The Kiss Murder Read Free Page A

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 mother, who was a big fan. When she was pregnant with me she would constantly look at his photographs, hoping I’d grow up to look like him. After I was born, she continued looking at his photos. As my interest in men developed, we looked at them together. She took me to all his films. We’d sigh in unison as we watched.

    Time flies when there is such a heavy flow of customers. Greet so-and-so, chat with him or her, etc. Next thing you know, it’s morning. We’re open until dawn’s early light. On weekends, few girls are left unclaimed as the last of the customers straggle out. In fact, some of them even manage several engagements throughout the course of the night, returning to the club after each one. This was one of those nights. I glanced over the bills—great turnover, yet again—and left. I could feel my beard growing out beneath my foundation. I got into a taxi Cüneyt had arranged, and immediately removed my high heels, massaging my feet all the way home. It’s not easy, moving with deerlike grace from table to table for eight hours while weighed down with four-pound shoes. The taxi driver was a familiar face. An elderly, gentlemanly man. He knows where I live; we seldom chat. And he never has change. Naturally, that was the case this morning, too. I wasn’t about to pay twice the normal amount, so I told him he could pick up the money at the club in the evening.
     
    I entered my home barefoot. I would