back. Anyway, he repented, got married, and gave up minibus driving. Then he came to our stand.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Brother Nazmi the Catamite,” he replied. “That’s a nickname he picked up from back then. I’ve never seen any signs that it’s true, but we call him that sometimes just to get him going. You should see him whip out his knife. And the curses when he gets really mad!”

“What does he say about Volkan?” I asked. I didn’t have time for taxi rank antics. It’d be best to finish with Huseyin before Ponpon returned.

“Well,” he said, taking a gulp of coffee, “Volkan was a fare collector back then, working with his brother-in-law.”

“That’s nothing new,” I said. “I already found that out.”

“The real bombshell’s about to come, but it seems someone’s a little impatient,” Huseyin teased.

“Out with it,” I commanded. “There’s no point in trying to build up suspense.”

“Back when Volkan was a fresh-faced boy, Ziya, that is, his uncle, would use him.”

In order to be certain I understood what he meant, Huseyin opened his eyes wide and carefully enunciated each word, with special emphasis on the word “use.” When he was finished, he looked at me expectantly, to gauge my reaction. My eyes, too, had flown wide open. We gaped at each other for a moment.

“The guy was a pederast. He used the boy until he went off to do his military service.”

I was truly astounded.

“You look surprised,” Huseyin said, all pleased with himself.

“I’m sure I do; I am. That’s the last thing I expected.”

“Wait, there’s more,” he said. “Why do you think he married Volkan’s big sister? So he could be near Volkan! When they got married, they had Volkan live with them. In the same house! Perfect. Not only were they working all day in the same minibus, but they spent nights under the same roof. Volkan must have been about thirteen or fourteen back then, but from what Brother Nazmi the Catamite says, he was a real knock-out. Everyone had eyes for him.”

“Anything else?” I asked, still stunned.

“Isn’t that enough? It’s incredible news! Sell it to a TV channel and they’d run it for a year.”

“Yes, it’s a real bombshell and all that, but what else did Nazmi say?”

He thought for a moment, sipping his coffee.

“He says that if you ask him, it was Ziya who killed Volkan.”

“What makes him so certain?”

“Jealousy,” he says. “When Volkan came back from the army he didn’t give Ziya the time of day. It’s true that our Nazmi wasn’t working as a minibus driver then, but he’d still get news of them from time to time. Ziya was mad as hell. He even threatened the boy, I mean Volkan. Pulled a knife on him and everything.”

“A bloody love story,” I remarked.

“I wouldn’t say for sure that it was love,” Huseyin objected.

“What is it then? You told me yourself that he was jealous.”

“So just because I act like a gentleman and don’t pull a knife on you, what I feel isn’t love?”

Here we go again, having the conversation I least wanted. Yes, Huseyin was fond of me. I understood that. And it was only natural that he would desire me. What wasn’t natural was Haluk Pekerdem not desiring me. But it was just like Huseyin to confuse lust with love. Perhaps he respected me, even liked me as a person, but that didn’t mean he loved me. There should be no such thing as unrequited love. It’s just so unfair. To him, and to me.

Chapter 13

Having sent Huseyin on his way, I reviewed all I knew before Ponpon came back. It was getting more and more confusing. Volkan, the ardent lover, had died, leaving behind scores of men and women with broken hearts, teary eyes, and unsatisfied libidos. Apparently, everyone within spitting distance of the late gigolo had fallen head over heels and embarked on some sort of adventure with him.

Even if Faruk Hanoglu was not responsible for the vicious slaying, and the media had, as usual, been overhasty in its pronouncement of guilt, there were still plenty of other suspects. Everyone I knew seemed to know something that would implicate someone.

That wonderful man, Haluk Pekerdem, had been cold to me and not the least bit helpful, but if he thought he had slipped through my clutches, he was taking me far too lightly. I would be visiting him on at least a few more occasions. I am nothing if not tenacious.

The list of people I wished to interview was growing: Volkan’s sodomite of a brother-in-law, Ziya; his addict brother, Okan; Refik Alt?n, despite his seeming innocence; Faruk Hanoglu, despite the difficulties I’d face in seeing him alone and in person; a separate meeting with Faruk’s wife, whose name I didn’t even know; and finally, there was the blue-blood lady herself, Canan Hanoglu Pekerdem. I’d already started sharpening my claws and tongue when it came to the wife of dearest Haluk.

I didn’t feel like haunting far-off minibus stands again. That meant I would postpone my interviews with Okan and Ziya for the moment. Ponpon could be tapped to arrange a meeting with Canan and her sister-in-law, Faruk’s wife. Once she returned from the sauna, all relaxed and glowing, I’d put her to work on that. That left only one person: Refik Alt?n.

I dialed his number. A mournful voice answered. Explaining I’d heard of his loss from Hasan, I offered my condolences.

“Thank you, nursie,” he said. “You can’t imagine the depths of my despair… I was unable to attend the funeral of my lover. I shrank from contact with the family. Forbidden love and all its attendant complications. Deprived even of a simple burial service.”

His possessive insistence on describing as his “lover,” a person openly described in the newspapers as a gigolo, was a bit odd.

“I haven’t been out and about much lately,” I said. “Had you been together long?”

“Concepts like time are meaningless,” he chided me. “It’s the intensity of what is shared… You know that. I mean, look, you’re only just recovering. And your affair ended so quickly, surely you remember that much…”

He was a master of rubbing salt in wounds. While he may have had a point, I still bristled.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“I really don’t need anything, nursie. I’ve been alone with my pain, letting it slowly flow to a place deep inside. In silence. I’ve been writing about it. Would you like to hear?”

That last question was a welcome one, but he began reciting his latest poem before I’d had a chance to respond no. So I imagined it was inspired by Haluk and listened to the end. I was actually quite moved.

“Beautiful,” I praised him. “So beautifully expressed!”

I remembered what Hasan had told me. Refik really was pouring his grief into his work.

He wasn’t going to tell me anything useful on the telephone. In fact, no one had told me anything of much use so far.

“Shall I stop around?” I asked.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “But if you do insist…”

It wouldn’t be any trouble, but neither was I insisting. I wasn’t even certain whether or not I wanted to see Refik. But I did want to see the photos of Volkan. The picture in the paper and the descriptions I’d heard wouldn’t suffice.

I jotted down his address and we agreed on a time.

The phone began ringing the second I put it down. Whoever was on the other end would know that I was at home. It was Ali. Judging from his tone of voice and careful choice of words, whatever he expected of me was extremely important. He suggested we meet at the office as soon as possible. What he wanted to tell me was too detailed and confidential for the phone.

I’d been dodging Ali and our work for some time, and his polite and friendly tone could only mean that a major account was in the balance. He’d even sent me a huge bouquet of flowers. I decided to postpone my visit to Refik in order to see Ali first.

I called Refik to explain.

“Nursie, don’t bother coming if it’s an inconvenience,” he said. “I only suggested it because you seemed so determined. I’m actually quite busy.”

Taking into consideration his recently broken heart, I listened patiently to his barbed monologue. I promised to stop by as soon as I had concluded my business with Ali.

I taped a large note to Ponpon on the full-length mirror in the hallway. It was the first thing she’d see when she walked into the flat. Ponpon never misses a mirror.

I dressed and hopped into a taxi, arriving at the office twenty minutes later. Insipid Figen met me at the door.

“It’s been so long,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”

Under rather different, more sincere circumstances there was nothing to object to in what she said. There was Ali, who must have heard my voice and suddenly appeared right next to me. No doubt afraid of being misinterpreted by the dour secretary, he skipped the usual bear hug and, taking me by the arm, propelled me straight to the room I occasionally use as an office.

As usual, Ali got straight to the point, one of his more admirable traits. After asking Figen to prepare two coffees, he shut the door and began outlining the task at hand.

An anonymous client or clients wanted me to crash their computer system, and to do it so thoroughly that it would never function again. Furthermore, I had to ensure that my work could not be traced. That was it, and it would be no problem. Previous clients had requested similar services in order to avoid the tax man or inspectors. Even if charged with fraudulent tampering or falsification, they would simply have their day in court and get off with a moderate fine. Or get whoever was on their tails off their backs.

Our work was to be confidential. No signed agreements. Just a handshake and the promised payment once our work was done. What was strange was their request that we do our job remotely. That is, not on their premises but long distance, using data cables or even telephones. And, of course, without leaving any tracks that could be traced later.

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