Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

Haluk embraced her. I found that unnecessary. It should have been me.

“Can you leave us alone until the police come?” he asked.

Everything happened that night just as Nimet and I had planned, like an Agatha Christie novel, or even better, the starstudded finale of a film adaptation: Murder on the Orient Express , Death on the Nile , The Mirror Crack’d, and Evil Under the Sun had nothing on us, even with cameos by Sean Connery, Ingrid Bergman, Bette Davis, Maggie Smith, Lauren Bacall, Jacqueline Bisset, Diana Rigg, Elizabeth Taylor, Jane Birkin, Mia Farrow, and Anthony Perkins.

Canan and Sami were led away in handcuffs. That business with the Telekom records was kindly swept under the carpet, thanks to Selçuk. After all, Cihad2000 and I had helped solve two murders.

With the mystery of her husband’s murder cleared up, Nimet began the painful mourning process. We hope to visit each other regularly. We even talked about taking a short holiday together. She’s always wanted to visit the coast of Croatia. “ Dalmatia is supposed to be wonderful,” she says. We haven’t yet had a chance to make definite travel plans. I hope we become friends. And if we do, she’ll certainly be a novel addition to my little circle.

Ali was terrified when he found out what a close call we’d had. I expect he’ll steer clear of shady contracts, at least for a while. I also expect a resulting drop in the company’s fortunes-and mine.

Kemal, alias Cihad2000, meets regularly with Pamir. As far as I know, he no longer rents five-star suites, settling instead for more modestly priced hotels. “I only have eyes for her,” he claims. Pamir retorts, “I’m a professional, ayol.”

No one’s seen Refik around for a while, at the club or anywhere else. They say he and his lover have taken a long holiday, either in Tunisia or in a village down south. Rumor has it that he’s working on his latest masterpiece.

Sami is in jail, of course. If he does get out, Ziya Göktaş may honor his oath to avenge Volkan’s death.

We’ve still got to take care of the scum in Hasan’s neighborhood. I don’t want to bother Selçuk about it. Perhaps I can find another way. I’m thinking it over.

Haluk Pekerdem is still in jail. I can’t imagine him there. I hope nothing bad happens, that he doesn’t get droopy shoulders and sad eyes, gain or lose too much weight, or otherwise allow his amazing good looks to deteriorate in any way. He’s being charged only with being an accessory to a crime and with concealment of evidence. In any case, he’ll be out long before his wife, Canan. I’m still hopeful. Who knows?

I have always watched awards ceremonies-especially the Oscars-with a sense of amazement and good-natured envy. The award winners invariably present a long list of those believed to have contributed in some way to their general development. It is a fascinating life survey, embracing everyone from parents and teachers, to those well-known sources of inspiration, neighbors and pets.

Presented with the opportunity to compile my own list, I have decided to milk it for all it’s worth. If I have overlooked anyone, I apologize for the oversight of my editor and consultant.

First of all, I would naturally like to thank my family: My mother, dearest Meloş; my late father, even if he is unable to read this; my brother, who I believe has always taken life much more seriously than I have; his spouse, the happy result of my skills as a matchmaker; my late grandmother on my mother’s side, who was always a source of joy and panic in the house where I grew up; that pillar of dignified calm, my late great-grandmother on my father’s side; various other relatives, some living, others no longer with us, including my aunts, uncles, maternal uncles, first- and second-generation cousins-those passed over know who they are-and, finally, because anything but a specific mention would be a disgrace, my “special” cousin, Yeşim Toduk; my aunts’ husbands, and my aunts-in-law.

Next come the friends I would like to thank: Naim Faik Dilmener, who patiently read my manuscript, guiding and encouraging me, and who is himself a keen reader of detective stories and an authority on golden oldie 45s, as well as his son, but in particular his wife, “Belinda”; Berran Tözer, who set out with me when this project was a five-book miniseries, but threw in the towel by the time we reached page 27; my esteemed partners and fellow consultants with whom I make a respectable living-for it would be impossible for me to survive on my earnings from writing books-Işıl Dayıoğlu Aslan and A. Ateş Akansel and their spouses Burçak and Suada (who is also my Reiki master), as well as Işıl and Burçak’s daughter, Zeynep; and Ateş and Suada’s dogs.

Despite their not really know what exactly was going on, I would like to thank, for their unfailing emotional support, Mehmet “Serdar” Omay; Murathan Mungan; Füsun Akatlı and her daughter, Zeynep, though we haven’t seen each other in a long time; and Zeynep Zeytinoğlu; Yıldırım Türker; Nejat Ulusay; Nilgün Abisel; Levent Suner; Nilüfer Kavalalı; Mete Özgencil, whose painting, in which I lose myself from time to time, hangs on the wall of my study; and Barbaros Altuğ, who somehow managed to motivate me without making his intentions obvious, and who is now my agent and imagines that he will somehow emerge unblemished from all of this.

Miraç Atuna, who constantly reinvents herself and, like me, wakes up before dawn, therefore making it possible for me to have a phone conversation with someone before 7 AM.

My business colleagues Kezban Eren, Derya Babuç, and-yes, her surname is real-Pelin Burmabıyıklıoğlu; the ever-smiling Remzi Demircan and Meral Emeksiz, who are the most positive people I’ve ever met; everyone I’ve met and encountered at offices anywhere, especially the sometimes capricious secretaries for enduring all kinds of cruelty; all of my eccentric former managers and bosses-I have somehow never been able to locate the normal ones, with the exception of Ergin Bener, who, of that group, is the only one completely at peace with his inner child.

And as far as those responsible for my technical development: naturally, all of “our” girls, if for no other reason than their courage and their very existence. My encounters with each and every one of them has enabled me, consciously or unconsciously, to make use of their many impersonations, gestures, styles, and sometimes the revealing detail of a single word.

The publishing house that will print this book, my editor or editors, copy editor, proofreader, binder, cover designer, and all those involved in promoting, distributing, and selling the book.

The many who through their works have inspired me over the years, including Honoré de Balzac, Patricia Highsmith, Saki, Truman Capote, Christopher Isherwood, Reşat Ekrem Koçu, André Gide, Marquis de Sade, Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Yusuf Atılgan, Hüseyin Rahmi Gürpınar, Gore Vidal, Serdar Turgut, and many others.

Those whose music has enabled me to find inner peace: G. F. Handel, Gustave Mahler, Schubert, V. Bellini’s Norma in particular, Tchaikovsky, Eric Satie, Philip Glass, Cole Porter, Eleni Karaindrou, Michel Berger, and all composers everywhere.

And all the artists who give voice to these works, but especially the opera singers-I treasure their presence: Maria Callas; Lucia Popp; Leyla Gencer; Anna Moffo; Teresa Berganza; Montserrat Caballe; Inessa Galante; Gülgez Altındağ; Yıldız Tumbul; Aylin Ateş; Franco Corelli, for both his voice and physique; Thomas Hampson, whose portrait hangs in my bedroom, next to Maria Callas’s, for his Mahler lieder ; Jose Cura; Tito Schipa; Fritz Wunderlich; Suat Arıkan for making me feel to the marrow each time I watch or listen to him, and for the joy of performance; and for the same reason, composer Leonard Bernstein; Yekta Kara, whose wonderful productions restored the visual pleasures of opera; and finally, on another level, the worst soprano of all time: Florence Foster Jenkins.