The Gigolo Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgements

  A PENGUIN MYSTERY

  The Gigolo Murder

  MEHMET MURAT SOMER was born in Ankara in 1959. After graduating from Middle East Technical University (ODTÜ) School of Industrial Engineering, he worked for a short time as an engineer, and for an extended period as a banker. Since 1994, he has been a management consultant, conducting corporate seminars on management skills and personal development. Somer has written a number of made-to-order scenarios for feature films and television series, as well as classical music critiques for various newspapers and magazines. He currently lives in Istanbul.

  KENNETH JAMES DAKAN was born in Salt Lake City in 1964. After spending a year in New Zealand as a Rotary Youth Exchange Student, he attended New York University’s Mass Communications Department. On January 1, 1988, he set off on an around-the-world trip. He has not yet returned. Currently, he resides in Istanbul, where he works freelance, translating, writing a morning news bulletin, contributing to travel guides, editing, and doing voice-over interviews for industrial films.

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  First published in Penguin Books 2009

  Copyright © Mehmet Murat Somer, 2003

  Translation copyright © Kenneth James Dakan, 2009

  All rights reserved

  Originally published in Turkish under the title Jigolo Cinayeti.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14504-3

  CIP data available

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  Cast of Characters

  Ali Money-counter Ali; freelance computing employer

  Ponpon Drag queen, close friend

  Sofya Former mentor, current archenemy

  Hüseyin Taxi driver, admirer

  Kemal Barutçu (Cihad2000) Fellow hacker, confined to wheelchair

  Selçuk Taylanç Police bureau chief

  Refik Altın Gay poet

  Cüneyt Club bodyguard

  Hasan Club waiter

  Osman Club DJ

  Şükrü Club bartender

  Volkan Sarıdoğan The late gigolo

  Okan Sarıdoğan Volkan’s brother, a junkie

  Ziya Göktaş Volkan’s uncle and former lover

  Haluk Pekerdem Handsome lawyer

  Canan Hanoğlu Pekerdem Haluk’s wife

  Faruk Hanoğlu Loan shark, Canan’s stepbrother

  Nimet Hanoğlu Faruk’s wife

  Sami Faruk’s business partner

  The Girls at the Club

  Afet

  Aylin

  Dump Truck Beyza

  Çişe

  Hairy Demet

  Blackbrow Lulu

  Mehtap

  Melisa

  Nalan

  Shrewish Pamir

  Bearded Barbie

  Sırma

  Glossary

  abi elder brother

  abla elder sister

  aman oh! ah! mercy! for goodness sake!

  ayol/ay exclamation favoured by women; well!

  ayran drink made of yogurt and water

  bey sir; used with first name, Mr.

  börek a flaky, filled pastry

  dolma cooked stuffed vegetables

  dürüm sandwich wrap

  efendi gentleman, master

  efendim Yes. (answer to call). I beg your pardon?

  estağfurallah phrase used in reply to an expression of thanks, exaggerated praise, or self-criticism

  fatiha the opening chapter of the Quran

  geçmiş olsun expression of sympathy for a person who has had or is having an illness or misfortune

  hacı hadji, pilgrim to Mecca

  hanım lady; used with first name, Mrs., Miss.

  hoca hodja, Muslim teacher

  ibne faggot (derogatory)

  inşallah if God wills; hopefully

  kandil one of four Islamic feast nights

  kilim flat-weave carpet

  lokum Turkish delight

  maşallah what wonders God has willed; used to express admiration

  mevlit a religious meeting held in memory of a dead person

  meyhane Turkish taverna

  meze appetizers, traditionally accompany drinking

  namaz ritual worship, prayer

  oglancı pederast, not necessarily considered “gay” in Western sense

  peştemal waist cloth worn at a Turkish bath

  poğaça flaky pastry

  rakı raki, an anise-flavored spirit

  sen you, second person singular; used in familiar address

  siz you, second person plural; used in formal address

  teyze aunt; used to address older women

  vallahi by God; I swear it is so

  When I’m good, I’m very good.

  But when I’m bad, I’m better.

  —MAE WEST

  I believe in censorship.

  After all, I have made a fortune out of it.

  —MAE WEST
>
  Chapter 1

  Superhandsome Haluk was pale when he returned. Even in the dimly lit room, it was clear the color had drained from his face.

  “That was Faruk on the phone. He’s been arrested for murder.”

  We both looked at him in astonishment.

  “I don’t understand,” gasped his wife, Canan, who was dressed as a stylish Nişantaşı girl.

  “On suspicion of killing a minibus driver.”

  He looked at me apologetically as he spoke, sorry for having ruined what had promised to be a pleasant evening with this news.

  That’s how it all started. While my dear friend Ponpon was onstage, putting on a sensational show at one of the trendiest, hip-pest, and priciest nightclubs in Istanbul, yet another murder fell right into my lap. My passion for amateur sleuthing was suddenly inflamed, my stomach full of butterflies.

  Naturally, the beginning to this story has a prelude. I was smack in the middle of one of the most depressive periods of my life. If I had to describe it as a color, it’d be violet. I was imprisoned in a chunk of amethyst.

  It had been ages since I’d left the house. Days since I’d shaved. I’d occasionally catch glimpses in the mirror of a strange presence: a cross between a cadaver and a ghost. It couldn’t be me. I was down in the dumps and unable to surface. Of course it wasn’t the first time I’d been jilted. But this time was different.

  I’d hoped for a serious relationship, even indulged in foolish fantasies about the future. I’d imagined us growing old, shaving side by side in the morning, dozing in front of the TV, taking a long cruise together. I hadn’t envisioned the slightest friction of any kind, with the possible exception of those classic tugs-of-war for the morning newspaper, or scenes over who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste.

  I loved waking up to his scent, nestled in the glistening golden hairs of his chest. I’d even begun going less often to my nightclub and made an effort to be at home when he returned in the evening. His routine was the opposite of mine, off in the morning, back in the evening, the reverse of the rhythm of my life. I’d normally leave just before midnight and return home at dawn. But what I really wanted was to spend evenings with him, next to him, just talking. His appreciation for my skills in the kitchen drove me wild, the way he’d come up behind me while I was cooking, throw his arms around me and kiss me, make love to me on the kitchen table, Jack Nicholson to my Jessica Lange in the The Postman Always Rings Twice.

  Our affair was as trouble-free as any relationship between two men could be. He wasn’t ashamed of me, introduced me to his friends and even to his children. He wasn’t fussed by my choice of social identity, by what I wore, by whether I dressed as a woman or a man when we went out. He said he loved me for who I was, as I was, and didn’t try to change me.

  Our relationship had not yet turned into a power struggle; there was no jockeying for the upper hand.

  He’d explained to me why it had to end, but I still didn’t get it. I ran through everything from every possible angle, repeatedly analyzing each word of every sentence I could remember. But I couldn’t find the answer to that one-word question: Why?

  It’s said that within every story there’s a vacuum just waiting to be filled with fantasies and fabrications. Wherever this vacuum had been in our relationship, I couldn’t find it. Were I to locate it, to fill it somehow, I would find peace. But I couldn’t. Either my powers of imagination were lacking or my brain wasn’t working.

  I discovered for the first time the full physical effects of sorrow and heartbreak. And painkillers didn’t help.

  The phone was unplugged. Visitors were turned away, politely at first, then harshly, with no regard for their feelings. I couldn’t have cared less about the number of friends I’d lost. For I was as alone as I would ever be. Abandoned. In the final equation, what difference would the addition of a friend, or the subtraction of two, make? Forsaken and alone, that was me.

  In the old days, my pain would turn to rage. Perhaps that’s what was so difficult now. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t get angry. I just sat there.

  I was too weak to shake myself out of it. If I could just shake myself out of it, I’d pull through somehow, I knew that. I’d never seen anyone in such a state, hadn’t heard of it, hadn’t read about it in books, hadn’t even seen it in films. It was something else entirely. Interminable and unrelenting. The rain would never end, the sky would remain shrouded in lead, forever dull, and I’d grow thinner and thinner, even though I ate only junk food, shivering always, trembling inside as I wasted away to nothing. Yes, my case was something else entirely.

  Seeking relief for the pangs in my stomach, I rummaged through the kitchen cupboards. There wasn’t much there. I returned to bed with half a package of stale potato chips. The sheets were still warm.

  The doorbell rang. There was no way I’d open the door. Whoever it was, they could ring and ring, get bored, and eventually go away. Ignoring the sound, I continued sipping coffee as I watched a music video on TV.

  There was pounding on the door.

  “I know you’re home. Open up, or I’ll break down the door.”

  It was Ponpon. My loyal, devoted, ever cheerful friend Ponpon. At that moment, her numerous admirable qualities only made her that much more annoying.

  She wouldn’t be able to break down a steel door. I brushed her from my mind, turning up the volume on the TV to mask the racket. Ponpon raised her voice to a shout. The voice lessons she’d taken many years earlier enabled her now, at my house, to produce a soulless screeching reminiscent of Sertab Erener in top form. Fortunately, her cries conveyed more emotion than Erener, who belts out each song with the same utter lack of feeling. There was something threatening about Ponpon’s cries; she was bullying me openly. And by now there wasn’t a soul in the apartment building who didn’t know it.

  “If you don’t open up I’ll get the police to smash the door down. I mean it. Open up this instant!”

  She meant it. Like the other girls, Ponpon doesn’t know where to stop. I waited until the clip for R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” had ended, deciding once again that it was my all-time favorite and that it accompanies full-blown depression beautifully.

  Ponpon clearly had no intention of leaving. The screeching was intermittent, but the pounding nonstop. I decided to open the door. I’d make up some excuse to get rid of her; failing that, I’d tell her off and send her on her way.

  When I opened the door a crack, she pushed her way in.

  “Look here, girlfriend, if you’re trying to make me worry myself to death, give it up already. I’ll wring your neck first!”

  Ponpon was at least as tall as me, but nearly twice the weight. The threat was not an idle one, as she grabbed me by the arm and propelled me inside. I was in no shape to defend myself with either Thai boxing or aikido.

  “Leave me alone,” I said.

  Her grip on my arm hurt.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she barked. “I came here to get you to snap out of it. What’s with this depression, sweetie? Enough already. It’s been weeks. You’re acting like there aren’t any other men around. For a dish like you? They’re everywhere!”

  Bug-eyed, she droned on and on, as though that was the only problem.

  “Cut the long face! I’m not going anywhere until you’re better.”

  “Enough Ponpon! Please . . . go. Leave me alone!”

  “You’re a real nutcase! I came here under my own steam, and I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. I’m not taking orders from you. Humph!”

  I was unable to lift a finger. Ponpon’s persistence is well-known. Once she’s made up her mind, that’s it.

  She turned on the lights and threw open the curtains. I couldn’t understand why she bothered. It was dark outside.

  “It’s so stuffy in here,” she scolded, opening the windows. A damp chill filled the room. Istanbul was suffering one of its raw, blustery winters.

  “Ponpon, you heard me. Go!” I said, surpri
sed by the vigor in my voice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, ayol. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not yourself . . .”

  “Go, I said! Get lost, ayol!”

  “See, you said ‘ayol.’ You’re coming around. And your eyes are positively shining.”

  “Shining daggers, you mean,” I corrected her.

  “Well, shining nonetheless,” she shot back.

  “Ponpon, my nerves are shattered. Don’t push me. I’m in no shape to fight. Just go straight to the door, and leave.”

  “Ayol, who do you think you’re trying to order around? Getting on your nerves, am I? Yes, sir! I’ve gotta laugh at that one. Ayol, you’re the one who’s been getting on my nerves—for a long time now!”

  “This is my house,” I pointed out. “It’s my home, and I don’t want you here. That’s final.”

  “You know not what you say. First we’ll get you bathed, then a shave and some makeup. Then you’ll be ready to chat.”

  She radiated energy, positively glowing in the most meaningless and futile way.

  Ponpon raked me over with her eyes. She was probably calculating exactly how much weight I’d lost. With my beard stubble and the rings under my eyes, I must have been a sight indeed.

  “Ay!” she screeched shrilly, demonstrating once again those hours of formal voice lessons. “Just what is it with you? You’re skin and bones. I’m not leaving you like this. And your clothes stink. Now march! Straight to the shower!”

  I was dragged to the bathroom and thrust inside. I didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. Like a helpless child, I surrendered.

  “Are you going to wash yourself, or shall I?”

  “I’ll wash myself,” I said, bowing my head.

  “Good,” she replied briskly, but didn’t forget to take the key with her as she left. “Leave the door open . . .”

  She must have been afraid I’d try something stupid. I hadn’t even considered such drastic measures. At most, I’d have locked myself inside and waited until she left. But Ponpon wasn’t going to be outdone in a waiting game or test of wills. She’d invariably come out ahead.