Cüneyt was not manning his customary spot at the door when I arrived. His absence must be due to the chilly weather or an unusually slow night at the club. I pressed the tiny doorbell and waited. After peering out through the grate, Cüneyt quickly opened the door. I handed him my cape, which was as thick as a blanket. After looking me up and down, and obviously unsure what to say, he fixed his eyes onto my face. I tossed him a hard look and entered.
It was nearly empty inside. Just two or three customers to a full ensemble of girls. Bored, they’d flocked to the dance floor. When Çişe saw me she hastily bundled her free-floating breasts back into her blouse. She’s perfectly aware I won’t permit such displays. Zero tolerance.
Şükrü winked as he gave me my virgin Mary. I asked how he was. He responded with a smile. After handling Hasan I’d return to his side prepared to listen sympathetically to his troubles. Ay! I’d been transformed into the very picture of a morally upright, considerate proprietress.
Hasan trotted to my side with short, quick steps. He’d been thrashed.
“What happened to you?” I asked. “What’s all this?”
“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll tell you about it.”
I left my drink on the bar and Hasan and I climbed up to our infamous storage room/office. He shut the door behind us the second we entered.
I cocked an eyebrow in an attempt to look sufficiently inquisitive.
“I was beaten,” he said. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“Oh? Why? Who did it?”
“In my neighborhood. I was beaten up in my own neighborhood. You know the grocer on the corner of my street . . . He’s got a son. Turan . . . Just back from military service. A good-looking guy.”
I was preparing to spring to his defense when he silenced me.
“He may not be your type, but he’s a real drink of water. In a Tom Cruise sort of way . . .”
“Did you hit on him?” I asked.
What really annoyed me was that after running around for all this time with his jeans hanging off his hips, butt crack exposed for all to see, flirting and carrying on with everyone in his path, steadfastly rejecting various admirers of all ages and both sexes, he’d decided to hit on some grocer’s boy. Just to initiate him, and uncertain of his tastes, I’d even gone so far as to offer to arrange a tryst with one of our girls or our gay-loving clients. He’d refused them all.
“That’s not it,” he said. “I liked him, is all. I started doing my shopping during his shift, having it home delivered. You know me, I’m the friendly sort. I warm to people straight off . . . I joke around . . . I liked him. We’d chat now and then. That’s it.”
“So that’s why you got beat up?”
“No!” he said. “He has friends in the neighborhood. Real scum. They hang out in front of the grocer’s, talking and poking fun at everyone passing.”
“Did they beat you up?”
“Yes, they did it. I’d just turned the corner one evening on the way home when they cornered me over by the rubbish bins. They jumped me.”
“But why? Just because you were flirting with the grocer’s boy?”
“It’s a bit complicated,” he said. “It was only later that I found out why they did it. It seems Turan has a thing for the girl on the floor below me, Şengül. He’d been hitting on her for a while. I joke around with Şengül sometimes. We lend each other books. Borrow things from each other when we run out. Once in a while, on Sundays, we go to the cinema. We’re friends. We live in the same building and all that . . . Anyway, it seems Turan got jealous. He’s got a thing for the girl, thinks he owns her. Sometimes I’d joke around with him about Şengül. He thought I was making fun of him for being jealous. So he decides that not only am I after his girl, I’m rubbing his nose in it. Then he sends his friends after me . . .”
“How’d you find all this out?”
“When Şengül saw them beating me up she came running out to help. She’s the one who told me about Turan. He’d been sending her love letters, you see . . .”
“So they let you go when she turned up?”
“No, that’s not what happened. They just ignored her and kept hitting and kicking me. That is, until Şengül, at the top of her lungs, so she was sure they’d hear her over the racket we were making, screamed out that I was a faggot, that there’d never been anything between us and never would be . . . When she finished, you could have heard a pin drop. They all froze, gaping at me. Then one of them shouted ‘faggot’ and they started beating me up again.”
I’d heard enough. I was feeling sick to my stomach. I wanted to rush over and flatten the grocery first, then the entire district.
“How’d you get away?”
“When they’d had enough they left. I’d passed out . . . Şengül dragged me home and dressed my wounds . . .”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “My condolences. Have you told the girls?”
“Of course not. They’d run off and raid my neighborhood . . . It wasn’t easy finding that flat!”
“Fine,” I said flatly.
I hadn’t yet decided what to do.
“What would you like me to do?” I asked.
“You’ve got friends in the squad. Arrange a good thumping. A night in jail, even . . .”
“There’s no need to get the police involved,” I said. “I can handle the whole lot on my own. How many are there?”
“Four or five, tops.”
“If necessary, I’ll go around with Shrewish Pamir or a couple of the other girls . . .”
“That’s no good,” he said. “This thing’ll turn into a blood feud. And what about my standing in the neighborhood? As you know, I’m not gay. It’d just give them another reason to call me a faggot.”
“So what can you do, file for slander?”
“Not only would the police make it official,” he insisted. “They’d realize I have friends in high places . . .”
“And were you to be rescued by transvestites, just think what it’d do to your reputation, right?”
His face, already distorted by swelling, became deformed with astonishment.
“How can you say that? I’ve never been ashamed of you or the girls. Never.”
Yes, behind the windowless walls of the club, at home or in our own specially designated spaces, there was no problem, no cause for embarrassment; still, I knew, deep down, that I was right to take offense. Even worse, so did he.
Chapter 24
When I woke up the next morning, at an hour ordinary people refer to as “the afternoon,” I felt like a sharp blade had pierced my forehead, entering just below my right eyebrow. I pulled back the thick curtains; bright winter sunshine filled the room. A wonderfully crisp day, the kind that brings joy and energy! I sighed contentedly. Pity about the headache. Such things simply should not be on a day like this.
On the way to the bathroom I ignored the flashing light of my answering machine. Whoever had called at such an early hour deserved to wait. First I’d enjoy a long shower and the sumptuous breakfast offerings laid in by Ponpon. Followed by a couple of Advil, if required. The brilliant blue sky urged me to find an outdoor spot to warm my bones and to spend the rest of the day lazing about.
Wrapping myself in a robe, I began fixing breakfast. Flitting across the floor on tiptoe amused me, as well as minimized contact with the freezing tiles. As the bread toasted, I switched on one of those determinedly dispassionate but in fact utterly partisan twenty-four-hour news channels. One simply must remain abreast of current affairs!
Only watched bread toasts just right, so I turned up the volume and returned to the kitchen. I listened to the latest on the financial markets: international stock market closings; dollar, euro, and yen parity; and fluctuations in oil and gold prices. The information did nothing for my pounding headache, but still I listened. I am not the sort to surrender to pain.
When each slice had begun to turn a golden brown, I flipped them over: I like my bread toasted on both sides. The market repo
rts, so avidly followed by the good people of our nation, ended, and the regular news began.
I couldn’t believe my ears. The female presenter failed to repress the thrill in her voice as she announced: “Leading financial consultant Faruk Hanoğlu has been killed in an unfortunate accident.”
I rushed back out to the living room. The news account was accompanied by stock footage of Faruk Bey, tensely holding forth on the consequences of foreign direct investment. Looking more unpleasant than ever in a tailored suit that did nothing for her complexion, the presenter droned on in a small window in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen: Faruk Bey was fifty-three years old, had been educated abroad, and had served as a financial consultant for many years. He had recently been arrested for murder but was subsequently cleared of all charges.
No additional information about the “unfortunate accident” was provided.
The smell of burning bread had me racing back to the kitchen. It had happened again. I’d turned my back for a moment and the last two slices of bread had turned to charcoal. Shortly after my visit, during which I’d been outrageously mistreated, Faruk Hanoğlu had died. And how? An “unfortunate accident.” Whatever that meant!
The stabbing pain just above my right eye suddenly spread to my entire forehead. I’d scared myself: Surely I couldn’t have called down a curse on the late Faruk . . . Or could I have? No, I was being silly.
I didn’t know whether to blame the headache on the news of Faruk’s death, on an empty stomach, or on having spent such a long night in the stuffy smokiness of the club. I definitely needed an Advil. After downing half a glass of cold milk to coat my stomach, I took two. I would remain seated until I felt better.
I tore to shreds a now stale slice of cake made by Ponpon, reduced the shreds to crumbs, and unenthusiastically chewed as much as I could as I sat there in the kitchen. The tiles were freezing, I was getting cold feet, and things were getting more complicated. I couldn’t find rhyme or reason for the seemingly random series of events in which I was now hopelessly entangled.
First I needed more details about the “unfortunate accident.” I nearly called Selçuk, my police connection, but thought better of it. Pestering him every time I had a question, particularly when it had nothing to do with his job at the force, didn’t seem fair. I decided against it. Then I remembered Olcay. These days he was working for that insipid twenty-four-hour news channel. Once upon a time we had enjoyed intimate relations for an entire weekend. His career had since taken off.
I dialed his number at the network and was connected almost immediately. So, he was not yet important enough to warrant five layers of screening.
I told him who I was.
“What’s up, girl? Where you been?” he began. It is a manner of speaking I detest. I even considered hanging up on the spot.
“Oh, I’m around. And fine,” was my terse response. “What have you been up to? How are you?”
“I’m around too, my rose . . . So you’re alright then?”
He hadn’t changed a bit. Even that single weekend had been overlong.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said. “I missed the cause of death in the piece you just ran on Faruk Hanoğlu. I knew him, you see, and I can’t believe this happened!”
“My condolences,” he said, a note of respect creeping into his voice for a moment. “Just a sec, babe. I’ll find out for you.” Put on hold, I was forced to listen to whatever the channel was broadcasting. The experience was not unlike one of those brainwashing scenes in cold war films.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. There are no more details. The police reported an ‘accidental death.’ That’s it. I guess no one’s investigating further . . .”
“I see . . .” I said.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but the guy was a real piece of shit. I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but people really do die as they live. Divine retribution and all that. Still, my condolences, since you knew him personally. Afraid I’ve got to go. We’re real busy here.”
“Okay. Thanks, anyway. Bye.”
Boorish Olcay had been as tactless as ever. Not only had he failed to provide any worthwhile information, he’d aggravated both me and my headache. One more performance like that, and he’d be deleted from my address book. That would serve him right!
Once again, Selçuk was my last, best hope. I called him up and explained. He listened patiently until I was finished, promising to do what he could. I’d get him a nice gift and visit him at home.
Chapter 25
Waiting inspires me to total inaction. When forced to wait, I tend to do nothing, and if I do act in any way, it always comes to naught. But I had to find a way to keep busy until Selçuk got back to me.
I called Ponpon. There was no answer. Either she was still asleep or she wasn’t taking calls. I insistently left two messages, one after another. Perhaps the blinking light of my answering machine meant she’d done the same. I went and listened.
Addressing me, in order, were Ali, Pamir, Hüseyin, Pamir, and Kemal Barutçu (alias Cihad2000), intermingled with the annoying electronic signals of those who had hung up without leaving a message. Pamir said she had spent two days at home waiting for me to get back to her. In the first message, she wondered if I was alright. In the second one she said she was sick of sitting at home and asked me to give her immediate instructions for whatever it was I wanted her to do. In light of Cihad2000’s quite understandable panic attack, I had thought it best to postpone a session with Pamir. Naturally, I’d then forgotten to inform her.
Cihad2000’s message was short and snappy: “Call me.” The authoritative tone in his assured voice indicated that he’d overcome his feelings of paranoia.
The phone rang. It was Selçuk.
Sounding worried and dispensing with the formalities, he got straight to the point. “You’re in deep shit this time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You paid a little house call on that loan shark Faruk last night . . .”
So, our police actually were hard at work on the case.
“So what?” I said. I then coughed a few times, to account for my strangled voice. The sudden lump in my throat could be put down to all that stale cake, I reassured mysef. Surely there was no cause for alarm?
“I’d suggest you lay low for a while. That is, you’d better not pursue this any further . . . Just a bit of friendly advice.”
“So what if I did go to Faruk Hanoğlu’s house?” I protested, my voice cracking this time. “He has dozens of visitors every day.”
“Look,” said Selçuk, “the circumstances of his death are somewhat complicated. That’s all I’ve been able to find out. Best not go digging for now. Keep your nose clean for a while. Let things die down a bit.”
“Well, now you’ve made me even more curious. At least tell me how he died.”
“You know what our guys are like. We talk about everything, especially in a routine case like this one. But this time it’s different. They’re all as tight-lipped as can be. Something’s going on, and I haven’t been able to get to the bottom of it.”
“How’d you find out I’d visited Faruk? Who told you?”
“Stop pestering me! They were watching footage from the security camera in the garden. Just as I walked into the room you appeared on-screen. That’s how!”
“Are you suggesting that just because the camera picked me up I should consider myself to be a suspect? Even though we don’t even know how the guy died?”
“Listen up, friend,” he said. “Just after I entered the room they switched off the tape. Or, maybe the camera had been disengaged at that point. All I know is that two high-ranking commissioners and three policemen wouldn’t be involved if this were a routine death. I mean, the guy wasn’t even a minister or anything! They’re onto something. It’s not normal! Now do you get it?”
“I’m trying, but failing to manage it, I’m afraid . . .” I said.
�
�You’re quite the manager. So manage this, too. If anything turns up I’ll call you. Alright?”
I managed a halfhearted “alright” before hanging up.
The murder of a third-rate gigolo was now connected to a high-profile homicide, and I was being sucked in deeper and deeper. Faruk Hanoğlu, the number-one suspect, had been killed in an “accident” the cause of which the police were hiding. As someone who had visited the late Faruk just before his untimely death, I found myself a suspect. I had no idea why I was under suspicion, but Selçuk had strongly implied that I was in trouble.
As I pondered various courses of action, I found myself resorting to the vulgar format so beloved of TV game shows. I really must shake off this obsession with presenting alternatives in multiple-choice form. I thought I was over it, but here I go again:(a) I could drop everything and let the dice fall where they may. Whatever happens, happens. If the situation is as serious as Selçuk suggests, the police might even pay me a visit sometime soon.
(b) I could stubbornly persist in my sleuthing and risk finding myself in even bigger trouble. “Trouble comes in threes,” or so they say. Was I prepared for a real disaster?
(c) Considering I was likely to be accused of murder in any case, what was the harm in bringing down a few people with me? Nothing had made any sense so far. Perhaps I could rub out a few of my enemies without anyone noticing. If nothing else, the world would be a better place, and I’d have considerably more elbow room.
(d) I could take a long holiday, all on my own. A place far away; a place no one would ever think of. Months later, when everything had blown over, I’d resurface. That is, a slightly more relaxed, tanned, healthier, and happier version of me would fly back to Istanbul and resume my life.
I weighed up my choices, juggling their order and carefully considering each alternative. It did no good.
The Gigolo Murder Page 15
