I became sidetracked by choice C, and spent quite some time mentally composing a list of the people I’d like to eliminate. Once I got started, names started mushrooming out of control. Acquaintances and complete strangers, people I knew only from TV, newspapers, and magazines, some famous, some not, dozens of names without faces, and faces without names. The list grew and grew, and when I realized that I had no intention of removing a single victim from the lengthening list, that I was incapable of finding a single redeeming quality in any of my condemned souls, I frightened myself. There were so many!
The holiday fantasy was more pleasant. A hot, sunny spot far from the streets of Istanbul . . . No need for layers of clothing, just shorts and a T-shirt. Somewhere I could live on tropical fruit, frolic in the surf, stretch out on the sand, book in hand, sighing at the half-naked men parading past . . .
Visions of a dream holiday relaxed me. I’m only human, after all! I felt myself winding down and loosening up. It was almost as good as being there on the beach. The tension in my muscles, the middle of my forehead, and my temples was easing. I only realized I’d been grinding my teeth when I stopped clenching my jaw. The perfect holiday: sea, sun, shopping, and men. Men marching in front of me, dressed in a kaleidoscope of brightly colored bathing suits, swim trunks, and Speedos—even a few G-strings displaying bronzed apple cheeks . . . Haluk Pekerdem, suddenly materializing in knee-length board shorts. Hey, what was he doing here in my fantasy? I began thinking about Haluk and the spell was over, my holiday finished. “One’s real life is so often the life that one does not lead,” someone once said.
I began murmuring an old dance favorite: “Back to life, back to reality . . .”
Chapter 26
The realities of life demanded that I call Cihad2000. I complied.
“What’s going on?” he roared excitedly. “You start digging around for information about some guy and now he’s dead. Boy have you got some explaining to do.”
First I’d been named a suspect and now I was apparently being openly accused of murder. That was going too far.
“How am I supposed to know?” I snapped.
“We both know you’ve been poking around. I’m sure you’re not telling me everything. You’re hiding something. Even worse, you’re getting me mixed up in your dirty work.”
“Believe me, I don’t even know how he died. I found out about it on TV, same as you.”
“You’d better listen in on some phone calls then. All hell broke loose. Everyone who’s had dealings with that loan shark is in a panic. The lines are crackling. You’d break out in cold sores if you heard some of the names being mentioned.”
“You don’t mean you eavesdrop on phone conversations, too?”
I really hadn’t expected that.
“If I need to, yes,” he said. “How do you think I manage to rustle up so much business?”
If Money-counter Ali ever heard about this he’d never pick up a phone again. So that was how Cihad2000 managed to steal so much of our work.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“I was thinking,” I said.
“Therefore you are!”
If it weren’t for his silly sense of humor, Cihad2000 would be unbearable. He always catches me by surprise. I even laugh.
“Stop laughing!” he shouted. “The situation’s serious. Never mind that I’m laughing, too. Now that he’s dead, those phone records we destroyed will become even more important. The police and everyone else will be hunting for clues. And where’s the first place they’ll look? The phone records. And what will they find? Surprise! Gone. Deleted. How did that happen? And guess who’s responsible?”
“Us,” I responded automatically.
“Bravo!”
I hadn’t thought about that. I’d already felt as though I was being drawn into a complicated maelstrom of events outside my control. I didn’t even want to consider the implications of this new information.
“Well then, were you able to find anything among the bits you managed to copy?”
“Who do you think I was listening in on? Did you think I was picking phone numbers at random? That would have been a waste of time. And like I told you, his list of clients is a real who’s who of movers and shakers. You won’t believe it: politicians, businessmen, singers, high-society types, the usual underworld figures . . .”
I really was surprised at the names he reeled off. And astonished that Kemal seemed to recognize so many minor celebrities.
“And I’ve got more than just tapes of their phone calls,” he continued. “There are lots of money transfers arranged over the Internet and by phone. Transfers to domestic and international accounts, numbered and official, taxed and untaxed, in the Cayman Islands, Bahrain, Switzerland, Luxembourg . . . You name it!”
“Well then,” I repeated, “what does this tell us? I mean, what good is it?”
“What good is it?” he nearly shouted. “Just think of the implications! A loan shark . . . Shady money transfers . . . Imagine what you could do with information like that! Of course . . . as you know, the records are all dated. The new ones are gone. Deleted. That is, a huge chunk of the most recent information is missing. Good on us, we wiped them out together.”
“Don’t be silly, ayol! It’s not as if Telekom would have archived records of every single phone call. Or do you think we’re talking White House here?”
“I see you’re using ayol again! Anyway, I suppose you have a point.”
We’d gone off on a tangent, but we were now back to the central question.
“You say you’ve deciphered the records you copied. What I need to know is this: What’s going on? How did he die?”
“Let’s take things one at a time,” he said. “I don’t think I can answer all your questions in one go.”
“Just tell me everything you know,” I urged him. “In exchange for any useful information, I’ve got a big surprise. A hot little number with your name on her. Just the kind of preop sweetie you love, a real lolly on a stick. And she’s ever so stern!”
I detected an immediate change in the breathing patterns on the other end of the line. For someone unable to escape the watchful eye of a fawning mother, someone unable even to stand up unassisted, the prospect I dangled before him was intoxicating indeed. Gone was the bellowing, replaced by a whisper.
“Who?” he breathed thickly. “Tell me who it is . . .”
“You tell me first,” I said. “Tell me all you’ve found out. That way you’ll truly deserve my little surprise.”
“Who is it? Tell me and I’ll . . .”
“You wouldn’t know her,” I said, just to increase his curiosity. “But when you lay eyes on her, she’ll knock your socks off. I swear!”
I’d expected silence on the other end as he weighed my offer, but I hadn’t expected it to be so brief.
“Faruk Hanoğlu fell into the Bosphorus just in front of his house, and drowned.”
“You must be joking,” I said. “A grown man like him didn’t know how to swim? He grew up in a yalı, right on the water . . .”
“That’s what makes his death a tragicomedy. And a mystery. Apparently, his feet got tangled in some rope, and he couldn’t get his head above water. Despite the strong current, they found him bobbing in the water right in front of his house, a length of rope wound around his ankle. In fact, they say his body was smashing into the dock with each wave. The seagulls had done a real job on the bits of him above water.”
“That’s enough,” I cut him off.
I could visualize the scene all too easily, and felt nauseated. A hairy calf, bloated and bleached in the saltwater, and torn to shreds by voracious screaming seagulls, like the attackers did in Hitchcock’s The Birds. After seeing that film as a child I’d had nightmares for weeks.
“Don’t you think this all sounds suspicious? I don’t know about you, but I smell a rat.”
If even Kemal smelled a rat, my sensitive, highly experienced nose should have been overpowered by t
he stench of bloody murder, two truly vicious ones, no less! But it wasn’t. I needed a moment to recover from the image of gulls pecking away at a pale leg.
“Can I call you back in a bit?”
“But you haven’t told me who it is! You can’t hang up now!”
“I’ll call you right back. I’ve got to get to the toilet.”
“I’ll crash your system! I’ll show you!”
I had reason to fear Kemal. He meant what he said. And he’d be perfectly capable of making good on his threats.
“Pamir!” I shouted. “More details soon.”
I slammed down the receiver without waiting for a response.
Dashing off to the bathroom, I threw up. The cold water I splashed on my face did me a world of good, though the retching had left my eyes watery and bloodshot.
The intricate workings of the brain remain a great mystery, and mine is no exception. During the few seconds I spent looking into the mirror, flashing through my mind were: Alfred Hitchcock, The Birds, Tippi Hedren looking like a frigid drag queen, her hunky leading man, Rod Taylor, Hitchcock’s efforts to transform Hedren into the new Grace Kelly in Marnie, her costar in that film, Sean Connery . . . and then, Haluk Pekerdem.
Yes, I now had the social and moral obligation of paying my respects to one Haluk Pekerdem—and of doing so in person. None other than the Haluk Pekerdem who only last night had completely ignored me as he pulled into the driveway of that ill-starred waterfront mansion! When it comes to collecting one’s thoughts and getting back on one’s feet, a heady brew of rancor and exhilaration is just the ticket.
I was ready to return to my phone conversation with Cihad2000, to arrange the promised tryst with Pamir, and to present myself, in all my glory, to Haluk Pekerdem. An opportunity had arisen, and it would be duly seized. Kismet wouldn’t necessarily come knocking again any time soon.
Cihad2000 had told me that Faruk’s wife herself was fielding all phone calls made to the mansion. However, most of the talking was done by Yalçın, a man with the voice of a butler. As well as by the lawyer of the deceased, brother-in-law Haluk Pekerdem. Despite myself, I couldn’t help sighing at the very mention of the name Haluk Pekerdem.
“I gather the house has been flooded with visitors. Everyone who’s anyone is there. A well-placed bomb would effectively wipe out the Turkish political, business, cultural, and hooker communities. We’d be left empty-handed and destitute,” Cihad2000 continued. “While the phone calls are full of the usual sympathy and commiserations, there’s also a lot of talk of money. Dollars, marks, yen . . . Turkish lira are even mentioned, if rarely.”
“Ayol, what do you mean ‘marks’? It’d be euros!”
“Look at you, getting hung up on currencies! As if that’s what’s important! I’ll stop now if you’re not interested!” he scolded.
Kemal softened as I elaborated on Pamir’s special talents. He then repeated, at great length and in full detail, everything he had heard, been told, and discerned. We may be the fiercest of rivals, and at each other’s throats more often than not, but I definitely have a soft spot for geeky Cihad2000. A pervert and a paraplegic he might be, but he was also a goldmine of useful information.
“When are you two coming?”
“She’ll come on her own,” I said. “Not with me. I’ll just give her your address. Make sure your mother’s not around.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” he declared proudly. “I’m not doing it at home. I’m going to reserve a nice room at a classy hotel. What’s money for?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“Any recommendations? You know more about that kind of stuff than me . . . But I want the best service. And not too many questions.”
“Would you like a room with a view?” I asked, stifling a giggle.
“I doubt we’d have time to admire the view.”
Chapter 27
My chief suspect for Faruk’s suspicious death was, of course, Volkan’s burnout brother, Okan. Even as I was pondering Okan’s murderous motives, others had drawn the same conclusion: Television pundits were even now noisily accusing the brother. Up flashed the juicy caption “Drug Abuser Avenges Slaying of Elder Brother?” and the usual gang of windbags duly pontificated. The accident reported just a few hours earlier was now a sensational murder case. Police were searching everywhere for the main suspect. A snapshot of the brother appeared on the screen: dark, shifty, and ugly, with hangdog eyes, he looked nothing like Volkan.
Typically opportunistic, one of the channels seized upon Okan’s sudden notoriety to reair a program on drug addiction featuring grim doctors in white coats droning on and on. While abusers of marijuana were bad enough, anything could be expected of users of heroin. Random violence of a maniacal nature was apparently scientifically linked to doses of X opioid and Y hallucinogen. Sometimes I seriously considered giving the TV set to Fatoş Abla or the janitor, or even throwing it out of the window. I’d easily come up with something attractive to fill the empty space. As a matter of fact, that black, plastic box had always clashed with the room’s overall color scheme.
I hadn’t thought talking to Okan would be of much importance, nor had I managed to find him. Now I had to. I’d be racing against the police to get to him first. If he was arrested—as he no doubt would be, eventually—he would speak only on the record, nothing else. But I was only too aware of the methods employed in extracting official confessions and testimony. I’d have to be quick.
I hurriedly threw on some clothes that wouldn’t draw too much attention: a black sweater and a pair of relatively high-waisted jeans. Ever since waists started heading south, I haven’t bought a single pair of jeans measuring more than a hand’s length from crotch seam to belt loop. And my hands are not like those of the other girls: while strong, they are slender and elegant.
As I walked out the door, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going, and no idea where to find Okan. A street-by-street search would be less than effective. In fact, in this day and age, it isn’t even the preferred method for apartment hunting, let alone a hunt for a murder suspect. Undeterred, I locked the door and walked off.
Having silenced the nerve-racking music in the taxi, I gave the driver Refik Altın’s address. Less than fifteen minutes later I was entering his new apartment building in Esentepe. While there was nothing particularly grand about the place, it reflected him perfectly: well past its prime but stubbornly pretentious. As I rode an elevator redolent of Ajax to the top floor, I examined myself in the mirror. An impertinent hair had grown out just above my nose. I struggled to pinch it between two fingernails, but it was too short to pluck out. The hair won, and I was left with a red spot right between my eyebrows. Let’s hope for the best, I remarked to my third eye as I stepped out of the lift.
Refik was expecting me.
“Look, sister, you got me all wound up on the phone. I’m taking tranquilizers as it is, just to pull myself together. You can imagine the state of my nerves. It’s an understatement to say I’m not feeling particularly lucid these days. I haven’t got the slightest idea what I’m saying, or even what I’m being told. Do forgive me . . .”
It’s never too late to know thyself, I thought.
I was determined to keep the ritual expressions of sympathy to a minimum; he was equally determined to blubber and bawl over every last detail, embroidering and embellishing ad nauseam. Of the most recent news, he had not a clue.
“Ay, please, you can’t be serious. As though I have the strength to pick up a newspaper or switch on the TV. I’m in mourning, sister, scorched and in pain, utterly incapable of finding amusement in the simplest pleasures of life . . .”
I’d always been astonished that someone whose speech oozed treacle of such a vulgar nature could manage to produce such compelling poetry.
“If I weren’t worried about the neighbors, I’d be listening to hardcore arabesk at full volume. Gut-wrenching music belting out as I throw myself to the floor, thrashing and weeping, grieving
to my heart’s content . . . But a sea of salty tears won’t bring him back, will it? Quiet! I know . . . But still!”
This final outburst, accompanied by facial contortions meant to simulate anguish, was all the confirmation I needed. Yes, once again he was performing. Puro teatro! The green light on his stereo was still burning; he must have switched it off just before I arrived. I was up against an a la turca Blanche DuBois at her most ludicrous, provincial, and overwrought.
“Look here,” I said, pointing my right index finger at his left eye. “I do believe you’re grieving and in pain. He was your lover, after all. However, please try to understand what I’m about to say. I speak not out of a lack of respect for your suffering and your love but because you’re about to spin completely out of control. So cut the drama for a moment, or I’ll smash you and your flat to bits.”
The lightning in my eyes convinced him I was serious. He knows all too well what I’m capable of when I lose my temper. Once upon a time, back when I was practically apprenticed to stupen-dous Sofya, I’d been provoked into breaking into Refik’s flat, tearing the place apart, and demonstrating for the benefit of Refik and my so-called lover boy at the time a series of recently mastered Thai boxing moves. And with bonus background information on each kick and slam thoughtfully provided free of charge. After that it was a long time indeed before I was able to refer to any man as my lover.
I was short and snappy as I summarized the latest for him. He was a bit thrown by my criticism, a bit miffed that his portrayal of an inconsolable widow had gone unappreciated. Eyes fixed on my wagging index finger, he meekly nodded from time to time to confirm that he was listening.
“Oh good,” he said, when I told him about Faruk. “He got what he deserved. Thought he’d get away with it. It’s called divine retribution, sweetie. I sometimes believe in it. There you go.”
When it was time to bring up Okan, I stopped. I’d been talking so fast and so loudly my throat was dry.
The Gigolo Murder Page 16
