The Gigolo Murder

every day in close proximity to the divine Haluk?

Chapter 21

As I made my way home, shivering, I pieced together a clearer picture of what we were up against. Lawyer Sibel had been tight-lipped, careful not to give the game away. Her very presence spoke volumes, however. No longer able to endure the little piece of theater going on, I’d gotten down to brass tacks.

“It’s only natural that you wish to conceal the identity of your client. I appreciate that,” I’d said. “But considering that the name of Faruk Hanoglu, and even that of ”-here I was extemporizing-“Haluk Pekerdem, was listed in the Telekom records we accessed and destroyed, it may well be in your best interests to be a bit more… forthcoming.”

I had threatened her openly. Her professional lawyer’s mask firmly in place, she’d foolishly attempted to stare me down. Seconds later she’d glanced away and said, “I can’t say I fully comprehend your exact meaning here. Still, I’ll give your words the consideration they’re due.”

That was enough for me. The dots had been connected. Faruk Hanoglu had sought to destroy any phone records that could implicate him in the murder. And he’d used his brother-in-law to do it. The total extent of the crooked and devious manipulations involving the phone records was anyone’s guess.

The question running through my mind that night as I walked past the Ataturk Cultural Center in Taksim Square was “why?” All that money and effort had been spent in the name of protection, or, more accurately, concealment. Why? What exactly were they trying to hide? What was behind a seemingly routine murder that had brought together two completely different groups of people?

My cozy home was empty. There was no sign of Ponpon. I resented her for having disappeared right when I needed her most. Of course she couldn’t have known, but even so… One doesn’t need a good reason to take offense. Just the impulse.

Remembering my aromatic state, I raced to the shower. Standing under the stinging hot water, I asked myself why I keep getting mixed up in things that are none of my business. Actually, this time things had landed right in my lap. Still, I needn’t have rushed in as an amateur sleuth. Had I left well enough alone, the case would most likely have been closed. Why had I gone digging? What was I trying to prove to myself-and others? Knowing full well that the answer to that last question would be far from agreeable, I dropped it. I stepped out of the shower. My stomach was grumbling with hunger. When I saw that Ponpon had stocked the fridge, I felt better. I helped myself, loading a large plate, buffet style. Alcina had been left in the CD player, and I pushed “play.” Handel’s soothing strings filled the room. Self-reflection had done nothing to dent my appetite; I gobbled up everything on the plate.

There was no getting out of it. The time had come to pay a little call on Faruk Hanoglu. I wouldn’t be able to arrive unannounced. Men like him are always sheltered from surprise visitors; even if not flanked twenty-four hours a day by bodyguards, he’d be living in a high-security walled estate. I’d have to find a less conventional way to impose myself on him.

I called Ponpon, who answered drowsily.

“Merhaba. I must have dozed in front of the television.”

“Have I been abandoned?” I half joked, half grumbled.

“What kind of talk is that?! Consider it unsaid!”

“Just kidding.” I laughed. Then I got straight to the point: “Arrange a meeting with Faruk Bey. If possible, for tonight.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello? Ponpon? Are you there?”

“Yes, ayol. I was thinking.”

Ponpon never thinks in silence. She must have been trying to come out of her sleepy stupor. It wasn’t long before she had the presence of mind to fire a question back at me.

“Why?”

“I suspect he’s got me involved in something dodgy. We need to talk, face-to-face.”

“You mean about that boy with the big thingy?”

“It could be relevant. I’m not sure. I did something I’m not entirely comfortable with. I need to get the bottom of it. Only then will I be able to relax.”

“Hmmm…”

I didn’t know how to interpret Ponpon’s response. Silence. I waited.

“I’ll give him a call and get back to you.”

“Whatever you do, don’t mention that funny business! I don’t want to raise his suspicions.”

“I figured out that much, ayol! Good-bye!”

I decided to give Cihad2000 a call while I waited for Ponpon. By now he could have calmed down, had a good look at the records he’d downloaded, and discovered something useful. He didn’t answer his private phone. Convinced he was busy, I didn’t persist. I also didn’t want to drive the sad-eyed mother to answer her son’s phone, forcing me to speak to her. Instead, I tried reaching him on the Internet, but there was no sign of him in any of the usual chat rooms. Sorting through my extensive porn collection for two pictures I knew would appeal to his tastes, I attached them to a message and sent it. They’d pop up the second he went online.

I had a million and one things to do, but no intention of doing any of them. No, I’d savor the tension of waiting, the discomfort of being unable to do anything. The picture hanging on the wall directly across was slightly crooked. It showed me posing with RuPaul at the London Gay Pride Parade. My eyes were closed, but my outfit was fabulous. Even RuPaul had admired it. I’d just returned to my seat when the phone rang. Certain it was Ponpon, I lunged for the receiver.

On the other end, drawing out every syllable of his “Merhaba” as always, was Hasan. “I called to ask how you were. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am,” I said. “Thank you. Much better now.”

“I’m so glad to hear that. So, will you be round tonight?”

I hadn’t yet decided whether or not to drop by the club. It depended on the news from Ponpon. Actually, Faruk Hanoglu was not likely to devote an entire night to me, even if we did meet.

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“We’ll talk then,” he said, and hung up.

Chatterbox Hasan had hung up in record time. Something was up. I rang him back immediately.

“Yes?” he asked. “Did you forget something?”

“No, but you always have something to say. Anything wrong? Don’t go getting all funny on me. You know I’ve only just come right. I can’t handle another shock.”

I managed a light laugh, but I was dead serious.

Hasan was silent. Something had come over everyone tonight. No one was prepared to give me a quick answer or response.

“It’s nothing…” he finally said. Then, he reversed himself with “Well, there is something, but we’ll talk when you get here. It’ll take time.”

I wanted to tell him that I had plenty of time, or even ask him to come over, but I was expecting an important call from Ponpon. I left it at “fine.”

I could have mulled over all I hadn’t told Hasan. I could even have produced a tiny prick of conscience for having left him in the dark. But I didn’t do either.

Chapter 22

Faruk Hanoglu lives in Yenikoy, right on the shores of the Bosphorus. At the front gate, apparently expecting me, was an elderly creature in the early stages of fossilization. As soon as I told him my name, I was waved through into an enormous, beautifully manicured garden that stretched from the main road all the way to the sea. Although it was night, I was certain not a single dried leaf had been allowed to fall to the ground, not a single wayward branch allowed to live. It was a secret paradise hidden behind high walls. The house stood in a small wood at the end of a long, well-lit path lined with ancient trees. A few steps led up to the glass door of the main building, in which a rather younger, better-dressed figure waited to greet me. In his forties, he wasn’t in traditional butler gear, wasn’t even in a suit. Over a beige shirt, he wore a brown V-neck sweater.

“Welcome,” he said. “Faruk Bey will see you in a moment. Come in.”

I was led to a ground floor room built virtually over the sea.

“Could I get you any refreshments while you wait?”

It was the most cordial offer I’d had for some time. His tone was refined and reflected a perfectly modulated courtesy, the correct balance of respectful distance and gracious warmth. Whatever he was, he did it beautifully.

He ushered me into a room at least half the size of my entire flat but clearly not furnished as a living room, or even a sitting room. It served only as a waiting room for guests like me. Facing each other were a pair of antique sofas. Two spindly chairs with wooden arms and threadbare Gobelin cushions stood guard. Heavy, matching gilt framed a series of wall mirrors and an ominous still life of a watermelon and a bunch of grapes.

As for the view from the window, only a string of adjectives like “fabulous,” “marvelous,” and “extraordinary” could begin to describe it. The dark of night lent the scene an element of mystery and otherworldliness; in the murky waters of the strait glowed the lights of the opposite shore and passing ships. I felt that if I leaped through the window I would become a part of the fairy-tale world outside.

As I sipped water from a fine antique glass, I tried to decide what to say to Faruk Hanoglu. I’d just begun losing myself in the watery view when the door opened and the master of the house entered dressed in a Muzaffer Tema costume: a silk dressing gown and crimson ascot. I had no idea that anyone actually dressed like that anymore. A film had come to life. On his face was a smile of the sort favored by his sister, an affectation of snobbish nobility.

“Merhaba,” he said, shaking my hand. “Welcome. I hope you haven’t waited long. Ponpon’s call took me by surprise. But when she said it was urgent I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her. We’re so fond of Ponpon, you see.”

I thanked him.