The Kiss Murder Read Free

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
    H asan’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.