Free The Kiss Murder by Mehmet Murat Somer

there.

    As I went out the door the phone rang. I have an answering machine, so under normal circumstances I would have continued, knowing the caller could leave a message. But these were not normal times. I unlocked the front door and raced to the phone, just as my voice was promising to “. . . call back as soon as possible, merci .”

    I couldn’t decide whether to lift the receiver or wait to hear who it was first. A male voice cleared its throat. And hung up without leaving a message.

Chapter 11
    C üneyt greeted me with a wolf whistle at the entrance to the club.

    “Boss, you’re a real knockout, like always. What a great blouse, and it matches your stockings.”

    Did the boy have certain tendencies, or what? Real men don’t admire a lady’s outfit. It’s what’s inside the clothes that interests them.
     
    Despite the early hour, the club was nearly full. Advancing toward the bar, I blew kisses to the girls and our regulars. Hasan was behind the bar, next to Şükrü. When he saw me he began waving frantically. I leaned over the bar toward him.

    Like a U.S. Secret Service agent revealing classified information, he hissed, “Sofya’s here!”

    That was strange. Here I’d been looking everywhere for her, and she’d decided, if a bit late, to come and see me. It had been years since Sofya had retired from the scene, or at least stopped frequenting clubs like ours. While no one was certain exactly what she was up to, the general consensus was that “a rich thug keeps her at home.” News of her annual pilgrimage to Ibiza, Mykonos, or Mardi Gras regularly amazed our little circle. Girls she found sufficiently distinguished would be invited to her home. They’d go skipping off to the appointment, returning with wondrous tales of the elegance with which they were lavishly wined and dined. They eagerly awaited the day, month, year in which a second invitation would be granted. In short, with her money, airs, and fabulous lifestyle, Spectac-u-lar Sofya had attained the unattainable. She was the living embodiment of what each and every girl aspired to.

    It had been some time since she’d deigned to visit the club. Furthermore, we had both allowed a tiny misunderstanding to grow into cause for major offense. Over time, our friendship had withered on the vine, like any relationship that isn’t maintained and nurtured. The gossip and tales of devious self-appointed minions and intermediaries had caused further injury. We were both right on some points, wrong on others.
     
    Considering the circumstances, it was strange indeed that Sofya had just up and come to my club.

    Another strange detail was the absence of my Virgin Mary. And the fact that there was no sign of its being prepared anytime soon.
     
    I began drumming on the bar with the two-and-a-half-inch gold fingernails I’d bought in America, as a way of making my displeasure clear. Şükrü looked at me as though to ask what was wrong.

    “My drink . . . where is it?”

    He apologized and hastily began mixing it. “Send it to me!” I ordered, as I made my way back through the crowd.

    The girls weren’t completely ignorant of what had happened. As their sources of information, they had television, Hasan, and gossip. But they had nothing new to add. When discussing Buse, they’d lower their voices, but any sad expressions disappeared in seconds. Buse was not much loved. She had no close friends. She wouldn’t work in pairs, indulge in group activities, or entertain men she didn’t fancy. As I said earlier, she had a set of principles and a certain classiness.
     
    I realized too late that the man waving to me from the far end of the bar was Ferruh, Belkıs’s husband. I have trouble recognizing him when he’s not with his wife.

    He seemed a bit drunk. He began weaving his way toward me. I was in no shape to put up with him. With a femme fatale pivot, I headed in the opposite direction.
     
    A crowd had gathered around Sofya’s table. I