The Gigolo Murder Read online

  Ponpon couldn’t remember exactly where Haluk was from, but she knew it was somewhere in the Aegean region. He’d arrived in Istanbul to study at the university, after which he went on to earn a master’s degree abroad. Although handsome Haluk could have had his pick of any nubile girl from a good family, it was no surprise when he settled on Canan. In fact, the marriage was approvingly considered a match made in heaven.

  As far as his law practice, it was unlikely he’d been entirely on the straight and narrow: No scrupulously honest lawyer could have grown so rich so fast.

  Ponpon naturally spent the night, sending me off to bed once I’d downed a glass of warm milk mixed with a spoonful of pekmez molasses and a handful of vitamins, under her watchful eye.

  I awoke the following morning to the smell of toast, extremely hungry, perhaps as a result of all those vitamins. Sniffing greedily, I detected various other heavenly breakfast aromas mixed in with the toast. I couldn’t stand it anymore and jumped out of bed.

  Sunlight flooded into my bedroom as I opened the curtains. The first sunlight in days! It had to be a sign: resurrection!

  Hearing I was awake, Ponpon sang out a cheery good morning.

  “Well, goodness me! Look who’s up. If it isn’t our own sleeping beauty.”

  “Good morning,” I shouted, keeping it short.

  Bursting in on me, Ponpon was dressed in one of her signature embroidered kimonos, an impish smile on her face, to which she’d already applied what only she would deem “staying-home maquillage.”

  “Go and your wash your face,” she ordered. “Breakfast is ready!”

  “I know. The smell woke me up. Goodness knows what you’ve prepared.”

  Ponpon is an absolute whiz at all things domestic. In a spare hour or so, she’ll have whipped up stuffed cabbage rolls dressed with olive oil, mouth-watering Circassian chicken salad with a dusting of ground walnuts, and spinach börek with hand-rolled, nearly translucent layers of mille-feuille. Her refrigerator is always full, and her hands usually nimbly at work on a bit of embroidery or delicate lace. “We simply must keep alive the traditions of the sultanas,” she’ll mumble through a mouthful of pins while hand sewing a bewildering array of beads, sequins, and spangles onto the performance costumes she designs. In a home overflowing with tacky gimcracks, gewgaws, and bibelots of all descriptions, Ponpon busies herself polishing silver candlesticks, ironing doilies, dusting the fake crystal dangling off velvet lampshades, and affixing “life-affirming” handmade chiffon butterflies to the drapes. Her store of knowledge in the domestic arts could fill a series of cookbooks and a complete encyclopedia of domestic instruction for the ambitious homemaker.

  The breakfast she’d prepared was top-notch, a veritable open buffet worthy of any five-star hotel.

  “How’d you manage all this?” I asked. “The cupboards are empty.”

  “The last thing I expected from you was a silly question like that,” she admonished. “The numbers of the local market and corner shop are written down in your address book.”

  She had a point, but much of the lavish spread she’d placed before me couldn’t have been found at the overpriced bakkal on the corner.

  “But our shop doesn’t stock bacon . . .”

  Yes, she’d even fried up a dozen rashers of bacon. Nice and crispy, just the way I like it.

  “It was just a simple question of going online, and presto, two bags of groceries delivered right to your door in half an hour.”

  “You used my computer?”

  Oblivious to my tone, her answer implied she’d simply exercised her most fundamental right:

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But how did you open it? I’ve got a password.”

  “As if that’d be a problem. How many times have you typed in your password right in front of me? I know it by heart: Audrey!”

  That I’d chosen the first name of my idol as my password was no surprise. But Ponpon’s ability to determine my password from the movement of my fingers on the keyboard—since it was impossible for her to have read it on the screen—was a bonus point for her, a demerit for me.

  “Oh, before I forget. I charged it all to your credit card . . . Your handbag was here in the kitchen.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “No problem.”

  “I just thought I’d let you know.”

  Breakfast was every bit as magnificent as it’d smelled and looked. I savored each mouthful.

  Although I’d finished a healthy serving, I ate another plateful at Ponpon’s insistence. Strangely, I even relished it.

  “I phoned Fatoş. She’ll be round this evening,” I was informed.

  Fatoş Abla is a girl getting on in years who makes house calls to our little circle of drag queens, trannies, and she-males. “Geriatric wolves are the laughingstock of newborn lambs,” she’d announced one day, rather incongruously and signally with a well-worn Anatolian maxim, her retirement from the business. That is to say, once she’d hit forty and discovered that her list of clients, her “circle of gentleman admirers,” was fast diminishing, she’d exchanged prostitution for a career of waxing, depilatories, eyebrow plucking, arm-hair bleaching, hair coloring, and the like. Her personal life was stormy, punctuated by noisy public scenes during which she cast out a seemingly endless stream of shiftless young lovers. She was said to spend all her earnings on them, for which reason she remained virtually penniless. Nevertheless, her pride was intact, her bearing as regal as Queen Elizabeth’s as she deftly tore a tuft of pubic hair from between some girl’s legs. Except for Ponpon, we all addressed her as “abla,” and gave her the respect any elder sister would traditionally expect in Turkey.

  “What time is it now?” I asked.

  “It’s coming on three.”

  “I must have slept in.”

  “You need it, sweetie. It’s just what your body requires.”

  I decided to read the newspaper until Fatoş Abla showed up to subject me to the tortuous beautification rituals required of any self-respecting she-male. The news was on page three.

  HIGH SOCIETY SENSATION! screamed the headline.

  Prominent financial consultant Faruk Hanoğlu had been arrested on suspicion of murder, accused of killing twenty-four-year-old minibus driver Volkan Sarıdoğan.

  Displayed side by side were an identity card snapshot of Volkan Sarıdoğan and a posed photograph, obviously taken by a professional, of Faruk Hanoğlu in his office. I called out to Ponpon: “Isn’t Faruk Hanoğlu Canan’s brother?”

  “Uh-huh,” Ponpon confirmed. Then, a few seconds later: “Why do you ask?”

  “Have you seen the paper? He’s been arrested . . .”

  “I know. What are you getting at?

  There was one question we couldn’t get our minds around that morning, one no doubt shared by members of Istanbul high society: Why on earth would this wealthy family man and “personal financial consultant” (read “loan shark”) murder a minibus driver?

  I reread the article, which was decidedly short on detail. The dated photograph of a young Volkan Sarıdoğan looked out at me with dreamy eyes, handsome even in a cheap instant snapshot. Next to him, in the other picture, Faruk Hanoğlu ostentatiously rested a hand on his desk. He must have taken after his mother; he looked nothing like his half sister, Canan. But then again, the proud, cool smile was the same.

  “I met Faruk Bey once,” said Ponpon, “at a party Canan was giving at her home. He seemed like a gentleman, not at all the type I’d have pegged for a murderer. He was quite flirty, and very talkative. But there was something strange, something unpleasant, about him. Like he was looking down his nose at everyone.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “You know . . . like he wants it, but doesn’t want it. One of those who are desperate to give it up but don’t bend over when the time comes—and despise those who do. Do you see what I mean?”

  I had no idea what she meant. If even Ponpon, who was as eloquent as they come, couldn’t find the words to
express what she was talking about, it must be difficult indeed to explain.

  “You know, there are some people who want something, crave it even, but they’re too proud to admit it, even to themselves. Then they despise, or belittle, or harm whatever it is. Almost as though mocking the object of their desire will stop them from wanting it. Do you get what I mean, sweetie?”

  “Like the fable about the fox and the sour grapes?”

  “No, not exactly . . . Ay, enough already! Forget it.”

  As expected, Haluk Pekerdem was representing his brother-in-law. His name was mentioned in the article, but there was no photograph, or any further details.

  “Snap out of it, sweetie. You’re all spaced out.”

  Ponpon was right.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” She winked.

  No amount of money would have persuaded me to admit I’d been lost in a reverie over Haluk Pekerdem.

  Chapter 4

  In Ponpon’s words, I was “back in business” and “good as new.” She left me no choice but to allow the world to come crashing in and to respond civilly as it did so. There was no point in putting it off.

  “Make sure to smile when you speak; you’ll sound friendlier,” she instructed. Then Ponpon began dialing every one of the numbers she’d memorized.

  She’d begin by speaking at length herself, before thrusting the phone into my hand, my cue to embark on a set string of pleasantries: “Hello . . . How are you . . . I’m fine . . .” This arrangement allowed Ponpon to dramatize the depths of my depression with a hair-raising description of my ruined health and cadaverous appearance, then move on to an excruciatingly detailed and heroic account of her own role in my salvation, from the shade of eye shadow she’d administered to what she’d prepared for each of my meals.

  When headwaiter and gossipmonger Hasan heard my voice, he insisted on coming round. I had no doubt that he’d conspired with Ponpon to get his foot in the door. He is self-important and arrogant, but in fact he’s the only waiter at my club, and he had kept the place going during my breakdown, for which I was grateful. We agreed on a time that day for his visit.

  At my insistence, we also called my employer, Ali. I freelance for his computer security firm, working on a commission basis only. Our partnership has been highly profitable for us both. He knows what I am and what I do nights, but doesn’t meddle; for my part, I overlook his yuppie ways and all-consuming quest for the almighty dollar. For days now, I hadn’t been by the office, answered the phone, responded to messages, or returned his e-mails. It was only natural that he’d wonder what had happened, especially since so much of his business depends on me. I’d have to bite the bullet and phone him. I had no intention of losing my day job as a computer whiz, custom designing antihacker security programs.

  When I was put through, he cursed at the sound of my voice, telling me in dollar terms how much my absence had cost us—that is, him. I was ordered to report to the office immediately to discuss several new projects.

  Ali and I don’t see much of each other outside work. Although our business relationship has lasted for years, and we’ve made each other rich, he’s never even seen my home. In any case, Ponpon hadn’t scheduled him in for a visit, so I promised to stop at the office as soon as I could.

  “We’re losing business every day you’re in hiding,” he grumbled. “Competition is fierce. They’ll think we’re not available anymore. Kemal Barutçu is snapping up all our clients. I hope you realize we’ll be reduced to selling PC and standard software programs if things go on like this!”

  I wasn’t ready for his tirade, so in order to end it, I meekly mumbled, “Okay.”

  Perceptive Ponpon intervened on my behalf, snatching the receiver from my hand to interject, “He’s still very weak. I’ll have to ask you to keep it short.”

  “Who was that?”

  “A relative,” I said, grabbing the phone back. “My spiritual aunt.”

  Ponpon grimaced. She’d have preferred being described as a younger sister.

  Visitors starting arriving even before Fatoş Abla had finished waxing my legs. The appointments Ponpon had so carefully spaced out over the late afternoon and evening were running like clockwork, but unfortunately our growing number of visitors appeared disinclined to leave as punctually as they’d arrived. My living room had turned into what appeared at first glance to be a coffee klatsch of housewives in rather risqué costumes, perhaps a Tupperware party or Avon lady demonstration. I was the only person in the room who wasn’t engrossed in a screeching conversation. Occasionally, one of the girls would shoot me a glance of pity, but tinged with what was unmistakable envy.

  I didn’t bother to attempt to follow their conversations, just sat there amid an unintelligible buzz of baritone and falsetto voices. Nor was I interested in which girl had poached which boyfriend, or triumphant accounts of the miracles wrought by hormone injections and silicon implants.

  That is, until my attention was caught by Dump Truck Beyza.

  “I had such a shock this morning! An old flame of mine was murdered! And who killed him? Some high-society loan shark! You can’t imagine how wonderful he was. Once he got it up, it never came down. And incredibly well hung, like he’d strapped on a Coke bottle. The sort of man everyone should experience at least once. Amen.”

  “His death has no doubt added several inches,” Ponpon interrupted. “Feel free to elaborate as much as you like, sweetie. None of us will be able to verify what you say now that’s he’s dead.”

  “If I’m lying, may Allah smite me right on the spot,” exclaimed Dump Truck Beyza, lodging a large hand between her considerable breasts.

  Blackbrow Lulu jumped in, her mouth still full of cake.

  “Don’t say that! You’ve been smitten enough as it is.”

  “Common! You’re all just common,” Dump Truck Beyza spat, before turning to me with, “Excuse me. Not you, of course. But I can’t think why you’re still friends with this lot.”

  I was intrigued despite myself.

  “So you knew Volkan? The guy in the paper today?”

  “What do you think I’m saying? You’re not even listening! You never listen to me!”

  Ponpon responded to this unfortunate attack on my person by lifting a warning eyebrow. She wouldn’t allow any bad behavior. Dear Ponpon was protecting me. Allowing her eyes to flutter shut dramatically, she pursed her lips and pointed to her head with the index finger of her left hand. Then she silently mouthed the word “medication.”

  What’s more, she did all this looking directly at me. There’s no way I could have missed it.

  “What medication? What did you give me? When?” I asked.

  “At breakfast,” she said, slowly mouthing the words in a barely audible and slightly ominous voice.

  “What medicine?”

  “Xanax.”

  She smiled proudly, a child expecting a reward for a good deed.

  “But isn’t that a drug?” asked Melisa, gulping down a mouthful of coffee.

  Turning in Melisa’s direction, Ponpon slowly opened and shut her eyelids, thus replying in the affirmative to her question.

  “I consulted a physician,” she added in authoritative tones. “They don’t sell it without a prescription.”

  “I’m sure you did the right thing,” I said.

  So the wave of fatigue hitting me was caused by Xanax, not the large breakfast.

  “But darling, they say Xanax causes anxiety and suicidal tendencies.”

  It was just like Fatoş Abla to bring up side effects. She won’t even use aspirin, relying instead on homeopathic remedies, herbal teas, and incense.

  “Oh no,” screeched Dump Truck Beyza, as though I had set off on a pathway to inevitable self-destruction.

  “I told you, I asked the doctor,” Ponpon said. “A pill or two won’t hurt, he said.”

  Seizing the reins of general conversation, determined to steer us back to what really interested me—Volkan Sarıdoğan, Faruk Hanoğlu, a
nd Haluk Pekerdem—I addressed myself to Beyza.

  “Beyza sweetie, tell me all you know about Volkan. From the beginning.”

  I was depressed, in need of attention, care, and cheering up, so the girls conscientiously shut up and listened to Dump Truck’s long-winded ode to the glories of Volkan, which I occasionally interrupted with a question. I’d intended to glean some information about Haluk Pekerdem, but was unable even to get to Faruk Hanoğlu. All Beyza would talk about was the well-hung stud.

  Beyza met Volkan when he was fresh from military service and had just begun driving minibuses. It was one of the many occasions on which lusty Beyza, having failed to find a customer, began haunting the minibus routes in search of a man. As usual, she got on a minibus with a driver she fancied, sat next to him in the front seat, and flirtatiously crossed and uncrossed her legs until the last stop. If payment isn’t expected, this method works nine times out of ten. As it did that night. Instead of going to the back of the line when the last passengers got out at the final stop, Volkan drove off to a secluded grove in Hacı Osman. Volkan’s staying power astonished even Beyza, whose libido never quits. In fact, he wore her out. Volkan began visiting Beyza at home, a blissful arrangement that pleased them both and lasted for some time.

  Volkan was “handsome as a movie star,” in perfect shape as a result of his recent stint in the army, full of the stamina of the young and sex starved, and the proud owner of an impressive organ that would have guaranteed him superstar status in the adult-film world. Or so Beyza claimed, in descriptions so detailed I suspected she may even have been telling the truth.