chat.”

  I’ve never understood that. It’s something I could never do. Particularly once we’ve been to bed. If my intention is friendship, there’s no sex; if what I’m after is sex, and it doesn’t work out, I make no effort to remain friends.

  “You still haven’t told me who it is,” I prodded. “Is it top secret?”

  “No, more like it’s private.”

  “Look,” I said, “among the names we stumbled across is that of the shady loan shark Faruk Hanoğlu, who was accused of murder just two days ago. I don’t know where all of this is leading us. But no one, at least no one sensible, suddenly decides to have Telekom’s records scanned. And even if, for whatever reason, someone did, they wouldn’t cough up a small fortune to hire two hackers to do it. Start thinking clearly, send for your common sense, wherever it’s gone, and get over your misguided idea of what is and isn’t ‘private’!”

  The look he gave me was thoughtful, or perhaps he was just focused on retrieving his common sense. And back it came, reclaiming its rightful place.

  “Sibel Yıldırım,” he exhaled deeply. “She works for a large law firm. She’s a good girl. Not the sort to get mixed up in something like this.”

  “This has got nothing to do with ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Nothing whatsoever.”

  “It could only be a client of hers. She hasn’t got that kind of money.”

  “I didn’t say she was directly responsible. We’ve got to find out on whose behalf she was acting.”

  “I’ll give her another call,” Ali said, talking to himself. “It may be a good idea to bring round a bottle of wine. In a relaxed environment, face-to-face, just the two of us . . . it’s no good talking on the phone . . .”

  “Well, she’s your friend, and you doubtless know the most effective way of dealing with her . . .”

  Ali may have appeared to be ignoring me, but he caught my little dig. Our eyes met. I smiled wickedly, the all-knowing big brother or sister.

  “Alright then!” he burst out. “I’ll suck it up again and sacrifice for the team!”

  “Oh, I see! A real sacrifice, was it? And all for a little profit!”

  “She’s not much to look at, but she’s sharp as a tack. Well brought up, cultured . . .”

  “Sounds like the perfect business prospect. Is that how they reeled you in?”

  “You could say so, I guess.”

  He’d managed to overcome the genuine sense of embarrassment real gentlemen feel when talking about their conquests. We’d strayed into new territory, and he seemed relieved that we’d broached the sensitive subject for the first time ever.

  “Try to create an opportunity to thank her. Without delay. I think you should call her now.”

  “You mean right this minute?”

  “Yes, of course.” I said. “And I’d like to come, too, unless you think I’d be a distraction.”

  We arranged to meet at the rooftop bar of the former Sheraton, a place I hadn’t visited or even thought of for many years, ever since it had changed hands and become the Ceylan Otel. When I remembered the stunning view, I could have kicked myself for not having paid a visit earlier.

  Less than an hour remained before our rendezvous. Evening traffic is always horrendous, and we’d have to leave almost immediately. I wouldn’t be able to stop at home for a shower and change of clothes, so I phoned Ponpon, just to ensure that she wouldn’t have a panic attack at my absence. She must have been busy with God knows what, for she didn’t pick up. In soothing tones, I left a message informing her I would be late, and that there was no need to worry.

  Ali and I got into his two-seat sports car: a dark red Aston Martin DB5 like the one he’d fallen in love with as a child watching a James Bond film. At around the same time Ali was transfixed by fast cars, I would have been having a huge crush on Sean Connery, or enviously admiring a Bond girl. I remembered the gadget-laden vehicles, but I couldn’t recollect an Aston Martin like the one in which I was now sitting. I suppose that’s what sets boys apart from girls. Ali had been ordering spare parts and working on his car for years, but it still wasn’t to his liking. Doubled over in our seats, and likely to end up in each other’s laps at any moment, we proceeded through heavy traffic toward Taksim. As always, Ali exuded Calvin Klein One.

  “Forgive me for saying so,” he said, screwing up his face, “but you smell a bit funny.”

  I wasn’t pleased by the unexpected comment.

  “Bad?” I asked, instinctively opening the window.

  “Not bad, really, just . . . different,” he said. “Sharp and sour. Not an odor I’d associate with you. It’s familiar, but strange. Anyway, you don’t have to open the window in this weather. I’ve got some aftershave in my bag, if you like.”

  When I finally realized what was behind the smell, and remembered how much fun I’d had, my body was once again flooded with sweet warmth. That mysterious odor is, of course, familiar to all men. Swollen with a contradictory mixture of pride and shame, I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the ride. Ali whistled along to a CD. He only whistles when he’s tense.

  By the time we made it to Taksim, it was time for our meeting.

  Stepping out of the elevator into the roof bar, we took a couple of chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was late enough for me to order a Virgin Mary; Ali requested a neat whiskey, specifying that it not be J&B. Like anyone claiming to know his whiskey, he has only contempt for that particular brand. The panoramic view was just as breathtaking as I’d remembered: to one side, the green valley of Maçka and the Bosphorus Bridge brought to life by a glittering red and white stream of flowing traffic; to the other side, beyond the rooftops of Taksim Square and the Golden Horn, the domes and minarets of the old city. We seemed to be hovering over Taksim, the heart of the city, as it pulsed with a rhythmic surge of cars and people.

  The sound of approaching footsteps reached my ears even before the drinks had arrived. To be more precise, coming up behind me was a woman totally inept at walking in high heels, as evidenced by the clacking racket she made. A woman not possessed of grace or elegance. Someone who now had a black mark against her.

  Ali, who was facing the door, rose to his feet to greet the stomper. My feminine side paid no mind to the men’s clothing I was wearing, and I remained seated and graciously ladylike. Had I been riled by the approach of a rival? I gracefully swiveled my head slightly to one side.

  The woman approaching our table wore what she took to be fashionably pink sunglasses, but I still recognized her. Yes, it was the lawyer from dear Haluk’s office, the nosy creature who’d peeked in at me when I was in the waiting room. The phony smile on my lips froze. I had no idea what to do.

  A thousand images ran through my mind. A chain reaction of interconnected conspiracy theories, each more dire than the last! I hadn’t played chess for years, but my skill at forward strategic planning was undiminished.

  She had never seen me in a “civilian” getup. The person she’d met was a girl, dressed to the nines and formidable. Sitting here before her now was an unshaven man in a V-neck sweater and black jeans, the occasional flourished hand a dead giveaway only to the astute eye of an experienced observer. It was unlikely, but still possible, that she would recognize me. But so what if she did? There was no reason to panic. She was the one with a problem, and in much deeper than
me. The only thing was, she might not have realized it yet.

  We were introduced and she took a seat. As she pretended to chat nonchalantly with Ali, she kept an eye trained on my every move and gesture, trying to place me. It was, of course, quite an undertaking: Even if she thought she recognized me, she couldn’t openly ask me if I was “she.” I was determined not to make her task any easier. Every once in a while, I’d join in the conversation with a subtle riposte or jibe, then fix her with a compassionate stare, looking directly into her eyes and effortlessly winding her up. For some reason I was finding it impossible to warm to our Sibel. Nor did I have any intention of doing so. Isn’t it enough that she spends every day in close proximity to the divine Haluk?

  Chapter 21

  As I made my way home, shivering, I pieced together a clearer picture of what we were up against. Lawyer Sibel had been tight-lipped, careful not to give the game away. Her very presence spoke volumes, however. No longer able to endure the little piece of theater going on, I’d gotten down to brass tacks.

  “It’s only natural that you wish to conceal the identity of your client. I appreciate that,” I’d said. “But considering that the name of Faruk Hanoğlu, and even that of ”—here I was extemporizing—“Haluk Pekerdem, was listed in the Telekom records we accessed and destroyed, it may well be in your best interests to be a bit more . . . forthcoming.”

  I had threatened her openly. Her professional lawyer’s mask firmly in place, she’d foolishly attempted to stare me down. Seconds later she’d glanced away and said, “I can’t say I fully comprehend your exact meaning here. Still, I’ll give your words the consideration they’re due.”

  That was enough for me. The dots had been connected. Faruk Hanoğlu had sought to destroy any phone records that could implicate him in the murder. And he’d used his brother-in-law to do it. The total extent of the crooked and devious manipulations involving the phone records was anyone’s guess.

  The question running through my mind that night as I walked past the Atatürk Cultural Center in Taksim Square was “why?” All that money and effort had been spent in the name of protection, or, more accurately, concealment. Why? What exactly were they trying to hide? What was behind a seemingly routine murder that had brought together two completely different groups of people?