The Gigolo Murder

since I’d encountered such a perfect specimen of manhood outside pictures and films, that is, in the flesh. He had awakened such deep desires.

It was still early. I decided to call him. After all, he had given me his card. I could always just thank him for the previous night. Just the thought of his voice gave me hot flashes. I imagined him holding the receiver, speaking to me. Naked, of course. His reciprocal desire for me boldly apparent… I shivered.

He answered the phone himself. Even his self-assured hello oozed masculine mystique. My first disappointment was his failure to recognize my voice. Bastard! I reintroduced myself. He remembered now. I thanked him for the previous night, assured him how charmed I had been to meet him. I was careful not mention the wife, Canan. I didn’t signify that I’d met her as well. I spoke of our night together as though it had been just the two of us.

“I saw the papers today,” I began. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were Faruk Bey’s brother-in-law.”

He listened, demoralizing me by making no attempt to prolong the conversation.

“I just wondered,” I said, “if there have been any further developments.”

“We’ll handle it,” was the terse reply.

I had no idea what he intended to handle, or how, but contented myself with a simple “good.” I heard him take a breath. He cleared his throat with a light cough.

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m here.” Silence.

“I thought the line had been cut.”

He couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t feel the same pleasure talking to me that I felt talking to him. I fought a sinking feeling. I had no intention of giving up so easily.

“It seems Volkan Sar?dogan, the late Volkan Sar?dogan, was a gigolo,” I informed him, hoping to provoke a response. “Some of our girls knew him; even some of our gay friends.”

If he didn’t take the bait, there was really nothing more I could do.

“We know,” he said.

“What I mean is, if there’s anything I could do… I know everyone in those circles.”

“That’s kind of you. There’s no evidence to incriminate Faruk. But they’ve detained him anyway. It’s all sensation. There are those who like him. And those who don’t. There’s more to all this than meets the eye. He’ll be out in a couple of days.”

Now that’s more like it. A bit terse, but he was speaking. I’d loosen his tongue yet.

“They can’t pin it on Faruk just because the last three phone calls made by the deceased were to him, can they?”

“Apparently they can try,” he said dryly.

“An acquaintance of mine claims to have been Volkan’s lover.” I hesitated at the word “acquaintance.” Should I have said “friend”? No, Refik Alt?n couldn’t be described as a friend of mine. I only knew him from the club. “If any information would…”

He cut me off.

“It’s the police’s job to find the killer. Whether it’s an acquaintance of yours or not. It’s my job to prove Faruk’s innocence.”

He’d interpreted my offer of help as a finger-pointing at another suspect. Funny, it had never occurred to me, but Refik Alt?n could well have been the killer.

“I see,” I said.

He must have detected the hurt feelings in my voice.

“Still, thank you for your offer,” he said. “It was most thoughtful of you to call.”

There wasn’t a hint of emotion behind his words. Spoken like a professional. No gratitude, no pleasure at hearing my voice.

Wishing him a good night, I prepared to hang up, then added, “Greetings to your wife” at the last second.

Haluk Pekerdem was a tough nut. If I played my cards right, he would be mine. But I’d have to work for it. And I couldn’t blame him. The person he’d met had not been me. He’d met a badly dressed tranny in face paint. Me at my most clumsy and insecure. He was right not to have anything to do with that person. I accepted, when I put himself in his shoes, that I would have behaved exactly the same way. But I also had to admit that the person sitting at the table that night, smiling nervously, fabric hanging off her emaciated frame, was none other than me.

Dressed to the nines, I would visit him at the first opportunity! He was going to meet the real me.

Chapter 7

I was asleep before Ponpon returned, and up before she’d risen. Taking my morning cup of coffee, I sat in front of the computer. Hundreds of e-mails had accumulated during my depression and I’d keep busy sorting them until Ponpon woke up and we had breakfast together.

Off went all the spam to the recycle bin, unopened. Ali had forwarded every work-related e-mail to me. Some included a line or two asking how I was; to others he’d attached a joke of some kind. But most were simply forwarded. It would take at least a few days to go over them all. I sent them to a folder for later inspection.

Cihad2000, that is, Kemal Barutcu, had increased the frequency and intensity of the messages he sent me. The more fervent, the more likely they were to contain elements of Islamic radicalism. The latest was full of prayers, scripture, and condemnation. I replied with a brief e-mail explaining my silence. The last thing I wanted was to antagonize Kemal. He’s one of the few computer geeks who faze me. At first I’d felt pity for the Stephen Hawking- like figure in the wheelchair, but the minute we’d moved on to the subject of sex-and that happened in no time-he was audacious to the extreme.

From the four corners of the globe hundreds of my fellow hackers, their true identities and faces unknown to me, had showered me with new codes, hacking suggestions, and the latest on gaining access to proprietary systems. I answered the shorter messages and filed away those I thought would be of interest, naturally deleting the identity of the senders.

Selcuk and Ayla Tayanc had sent me New Year’s greetings. The three of us had grown up together in the same neighborhood. We’d played doctor. Up until we reached puberty, Selcuk would suck my lips till they swelled up; I’d do the same to Ayla. But then he fixed on Ayla exclusively and later married her. Our friendship had remained fast all these years, but no mention was ever made of my swollen lips. Actually, that was just as well. Selcuk was now pot-bellied and going bald. They had a pair of pimply sons, and wrote to me that it was with the older one’s assistance and his new computer that they’d managed to send an e-mail. And they’d attached a family photograph. Selcuk was still a big shot at the police department. I often turned to him for help and was constantly indebted.

I was more pleased than usual to hear from Selcuk. I’d be indebted to him once again, this time over Volkan Sar?dogan, whose demise obsessed me only because of my dream man, Haluk Pekerdem. I replied to the letter, attaching two photographs: one of me as a man and one as an all-out vamp. Beneath the pair of pictures I wrote “before” and “after.” Just as I was about to hit the reply button, I remembered that the letter had come from the son. There was no need to confuse the dear boy, or undermine the morality of that little family. I had no way of knowing if he’d yet come face-to-face with the facts of life. Detaching the pictures, I sent just the message.

It was high time Ponpon got out of bed and fixed us breakfast. The handfuls of vitamins had whetted my appetite. It didn’t matter how many crackers, cookies, and biscuits I ate, I never felt full. I put on a CD, planning to turn up the volume every five minutes. Dalida’s rhythmic “Salma ya Salama” reverberated throughout the flat. The rain had stopped, and for the second morning in a row the sun shone brightly.

Before I’d had to ratchet up the sound another notch, Ponpon appeared, sleepy-eyed but with a cheery “good morning,” singing out each syllable.

As Dalida finished the second chorus, Ponpon, wrapped tightly in a kimono, back straight and face free of makeup, began heading for the bathroom with tiny geisha steps, the floorboards groaning under her delicately placed feet.

While she took a shower, I began making phone calls. First I called Selcuk. It took a little while before they put me through, but Ponpon’s morning rituals would last for some time to come.

“There’s the fugitive!” boomed Selcuk. “Where have you been? Unless you’re hot on some trail, you never think to call. Who knows what you’ve been up to, or where.”

“I haven’t been up to a thing. I’ve been here at home. I’ve just been going through a bad patch.”

“So that’s it! Just tell me what I can do for you. Whatever you need, just spell it out.”

The sincerity in his voice, his eagerness to help me whenever I called, touched me deeply. But that doesn’t mean tears came to my eyes.

“I was going through a bad patch in my personal life. It’s all past now; I’m trying to get it together,” I began. “I just wanted to sort out my thoughts and feelings, spend some time alone.”

“But now you’re okay?” he said hesitantly, unsure what else to say. “It happens sometimes. To all of us.”

“How true,” I concurred. “Anyway, the worst is behind me.”

“Good… good,” he said. “I’m glad.”

“I got your New Year’s message,” I said, changing the subject.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. Now that the boys are using the Internet, the wife and I are learning it, too.”

“They must be growing up so fast. They’re nearly full-grown men by now.”

“You should come and see them. Cetin is thirteen and Metin just turned ten. Really, come by for dinner one night. You’ll have a chance to see the boys and we can talk about old times.”

“Aren’t you afraid to have me over?” I asked. “Don’t you worry I may set a bad example for the boys? You never know, I may even fancy one of them.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he laughed.

I had to laugh, too.

“There’s something I’d like to ask you,” I said.

“I should have known,” he responded. “Here we go again…”

I filled Selcuk in on the Volkan Sar?dogan murder, and gave him some background on Faruk Hanoglu.