The Kiss Murder

Chapter 1

Heading for the bathroom, I switched the channel on the television to a game show, just to listen. Like all such programs, it’s aimed squarely at the unrepentantly ignorant, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy getting most of the questions right. In fact, some of the girls at the club even egg me on to become a contestant.

Wouldn’t it be great? they speculate. You’d really sock it to them.

"Ayol! As if they’d let someone like me on their show," I always respond. That shuts them up.

I finished shaving before the first round of questions was over. Next it was time for my makeup. When I’m in high spirits, this process can last for ages. Otherwise, it’s over in less than a couple of minutes. It was a hot night, so the club wouldn’t fill up until late. I had plenty of time.

With the right makeup, I’m transformed into a glamorous star of Hollywood’s golden age. My all-time favorite is Audrey Hepburn, that boyish beauty.

Perfect, once again. I blew myself a big kiss in the mirror. After dressing in a slinky leopard-print dress, semitransparent and dripping with sequins, I phoned the stand for a taxi. Hüseyin arrived. He’s one of those characters who addresses me with a respectful abi, or elder brother, by day, but salivates at the sight of me by night. As I emerged from the apartment building, he grinned at me like a fawning dog, as always. The moment I entered the cab he switched off the light. At least he’s a well-trained dog.

The club?

As if I would be going anywhere else at this hour.

Yes.

I abhor small talk.

We drove off. His eyes were on me, rather than the road. Not content with glimpses in the rearview mirror, he insolently turned to steal glances at me over his shoulder. Now, if he were my type, no problem. But not with that baby face. I like my men manly.

It’s steamy out, isn’t it?

Hmmm . . .

Everything’s sticking to me. I’m in the car all day long . . . Like a sun-dried sausage. But dripping wet.

Once again, I was subjected to the sight of a groveling hound.

But you work nights, don’t you?

I get all sticky at night, too.

Take lots of cold showers, then.

You think there’s a shower at the taxi stand? . . . Could I come to your place? We’ll cool off . . . Together . . .

Don’t be impertinent.

"Okay, abi . . . Just trying my luck. No big deal."

Over time, as the neighborhood has got to know me better, their attitude has changed. The guys at the taxi stand, too, suddenly saw me in a new light when I managed to teach a neighborhood creep a lesson, employing my formidable skills in Thai kickboxing and aikido, dressed all the while in the tiniest of miniskirts. The public thrashing of a guy twice my size gained me quite a bit of respect.

As I got out of the taxi in front of the club, Hüseyin asked, Should I pick you up when you finish?

If there’d been even the remotest chance of his turning out to be another John Holmes, I’d have entertained the idea. But there were none of the telltale signs. Neither his nose nor his fingers showed any promising length.

No, I said. There’s no telling when I’ll get out of here. Don’t bother waiting.

Our bodyguard, Cüneyt, met me at the door. I’ve always suspected that he uses an alias: somehow he seems more like a Mehmet Ali. Whatever his real name is, he’s one of those pumpers of iron. One night, when the club was empty, and only at the girls’ insistence, I arranged a little aikido demonstration. Apparently his back ached for a week. And I’d held back, only intending to put on a show! It’s so typical. Those gym bunnies often turn out to be paper tigers. And the steroids mean they’re not much fun in the sack, either.

The club was crowded tonight. Praise the Lord; we are very much in vogue. I won’t deny that I deserve some of the credit. After all, I’m the one who introduced a novel management approach, and a new set of rules and regulations.

Because I own a legal, if tiny, share of the club, the girls treat me as their boss. Their high regard for me is the result not only of my stake, but due to the fact that I hold down a day job. In other words, I am not dependent, as they are, on the payments collected from club customers.

Serap made a beeline for me, turning down the noisy music in order to speak:

"Abla, my boy’s here again . . . Should I go off with him?"

For free again?

But you know I’ve got a soft spot for him.

He’s taking advantage of you. At this rate you won’t even make the rent this month.

I’ll work later.

Doesn’t he stay with you all night?

"Ayol, are you kidding? . . . He lives with his family. He’s got to be home by midnight. Or deal with his big brother."

I smiled to myself. I know those censorious big brothers. They’re the sort who get up to things, or at least imagine getting up to things, that would make even my hair stand on end.

The sight of a pair of eyes glowing with longing made me change my mind about trying to talk some sense into her.

It’s up to you, sweetie, but take care not to let yourself go too much, I warned.

I’m as gone as I’ll ever get, was the reply.

So off you go, then.

Serap raced toward her sweetheart, a dry, dark, skinny slip of a nineteen-year-old, who was shorter than her and would have good reason to fear an older brother. Even as she ran, Serap did not neglect her trademark waggle of the hips. From what she says, the boy’s tackle warrants a second look, although that’s certainly not the impression he makes on first sight. Well, I suppose it’s never really clear who’s sporting what.

Leaving my drink on the bar, I pushed through the crowd toward the dance floor. Various girls greeted and kissed me as I passed. When I emerged on the floor, DJ Osman played my favorite track, the Weather Girls’ It’s Raining Men, and I started dancing. Buse approached me, her pallor obvious even in the darkness. Makeup does have its limitations. Acting like she was dancing, Buse came right up to me.

Can we talk? she said.

Placing an arm around her shoulders, I led Buse off the dance floor. In response to the quizzical look Osman threw me from the DJ booth, I gestured, Later.

What is it?

Can we go upstairs? It’s too noisy here. I don’t want to shout.

The girls often share their problems with me, consulting me on every subject under the sun, employing me as everything from financial advisor to agony aunt.

We went to the office on the top floor. It’s a low-ceilinged mezzanine, with a small window looking out over the interior of the club. It’s cluttered. Crammed into the room are a huge desk, a safe in the corner, two old armchairs, stocks of toilet paper and napkins, and crates of alcohol. I perched on the edge of a crate of wine. Buse sank into the only empty armchair. She fixed her eyes on me, as though expecting an explanation of some sort. I waited for a few moments, doing my best to understand. Had I forgotten anything? No, I hadn’t.

"What’s going on, ayol? I finally demanded. What’s with the questioning eyes? You’re the one who wanted to talk."

She continued staring intently, silent. Like she was sizing me up. She was clearly wondering whether or not to spill the beans.

I’m terrified, she began. Absolutely petrified . . .

I looked at her inquiringly. Thinking it best, I also allowed a sympathetic smile to settle into the corners of my mouth.

I don’t know where to start. I’m so confused.

Just start talking. Tell me anything you like, I encouraged.

She stared down at the floor, still silent. I began counting the stocks of rakı: nine crates, all fully encased in plastic.

I’m so frightened . . .

That much is clear, sweetie, I said. But why?

I waited for her to continue. Still not a peep. I began counting the boxes of white wine: five in all; less than I’d expected. There do seem to be a lot of white wine drinkers these days. We’re flying through the stock.

I’m in possession of certain documents.

Buse was still looking at the floor. Carefully choosing each word, she slowly continued, They concern an important person. A prominent person. If it ever got out, all hell would break loose. It’d be the biggest scandal ever.

My interest was piqued, despite myself.

Years ago . . . I was with someone, someone who’s very important now. And it wasn’t just a one-night stand. It was more like a relationship. It lasted for a long time. There are photos of us, together, at various times, in different places. And the notes he wrote me. I say notes, but one of them is more like a letter. Handwritten and signed. I mean, a proper letter. It spells out everything.

There was another long period of silence. I’d become more curious, but I still lacked the patience to wait for more. I moved on to the red wine. Only two cases. What concerned me most was the beer: only sixteen cases and four kegs left.

Someone knows I have the photos and letters.

The girls tend to be chatterboxes. They tell everyone everything, particularly if they bed a celebrity, however minor. Every last detail. Inevitably, the lover is actually straight, but just couldn’t resist yours truly. In fact, he’s fallen head over heels. Of course, these little tales are designed to advertise the beauty and singularity of the narrator—not all of them are true. Even I occasionally stretch the truth.

But the Buse I knew never indulged in these ego-inflating exercises. In fact, when I thought about it, I realized how little I did know about her. Her real name was Fevzi. She was from Istanbul. She lived alone in Teşvikiye. She had a cat. She was a bit older than the others, I’d guess close to forty.

When our sort passes forty, those with money shut themselves up in their homes; those without resources end up in third-rate music halls or back in the countryside, rubbing shoulders with the people. Every province in the land has a licensed kebab hall that employs our girls. Those exiled to the country come to Istanbul once a year to shop, exhibit themselves, and lie pitifully about how fabulously contented they are.

Anyway, Buse started receiving silicone injections about ten years ago. Then she began spraying herself liberally with L’Eau d’Issey.

I would never betray a relationship. I never have. When it’s over, it’s over.

Once again, she fell silent. This time, she lifted her eyes to the wall. Her unseeing eyes scanned the management license and tax report affixed there, and I began to read it as well.

It was very private and special in any case. And it still is. Very personal.

Buse focused her eyes onto the management license and fell into a sort of reverie. Although she said not a word, she was clearly on a virtual journey, reliving that relationship of which she’d said so little. I began toying with a bit of adhesive that had come loose on the tabletop. I lifted it with a fake fingernail, then allowed it to fall. I didn’t keep track of how many times I did this, but it took a while before Buse spoke again.

It’s got complicated. I told someone about it. I was high. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it must have been too much. Then someone else found out about the documents, and now they want me to hand them over.

Why? I asked.

For blackmail, I suppose.

Who are they?

I don’t know. First they left a message on my answering machine. I didn’t give it much thought. I didn’t do what they asked . . . Then they broke into my house. Last night, while I was here at the club. They went through all of my things but didn’t find anything.

Could it have been a burglar?

I thought that at first, but it wasn’t. They didn’t touch the money I had lying around. The stereo was still there. None of my jewels were missing. But the apartment had been turned upside down. I spent all day today cleaning up.

So where did you hide them? Why couldn’t they find them?

They’re at my mother’s, she replied.

I don’t understand.

Most of the girls have no contact with their families. They’re mostly outcasts.

At my mother’s. In my old bedroom. I sometimes stay there.

I see.

I’m afraid they’ll find her house, too. She’s old, never goes out.

The words rushed out of her. Our conversation had picked up speed.

If she never leaves her house, there shouldn’t be a problem.

Unfortunately, there is. My mother’s blind.

Now I got the picture. My eyes widened.

So she doesn’t know about you.

Of course, she knows all about me, Buse said. The blind see with their hands. She didn’t get it for quite a while, but the breasts, and then later the hair. She may be blind, but she’s not stupid.

The door opened and Hasan poked his head inside. In the nick of time. The last thing I needed tonight was more of Buse and her paranoia.

So you’re here, he noted.

It was easy to see that Buse couldn’t stand Hasan. Because of that, Hasan also seemed uneasy. Buse was not a favorite of his, either.

Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to let you know that a group claiming to be friends of yours has arrived, he announced. Group meant that it was a mixed party of men and women.

They’re asking for you. Are you going to come down?

My employees address me with the formal siz. I enjoy it. I turned to look at Buse, who had already risen to her feet.

I don’t want to give you any headaches. Forget it, she murmured. Whatever happens, happens.

I followed Hasan down the staircase, reluctantly adding,We’ll chat later. If you want to, stop by my place when you leave the club. It’s up to you.

Maybe, she said. She sounded drained. I let her pass me on the stairs.

We went down one by one, Hasan leading the way, followed by Buse and myself. Hasan’s jeans had slipped below his hips, exposing a bit of cleavage. I suspect he’s a bit light on his feet, he just isn’t aware of it yet. He’s been working at the club for nearly a full year and he’s on good terms with all the girls, but hasn’t slept with any of them—or a real girl for that matter. Not that we’ve heard of, anyway. Isn’t that a bit odd?

Then I inspected Buse’s bottom. She was unbelievably elegant as she descended the stairs. As the narrow male bottom shifted inside her tight leather miniskirt, the lights played incredible tricks. I realized I’d never really given her buns a second look. They stuck out like the two halves of an apple, eminently pinchable.

She hadn’t explained who it was she feared so much, or why. But just talking about it seemed to have soothed her. Then she was lost in the crowd.

Chapter 2

Hasan’s group consisted of Belkıs, the proprietor of a boutique in Nişantaşı, her husband Ferruh, the lyricist Suat, a man in advertising, and a lady journalist whose name I promptly forgot. It was the first I’d seen of the latter two. The advertising man was Ahmet, and he seemed to be a bit of a pansy. But all would be clear soon enough. I sat at their table. Assuming his most professional air, Hasan awaited our orders.

Despite his familiarity with Belkıs, Ferruh, and Suat, Hasan kept his distance, in deference to the strangers. Otherwise, he would have been arm in arm with Suat, excitedly exchanging the latest gossip.

A real macho man, Suat crossed her legs, lit her cigarette, and ordered a rakı. She was a lesbian of the extremist school. Many men appear positively feminine in comparison. Ferruh ordered a whiskey with lots of ice. The rest wanted white wine. Based on his choice of white wine, Ahmet revealed himself as almost certainly gay. Real men with money order hard liquor, the others settle for beer. What is the allure of wimpy white wine?

The club grew more crowded. It seemed the admission charge only incited more people to come out.

While enjoying myself with Belkıs and the others, I completely forgot about Buse. Belkıs’s shop is a bit démodé, but the occasional garment is just right for me, and at a good price. That is to say, we enjoy a special friendship. I sometimes find it hard to believe that her husband, Ferruh, is a financial advisor. He always strikes me as being a bit constipated. The jewelry he affects plays a large part in my disbelief: on his right wrist, a thick bracelet on which his name is written in diamanté; on his left wrist, a watch with a gold strap. Unfortunately, not a Rolex. Even less pleasant to the eye, three bejeweled golden rings on his hairy fingers. Isn’t that reason enough to explain my repulsion?

Suat’s real name is Ayşen; Suat is actually her surname. Having become famous under the name Suat, and with a decidedly more masculine appearance than you’d expect from an Ayşen, she now uses only that name. Suat ridicules men at all opportunities, and the fact that not a single male hand has touched her is a source of great pride. According to her categorization, the highest ranks of people consist exclusively of lesbians, followed by nonlesbian women, girls like us, gays, bisexuals and, finally, at the very bottom of the heap, straight men. She has not yet managed to write decent lyrics for a male singer. For them, she writes only the silliest tripe, depicting the most foolish of emotional states. All of her hits—and their number is considerable—are written for female singers unable or unwilling to return her passionate feelings. For a time, Suat was tailed like a shadow by a freckled, red-haired singer who helped Suat quite a bit in making a name for herself in the market. But the day the singer addressed Suat in a loud voice, in front of everyone, as Ayşen, it was over. The event was splashed across the front pages of the entertainment press.

This was her first appearance at the club in quite a while. She didn’t clasp me in a bear hug and pat my bottom, as was her habit, and I took this as a positive sign. But there was no saying what she would do after her fifth glass of rakı.

Latent Ahmet, the gentleman in advertising, was the picture of refinement as he took tiny sips of his white wine. His unease manifested itself in chain-smoking. Being in a place like this, with people he knew, was more than he could handle. He looked around enviously, inwardly sighing at the sight of the boys dancing with our girls. It was a foregone conclusion that I’d see him arrive at the club on his own one day, prepared to let his hair down when there were no acquaintances around.

The lady journalist, whose name I had missed, looked around curiously. It may have been her first exposure to our culture. She threw stealthy glances my way from time to time, but permitted herself no eye contact. I used my bass range, out of spite. When she looked my way, I smiled sweetly. After answering their questions, I took my leave. I’d finished half my drink, in any case. As I said, there’s a lot to do on a busy night.

When I rose from the table, Buse took a seat next to Belkıs and her husband, both of whom she knew. From what I remembered, the three had engaged in some sort of ménage à trois once upon a time. Buse had described the encounter as less than successful, with all three unable to overcome a fit of giggles. When Ferruh and Belkıs began quarreling, Buse took off.

I began focusing on other things. There were any number of men of different ages and types, and the girls, my girls, so attractive and so very grateful for my attentiveness. And then there are those who occasionally cause trouble. I will not have in my club girls who become drunkenly abrasive. Such girls, and the men who get out of hand jockeying for a favorite, are not permitted to pass through these doors a second time. Even Alain Delon would be barred under such circumstances. It’s terribly old-fashioned, I know, but the word man instantly conjures up images of Alain Delon. And his youth! I inherited at least some of this admiration for Alain from my