The Gigolo Murder Page 2

  Ponpon had been around the block. She knew it all, and had a strong opinion on every subject and a solution to every problem. She spoke mysteriously of numerous adventures, had supposedly savored every conceivable flavor of love and screwed in every possible position. I’d never known her to be involved with anyone, though; just had a series of one-sided crushes.

  She claimed to have become a transvestite solely to spite her family. She also claimed that she’d never worked the streets, that she’d always been too “refined” for that sort of thing. She’d been working at the same nightclub for years, taking to the stage in Bodrum in the summer. She was certainly consistent. The doyenne of our little circle, the Yıldız Kenter, even the Bedia Muvahhit, of our glittery stage. Ponpon paints on heart-shaped lips and vaudeville makeup, just like Bedia, and has us in stitches with the same subtle, cutting wit.

  When I turned on the hair dryer, she poked her head in.

  “Good for you,” she said. “See how much better you look. Fresh as a daisy.”

  She studied my naked body, from head to toe. Clearly she didn’t think much of what she saw.

  “When was the last time you ate? You look like one of those Ethiopians.”

  “I eat,” I protested guiltily.

  “Don’t lie to me. The kitchen’s bare. I checked the rubbish bin, too. Empty.”

  I wasn’t pleased that she’d gone so far as to rummage through my garbage. But, on the other hand, her interest pleased me, gave me a sense of pride.

  “I just had some potato chips.”

  She screwed up her face, as aghast as any health nut.

  “That doesn’t count. Junk doesn’t replace real food!”

  Ponpon is one of those who believe there is a direct link between a balanced diet and health, and between a healthy appetite and happiness.

  “Your legs are getting all stubbly, too, but we’ll sort that out another time,” she said. “Now why don’t you give yourself a good shave. I’ll be waiting.”

  Shaving was more difficult than I’d expected. With shaky hands I set about doing something I used to do effortlessly twice a day. Now I was afraid of cutting my face. Fear! Yes, a sense of fear. So, somewhere deep inside, there was still a spark of self-interest. Not all my feelings had dried up and died. I was able to feel fear.

  “How’s it going?”

  I turned my face, half-covered with shaving cream, and looked at her with empty eyes.

  “You’re about to die of hunger, God forbid. I should have realized the second I set eyes on you.”

  She walked over to my side and popped a piece of hard candy into my mouth. I had no idea where she’d found it.

  “It’ll do you good, give you energy.”

  Winking, she added, “For now at least.”

  She was sucking on one as well, her scarlet lips pursed into a button as she spoke. Cinnamon flavor.

  When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon sat me down across from her, chattering all the while about who had done what with whom, as she applied a thick coat of makeup in the over-the-top style that was all she knew: for my face, a dusting of powder over layer after layer of foundation; for my eyelids, at least four different shades of eye shadow; and for my mouth, lilac lipstick and a dark shade of purple penciled along my lip line.

  When I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help smiling in amusement. I looked like something out of Kabuki theater, a stylized, plastic version of myself.

  Ponpon misinterpreted my smile.

  “You like it, don’t you?” she said. “You look great. Baby’s back and it’s all thanks to me.”

  “You don’t think it’s a bit much?” I ventured timidly.

  “No, not at all. It’s perfect for a fresh-faced young thing like you. I know how much you adore pastels.”

  It’s true that she’d thoughtfully chosen pastels, my favorite, but there were enough of them to paint at least three more faces. It would take me at least half an hour to scrape it all off.

  I managed a smile, an appreciative one this time. It didn’t work. There’s no point in trying to fake it when Ponpon’s around. Her face fell when she realized I wasn’t completely thrilled by her artistry.

  Every article of clothing selected from the wardrobe was too big for me. The Audrey Hepburn figure I’d struggled to maintain all these years was gone, swiftly replaced by Twiggy’s—and suffering from chronic wasting disease, no less.

  “You’re a mess,” Ponpon confirmed. “At this rate we’ll have to choose your clothes in the children’s department.”

  We finally decided on a bright red jacket and miniskirt ensemble that I rarely wear. I think Audrey Hepburn wore the same outfit in Charade, only hers was pale pink.

  As I held the jacket up in front of me, I studied myself in the mirror. I’d hoped that smiling would make me feel better.

  “That won’t do; you’ll need another lipstick,” Ponpon observed through narrowed eyes. She seemed to think that my only problem was that lilac and red don’t match.

  The outfit was clearly too big, and the legs sticking out below it were spindly and unshaven.

  “It doesn’t fit,” I said.

  Lips pursed, a single eyebrow raised, Ponpon looked me up and down.

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

  Taking off the skirt and jacket, I dejectedly sank down onto a corner of the bed. She came and sat down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. I leaned my head against her.

  We wordlessly studied ourselves for a moment in the full-length mirror opposite. She sat erect, her ample bosom glorious in its generosity. Shoulders collapsed, I huddled against her dejectedly. Like a child in need of protection. A skinny, weak child with frightened eyes, my ribs sticking out. The garish makeup only heightened the effect: a clownish hussy face and an emaciated, hairy body.

  She gently stroked my shoulders and leaned over to kiss the top of my head. Then she pulled me tight. She was watching me in the mirror.

  I wanted to cry. To break down completely and sob on that sturdy, warm shoulder. To sniffle and drool. But I couldn’t do it. Ponpon cried for me silently.

  “My mascara’s going to run,” she said with a weak laugh.

  But she kept crying. Perhaps she was remembering a long ago adventure, one of those great love affairs she always talked about, the ones that inevitably ended in heartbreak, the ones that had left her numb and hard. Or perhaps she cried hoping I’d join in.

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  Chapter 2

  The place where Ponpon took me to “have fun” after we’d eaten was none other than the club where she worked. It was nearly time for her to go onstage and, not wanting to leave me alone, she’d dragged me along. I hadn’t seen her new show. Nor was I even faintly interested in doing so. After all, I’d watched her perform for years. How much different would this one be?

  The second we entered, she gave the headwaiter a quick rundown of my situation. She wanted to make sure they treated me well. That is, she wanted to make sure I was pitied!

  A callous, hard-bitten old thing, the headwaiter nodded his head sympathetically. Compressing his thin lips, he studied me. I suppose he imagined the pose expressed understanding and an appreciation for how much I’d suffered.

  The two of them kept talking. Like any true artist, Ponpon was casing the joint, gathering information about the crowd. Beaming, she turned to me.

  “Two dear friends of mine have turned up. I’ll make certain you’re seated at their table. You’ll love them. They’re so refined. And there’ll be a man for you to check out, to boot.”

  “Perhaps I could sit on my own? Somewhere in the back?”

  “I won’t hear such nonsense! You can even watch me from the wings if you like. Really, sweetie!”

  I was overcome with drowsiness from the food Ponpon had practically forced down my throat and didn’t have the energy to respond, let alone argue. Back home, all I’d wanted to do wa
s sink back into bed. But the B12 she’d given me at dinner was beginning to take effect. Yes, I was definitely perking up.

  We followed the headwaiter to the table with Ponpon’s esteemed guests. They were sitting right in front of the stage.

  Ponpon kissed each of them on both cheeks, singing out greetings as she did so. I made a point of hanging back. Although I hadn’t even seen their faces yet, I was already recoiling from the couple’s confident chuckles and throaty coos. But fate had assigned me to Ponpon’s care, and the unavoidable inevitably happened: She turned around and introduced me.

  Canan Hanoğlu Pekerdem was the personification of what they call a “true lady”: beautiful, imperious, elegant, and icy. Naturally, she didn’t rise, merely extended a hand for me to clasp, palm turned slightly toward the floor so I wouldn’t miss the large diamond ring. She also displayed a French manicure on that exquisitely shaped hand.

  Her hair was styled in the latest fashion, her makeup deceptively simple—and oh so preferable to what I was wearing—her clothing screamed “label,” her jewels were few in number but no doubt insured, and around her floated the summery scent of Vera Wang. In other words, I was green with envy.

  Her deep green eyes told me she was as calculating as she was clever.

  I turned to the husband, who knew how to treat a lady and had risen to his feet. When I shifted my gaze from the seated wife to the standing husband, I got my first jolt: What a dish!

  “My name’s Haluk Pekerdem,” he murmured, enfolding my hand in his. I went weak at the knees. “We’d be so pleased if you joined us tonight.”

  Yes, and so would I. I felt myself blush, but was confident Ponpon’s handiwork with the trowel would mask the glow spreading across my face.

  Having surrendered me to her friends, Ponpon headed for her dressing room.

  Haluk Pekerdem was a well-known attorney who handled sensational corporate lawsuits and the occasional libel suit brought against the press. Any self-respecting businessman made a point of carrying his card. I could only guess at the number of court scribes and junior partners whose hearts he’d set aflutter. He was even better looking in person than the glimpses I remembered having of him in newspapers, magazines, and on the occasional news program. While previously he had caught my attention as someone worth a second look, he was certainly proof that not everyone is photogenic. Yes, his was one of those fabulous faces to which a photographer can’t begin to do justice.

  I was immediately assigned the role of conversation piece: Canan monopolized the conversation with Haluk on the pretense that she was drawing him out for my benefit. She talked about every subject under the sun.

  I sat there, silent and deeply ashamed, in a shapeless outfit and painted face, supposedly nursing an unhealed wound but all atingle for the unattainable man so close by. I was embarrassed by the whole situation. Still, I smiled at all they said and responded with the briefest possible replies.

  Canan, who had taken pains to enunciate in bell-like tones each syllable of the Hanoğlu surname she’d inherited from her father, was not a lady of leisure, as I’d expect of someone of her class, but took an active interest in the family’s yarn business. They had connections overseas. She mentioned, in passing of course, that she was often forced to pop over to England.

  I prayed that Ponpon would soon appear onstage, that for the rest of the night I’d be free to look elsewhere, that I’d no longer have to politely meet their eyes; or rather, that I wouldn’t have to refrain from simply staring into Haluk’s. My heart still aching from abandonment, my soul as black as night, there was most certainly no point in falling for someone oozing heterosexuality from every pore, particularly while he sat across from me and next to his doting wife. Sometimes one thing can lead to another, and a cautious overture is not necessarily ill-advised, but I wasn’t up to it. I was terrified that another blow to my fragile, bruised self-esteem could well push me over the edge.

  Although I struggled to avoid his eyes, the table at which the three of us were seated was tiny. Even when I kept my eyes demurely downcast, I saw those hands, one holding a glass of whiskey, the other occasionally reaching for a nut, well-groomed, vein-filled hands that had grown strong and large playing elite sports but had remained entirely free of calluses. His nails were wide and curved at the edges, not trimmed too short. He was wearing a wedding ring, the only blemish on those perfect hands. I’m not a hand fetishist, but those paws were to die for. I’d have allowed them to travel the length and breadth of my body. In fact . . .

  Ponpon took the stage in the nick of time.

  Her new show had a Latin theme, from the melodic rhythms of sevillanas to the driving eroticism of the tango: samba, flamenco, castanets, multilayered skirts . . . After the frilly skirt had done its duty in a flamenco dance number, off it went, revealing a skin-tight skirt with hip-high slashes and fishnet stockings, and the entrance of a slightly mincing but tall and muscular tango partner.

  As the simpering tyrant jealously guarded his submissive Ponpon, who was sweating buckets by now (and had thrown her considerable weight into his arms, as though for dear life), Haluk answered his cell phone. He was far too well bred to allow his phone to ring during a performance, so he must have felt its warning vibration. Looking at me and his wife apologetically, he listened for a moment. Whatever it was he heard over the Latin racket, his expression changed completely. Canan and I both looked at him, alarmed.

  “Excuse me, I won’t be a minute,” he said, as he rose and walked to the door, cell phone still pressed to his ear.

  Not missing a beat, hips thrusting and feet kicking, Ponpon was watching us out of the corner of her eye, no doubt wondering why Haluk had left so abruptly. She’s such a pro, I’m sure I’m the only one who noticed.

  “It must be one of his clients,” Canan explained. “They ring at the most inconvenient times. Representing tycoons does have its drawbacks, I suppose.”

  “I’m certain it does,” I murmured agreeably.

  “They think that the fee he commands entitles them to pick up the phone whenever they please.”

  “I’m sure they pay for the privilege,” I observed, even more agreeably.

  She settled for a wan smile, then turned her face toward the stage to indicate that our little exchange had been terminated. The curve of her lip on the side of the face that she presented me with suggested that although events outside her world meant little to her, she was absolutely certain that no offense would be taken.

  I wasn’t jealous. Not yet. But were I to become so—and it happens fairly often—it would be toward someone like Canan. The fact that she shares a bed with Haluk would have been sufficient grounds. But even if she didn’t, her feminine graces would have provoked envy at the least.

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

  “That was Faruk on the phone,” he said.

  That information was directed at Canan. After all, the name Faruk meant nothing to me.

  “He’s been arrested for murder.”

  I wasn’t the only person at the table to be stunned. But I was the only one content to gaze on worshipfully at Haluk. She insisted on speaking.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “On suspicion of killing a minibus driver.”

  He glanced at me apologetically as he spoke; his eyes were deep and riveting. I wanted to dive into them, to surrender myself completely.

  Canan was not about to allow me to do any diving.

  “He had a traffic accident?”

  “Dear, you know they don’t detain anyone right away for a traffic accident.”

  When Ponpon, who had just begun her grand finale, realized that the attentions of her guests of honor, sitting at the VIP table no less, were focused on one another rather than on her spectacle, she resorted to a catcall from the stage.

  “Sir, would you mind bargaining with the ladies after the show?”

 
With three sets of outraged eyes suddenly trained on her, Ponpon realized she’d committed a major faux pas. She froze for a split second.

  “I’m afraid I have to leave immediately,” Haluk said.

  “I’m coming, too.”

  “But that would be rude to our guest.”

  That he would think of me at a time like this, refer to me as their “guest” even though Ponpon had forced me on them, filled with me pride and allowed me to be gracious.

  “I really must insist you leave now. Don’t trouble yourself by thinking of me at a time like this. You have urgent business. And Ponpon is a dear friend, so I won’t be left alone for long. I’ll pass along your regrets. Now please, do go.”

  “This has all been most unfortunate,” said Haluk, a gentleman to the end. But they proceeded to leave me there anyway, each of them handing me a business card as they wished me a good night and assured me they wished to meet again as soon as possible. Ponpon’s astonished eyes on their backs, they left the club.

  I couldn’t help looking at their departing backs as well. What a pair they were! My eyes had strayed to Haluk’s bottom. He’d thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, causing his jacket to ride up. Straining against the fine fabric of the seat of his pants—a silk blend, surely—was a magnificently muscular pair of buttocks, two thrusting halves of a crisp apple, the wondrous dancing motions of which were visible even from where I sat, riveted, until they’d swaggered right out the door.

  That was how the murder fell straight into my lap, sucking me deep into a swirling vortex of events.

  Chapter 3

  On the way back to my place I told Ponpon everything that had happened. So relieved was she to learn that they hadn’t merely walked out on her show that she began chattering on about everything she knew concerning both Canan and Haluk.

  Canan came from money. Her prosperous central Anatolian family had settled in Istanbul shortly after World War II and quickly, in less than a decade, their small fortune had blossomed into a large one. The result of her father’s second, and final, marriage, she was an only child, although patriarch Hanoğlu had also fathered two sons with his first wife. Canan enjoyed all the advantages rich parents can buy, including nannies, private tutors, and a Swiss education. Her family did all they could to spoil her, and she was the apple of her doting father’s eye.