Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

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, and 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.

“It was thick… and it was long… and it had a massive head the most luscious shade of pink… I mean, once you got your hands on it they had to be pried off. The edges of the crown were like delicate lacework, the snaking veins of the shaft like needle-work. So rare; so fine! Wonder of wonders, wrought with the utmost care by the Lord above. And when he came, well, it positively gushed… Never in my life have I seen or feasted on anything like it.”

Her audience had fallen completely silent and was on the edges of their seats, spellbound, sighing, hearts racing, palms sweaty.

Every good story has a bad guy, and in this case it was Volkan’s brother by marriage, his sister’s husband. The brother-in-law had a strange control over Volkan, who followed his advice to the letter and would do nothing without consulting him first. But the two were also known to have long and loud arguments. Volkan would say horrible things behind the brother-in-law’s back but was reduced to an obedient child in his presence.

According to Beyza, the bad brother-in-law, who was also a minibus driver, had forced Volkan to go from being an amateur gigolo to a professional one.

Blackbrow Lulu was having none of it. “He must have had it in him,” she protested. “He couldn’t have done it otherwise. Do you really think just anyone can become a gigolo? You’re all so gullible! Wake up!”

“I don’t care if you believe me or not. The boy was an angel. It was that brother-in-law who spoiled him. And who put him off me. Of course the money had something to do with it. Volkan was up to his ears in debt. He owed for the minibus. I was helping him out but could only do so much.”

“Didn’t I tell you! See, he was taking your money!” Lulu roared triumphantly. “Instead of blaming him, why don’t you take a good look at yourself? You’re the one who got the boy used to accepting money.”

“Look, Lulu,” interrupted Melisa, “if you go on like that you’ll get a good walloping. And Dump Truck’s got a heavy hand. Take it from me, girlfriend.”

“She got that right,” growled Dump Truck.

I interjected. “Ignore them. What happened next?”

Not only was I their hostess, but these girls hung out every night at my club. My wish was their command. The girls shut up and Dump Truck continued.

Whether it was the brother-in-law’s idea or not, it wasn’t long before Volkan became the most sought after gigolo in Istanbul. Nor was it long before the visits to Beyza suddenly stopped. He still got behind the wheel of his minibus from time to time, but he usually left his vehicle in the care of a younger brother or a driver hired for the day. Volkan’s time had become far too valuable for ordinary work.

“Such a pity,” she concluded. “A lion of a man, and a dick unlikely to grace this earth ever again. What a waste. May Allah strike down whoever did it! May their hands be broken, their eyes blinded, their hearths extinguished… Have I left anything out?”

“That should do it, dear,” Melisa assured her.

So, the part-time minibus driver allegedly killed by Haluk Pekerdem’s brother-in-law, Faruk Hanoğlu, had also been a well-known gigolo…

The girls all left just before Hasan arrived. The chatter, Xanax, and waxing session had left me exhausted, but I still had him to deal with.

A gypsy-pink bag full of accounting books slung across one shoulder, Hasan came determined to fill me in on all that had transpired at the club during my absence, right down to every last broken glass, every restocked roll of toilet paper.

Pulling up his low-slung jeans, he settled into the chair nearest me, bemoaning the crushing responsibility and sleepless nights he’d suffered, as he worked his way through what was left of Ponpon’s cake and a tray of spicy walnut canapés. Hasan’s lack of a gut is yet another example of God’s miracles.

I was overcome by fatigue at the sight of all those accounting books spread out before me. Ponpon took over, gracious hostess mode instantly replaced by a studious headmistress taking stock of pencils and merit badges. Slips of paper were occasionally presented for my approval, and I duly nodded, not bothering to look, and no doubt grinning like a total imbecile, thanks to the Xanax.

Hasan finished expounding on the conscientious discharge of his self-appointed duties in excruciating detail, filling his belly as he filled our ears. Now he moved on to the juicy morsels and choice bits of dirt that are his stock in trade.

The stream of gossip left behind by the recently departed girls was elaborated upon, corrected, and reinterpreted by Hasan: the real reason Afet and İpek had fallen out, and the true identity of the owner of the fur collar they’d scrapped over; the inferior quality of the silicone injections in Sırma’s somewhat overripe lips; the crush our barman, Şükrü, had on the comely twink Kaan, who for his part drooled over our bodyguard, Cüneyt, for which reason Şükrü was sore at Çüneyt, who was ignorant of the feelings of either Şükrü or Kaan; and then there was the hapless Mehtap, still wearing her ridiculous red wig, believing it brought her luck.

My boss, Ali, dubbed “the money counter” by Hasan, had come to the club twice looking for me, sending his wishes for a speedy recovery when Hasan told him I was incapacitated by depression. (He hadn’t bothered sending flowers at the news of my “condition,” but I’d long since learned not to expect courtesies of that sort.)