The Prophet Murders (4 page)

“One day, on the staircase, she tried to hustle someone who’d just left my place. That was the last straw.”

To be honest, that sort of behaviour makes me cross, too. But I still didn’t believe she deserved to die.

“I don’t think so,” I assured her.

“Good. I’ve been working at home lately. I have a few regulars. You understand. The last thing I need is trouble with the police.”

I did understand.

Another group of girls came in, immediately followed by two men dressed like fruit vendors. While I’m not attracted to that particular type, I do appreciate their patronage. They hold their liquor like gentlemen, treat the girls to drinks and plates of sliced fruit, and leave big tips, as a way of showing off. In short, they’re big spenders. They don’t make trouble, and leave with whichever girl they fancy.

I recognised one of them, and nodded a greeting. He responded, with reverence.

The boys were back to manning their stations. Two young neighbourhood toughs had also arrived, and were checking out the club with looks of hunger and insolence. They chose a spot far from the dance floor, against the wall but with a good view. The girls began getting in gear. Naturally, most of them prefer young men. Even if they don’t earn as much money, off they go, saying they are “doing it for fun’’.

Customers come early for one of two reasons: To make a selection while there are still plenty of girls or to return home at a reasonable hour. But there’s a drawback, which is a bit of common knowledge: The girls are more expensive early at night. As dawn approaches, the price of the unchosen falls.

And the club sprang to life.

While they may not be the latest thing, the Weather Girls’ “It’s Raining Men”, Eartha Kitt’s “Where is My Man” and the first
version of Ajda Pekkan’s “Uykusuz Her Gece (Sleepless Every Night)”, along with, sometimes, “Bamba
ka Biri (Someone Completely
Different)”, are definitely played in my honour, as well as a Grace Jones or RuPaul number. I’m also fond of many of today’s
hits, giving me another excuse to dance.

The girls, for their part, use the dance floor to display their charms to potential customers. Anyone wanting some attention
simply heads for the dance floor and lets rip. If they get along well with Osman, he’ll arrange a spotlight. And the show
begins.

If Osman has a bone to pick, though, he’ll cut a tune right off, or speed up or slow it down. In other words, he’ll most definitely
find a way to ruin the show. If nothing else, the spot disappears and the eager performer is left in the dark.

I have one unbending rule: girls are not to strip on stage. If one dares to, off go the lights. The girl guilty of exposing
this or that bit of flesh is issued a warning. Those who persist are barred from the premises. Everyone is absolutely familiar
with this rule.

Those desperate to show off their wares are free to do so at the tables in the back; to this, I have no objections. Provided
they maintain a sense of discretion, the girls are allowed to promote themselves. Some of the more self-confident young men,
that is, those who take pride in their bodies, also make an appearance on the dance floor. Once again, I have no objections.
I countenance anything aesthetically pleasing, and even enjoy watching.

As for the occasional flaunting of underdeveloped musculatures, I leave it to Osman to handle things.

Furthermore, I expect male patrons, as well, to proceed to the shadowy tables at the back. Nothing is to be done out in the
open!

Ahmet Kuyu, an actor well past his prime, arrived some time later. For us, his claim to fame has more to do with his infamously
poor treatment of our girls than his old films. To date, not a single one of the girls who has escorted him from the club
has escaped without a bruised face. I have been fully briefed on his other nasty and shameless tricks. Despite having been
taken to an inner room and given a warning, he has dared to come again. Cüneyt must not have noticed, since Ahmet has come
as part of a large group.

They were also a mixed group, in terms of age, attire and of course economic status. In view of Ahmet Kuyu’s smarmy deference,
the most important person in the group was a man who could be considered fairly young. He was looking around with an air of
superior interest. His clothing was smart, but casual. Not a style I admire. His face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place
it. He is probably a TV producer, someone able to land a long-awaited role for Ahmet Kuyu. Our sadistic actor has not appeared
in a film for years, and is rarely given a role, even in one of those disagreeable series shown on dozens of channels.

There were no ladies. Large groups such as this one tend to drag along a couple of curious women, who are inevitably the most
enthusiastic of the bunch. Some wish to check out what they consider the competition. Once they do, their worlds collapse.
Our girls, at least the majority of them, are so very superior. With their sense of flair, airs, manners, make-up and movements,
our girls are just so much more feminine. More attractive. More . . . titillating.

The disappointed woman in question resorts to humour. It’s the best way to deal. Realising it’s difficult – even impossible
– to compete, the whole thing must be presented as a farce. They laugh incessantly. They imagine they are making fun of the
girls. But they cannot avoid one simple fact. Perhaps not this particular night, but most certainly some time in the future,
the men accompanying them will slip out of their hands and into bed with one of our girls.

This knowledge damns them. As the cost of satisfying their curiosity, it is absolutely appropriate. They will never fully
recover.

Ahmet Kuyu’s group ordered some pricey drinks. I gestured Hasan over to ask who the mystery man was. Hasan knows everyone
and everything.

“Adem Yildiz,” he promptly informed me. “Heir to the Yildiz supermarket chain.”

A steady stream of girls sat at, and then rose from, their tables. Each one was treated to a drink. Ahmet Kuyu assumed the
role of go-between. He would rise, call a girl over, introduce her to Ahmet Yildiz and then sit grinning stupidly in response
to one of his own jokes. Then the process was repeated. The traffic was exhausting. Needing a break, I looked away.

I suddenly remembered that regulars in the chat room have assumed nicks like “adam-star”, “starman” and “*adam”. Adem Yildiz.
Adem, the Turkish for “Adam” or “man”, and Yildiz, a word for “star”. Any of the nicks could have been inspired by this name.
I tried to remember what the various authors had written in the chat room, but nothing sprang to mind. There couldn’t have
been anything memorable. Or I would most certainly have recalled it. Could this Adem Yildiz be one of the chat room regulars?

I didn’t appreciate the way Adem was looking at the girls. A mixture of loathing and desire was registered on his face. I
supposed it was natural for someone raised by such a conservative family. But I still found it hard to believe that this was
his first encounter with a live transvestite.

That’s right, coming to see a “live” transvestite, like coming to enjoy “live” music. I dislike those who visit the club for
that reason. However, this is a commercial establishment, and we do have to chase after our daily bread.

Of the girls I had spoken to, all were familiar with Gül’s legendary beauty. But they had different opinions about how she
could be reached; her reputed haunts range from the beer houses of Aksaray to the streets of Harbiye.

Sirma, blunt as they come, put her finger on it. “I wish that girl would hit the jackpot; then the rest of us would get a
turn at the trough.” I was obviously the only person not well-acquainted with Gül, who was viewed by the others mainly as
a formidable rival.

In the middle of my back, on my bare skin, I felt the sudden touch of a rough, hot hand. I do not appreciate being fondled
at will. I spun around to see Ali, with an attractive man at his side.

Grasping and fairly young, Ali owns the computer consulting company that employs me. While ignorant of computer systems, he
is a real genius when it comes to sales and marketing. We’d worked together on any number of projects, with the result that
he had earned a small fortune. Generally, we are hired to protect major companies, including international ones, from computer
viruses. As hackers proliferate, and new viruses are spread through e-mail, we enjoy burgeoning business opportunities. Otherwise,
we make a modest living from designing websites and handling standard updates.

I’m not accustomed to seeing Ali in the club. I was astonished. At our meetings, I am always dressed in a far more manly fashion.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen me like this though; he had even stopped by the club before. But I still felt strange.

“Let me introduce you,” he continued. “This is my squash partner, Cengiz.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

Cengiz held my hand for a long moment. It was a definite signal. He was handsome, and not as young as I had thought at first
glance. Definitely past forty, even somewhere in his late forties. But with his tanned face and sparkling, deep eyes, his
charisma was fully intact.

“Ali talked about you so much I wanted a chance to meet,” he explained.

“What did he say?”

Ali immediately jumped in.

“You know how I sing your praises.”

“My skills, my expertise when it comes to computers. Yes. But I wasn’t aware of your tributes to my present condition.”

“I insisted we come,” said Cengiz. “Won’t you have a drink with us? I’d like to get to know you better.”

He was openly flirting. It had been a matter of just a few seconds since he laid eyes on me. Why had he chosen me from among
all the girls?

“I don’t drink alcohol at the club,” I demurred.

“Have something else, then,” he insisted.

Ali was grinning as he watched us. He’s the last person I’d have expected to assume the role of matchmaker, but that certainly
seemed to be the case.

I dispensed with coquetry, and we moved to a table. Ali droned on about irrelevant and insignificant business details. Clearly,
he’d had too much to drink. Normally, he wasn’t that talkative.

From our table, I had a clear view of Adem Yildiz and Ahmet Kuyu. I couldn’t help glancing over. Elvan was sitting with them.
Ahmet was fondling and grabbing at the girls he had brought to the table. Adem just watched. It would be more accurate to
say that he looked on hungrily. I couldn’t begin to fathom the way his mind was weighing things up, the calculations that
were going through his head.

Meanwhile, Cengiz was at my table and a fine-looking man indeed. All his attention was focused on me, and he didn’t even steal
glances at the dance floor.

“I like your club. It’s got an ambience all its own.”

What he meant, of course, is that it is a tolerable dive. Others have said the same “Isn’t that Adem Yildiz and Ahmet Kuyu
sitting over there?” asked Ali.

Ali keeps up on the business world, regarding anyone with money as a potential partner, a customer. Certainly, he would know
Adem Yildiz. His familiarity with Ahmet Kuyu surprised me, though. The man’s star faded and burned out years ago. The fifth-rate
TV series he occasionally appears in aren’t shown at times when Ali would be watching.

“That’s right,” I said. “It’s them.”

“Wow,” Ali exclaimed. “You get all sorts here . . . ”

“The Yildiz family has a place next to my summer house,” said Cengiz. “I didn’t notice him when we arrived.”

We all burst out laughing, and Cengiz seized the chance to throw an arm around my shoulder and draw me to him.