The Kiss Murder (20 page)
“Not now,” he said.
I respected that. With traffic accidents so common these days it’s important to concentrate on driving. I removed my hand.
He was a practiced driver. There was no hard braking or sudden acceleration. We flowed along through Dolapdere to the ring road.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked.
“There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
This is what they call a bombshell.
“Excuse me?”
“Someone wants to talk to you. That’s where I’m taking you.” Süleyman’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his hands on the steering wheel.
“Stop this instant!” I shouted. “Who is this person? Why doesn’t he come to me himself ?”
“That would be impossible. It wouldn’t be appropriate. That’s why I was sent.”
It wasn’t difficult to guess the identity of the mystery man. There were two alternatives. It was either Süreyya Eronat or one of Sofya’s blackmailing Mafia friends. I didn’t want to name any names in the car. But whichever person it was, it was bad news. Both alternatives could mean my elimination from the game of life.
“Who are you taking me to?” I demanded. “Who wants to meet me?”
“My boss.”
That much was clear. But I had no clue about the identity of his boss. We had exited the ring road and were now cruising through the darkness of Kemerburgaz.
“That much I understood. Who is your boss?”
“You’ll see when we get there. It’s not my place to tell you.”
“Well, what does he want to talk about?”
“Like I told you, it’s not my place to say anything. You’ll get all the explanations you need. My job is to get you there as quickly and safely as possible.”
My thoughts were lightning-quick, my speech thunderous.
“I’m not going anywhere. Stop now!”
As in any book or movie, he did not stop. His lips did form a half smile, however. He was no doubt saying to himself, I won’t be bossed around by some sad tranny. Even if he had stopped, I was really in no shape to get out. It was pitch-black and we were driving through the countryside.
“Stop!” I repeated. “Take me straight back to the club!”
“Calm down,” he said.
“I told you to stop right now.”
Again, he just kept driving. Instead of stopping the car he reached down and withdrew a gun. Now I had no choice but to act. Paying no mind to the speed with which we were careening down the highway, I grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back.
Despite his look of astonishment, he didn’t make a sound. Without giving him time to comprehend the situation, I delivered a sharp chop with the back of my hand to the patch of forehead just above the nose and below the eyebrows. With a low “Arrrgh,” he released his foot from the gas pedal. We began racing faster down the hill nevertheless. After stunning him with a second chop, this time behind his ear, I made to grab the gun. His hand clasped my wrist. He was strong. A lesser man would have been writhing in pain by now. I tried opening the door with my free hand, but it was locked. I would have to press one of the buttons on the glowing panel between us. But which one? And how?
In order to buy time, I poked him hard in the right eye. Even if it didn’t blind him, it would be days before he could painlessly rotate that eye. He bellowed. Naturally, he would shout—that sort of thing hurts. He instinctively covered his right eye with his right hand, thus releasing me.
“You goddamn faggot!” he hissed.
I began pressing every button on the control panel. Well, actually, I began banging my left hand on the panel as I tried to open the door with my right one.
He grabbed me again, this time seizing my left arm with his left hand. He had a viselike grip. The lock on my door popped up. I delivered a blow to the back of his neck, and his head smashed into the steering wheel. My arm was finally released.
The car was still moving. My mighty gorilla, Süleyman Bey, had not yet recovered from the blow to his head. I had to admit, he was unusually resilient. But there was no point in thought. I leaped out of the car. I had practiced similar moves in one of the martial arts classes I’d attended. I was no stranger to technique. Real life, however, is not quite the same. It hurt. There was a vast difference between the application of a well-thought-out and planned roll in sports shoes and a sweat suit, and the same sudden move with bare legs and a thin dress.
The side of the road—the first thing I hit—was covered in gravel. From there, I rolled down a slope into a thicket of thorny bushes. The Passat screeched to a halt a mere ten yards down the road.
He was after me. It was unrealistic to have expected him to proceed merrily along his way as if having totally forgotten about me. My baby-blue frock shone like a flashlight under the moonlit sky. There was no point in trying to hide. I’d be his match in an open space, just as I had been inside the car. That is, if he didn’t draw his gun!
He stepped out of the car. Lurching slightly, he headed straight for me, gun drawn.
Not a single vehicle passed. Where was Istanbul traffic when you needed it? Where were all those drivers clogging up the highways and byways? I’d settle for a single car, a minibus, a bus, even a truck. Now the situation could only deteriorate further, and I could expect no help. I would have to handle it on my own.
“Don’t shoot!” I cried out, raising my hands over my head as I rose from a crouch.
“You’re nuts!” he shouted. “You could have blinded me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I’d have to play nice until I was better positioned to topple him.
“Come here!” he ordered.
I could claim injury, draw him into the bushes by pleading for help. But it would be too difficult to fight in the close confines of the thorny scrub. I preferred a fair fight on the level asphalt. And that’s exactly what I intended to have. Hitching up my frock, I was on the road in two jumps. He gestured toward the car with his gun.
“Get in like a man, and let’s go.”
He pointed the gun at me, in case I needed further persuasion. I would have to proceed with caution. Pretending I’d sprained my ankle, I slowly limped toward him. He was still rubbing his eye with his free hand.
“Did it hurt?” I asked.
“Real men don’t feel pain!” he rumbled.
The distance between us was too great for me to reach him with a single flying leap. I had no way of gauging his skills as a marksman. It wasn’t worth the risk. If he shot the split second I left my feet, that would be it. I’d have to relieve him of the gun first. For that, I would have to get nearly as close as I am tall, except for the length of my arm. Dragging my feet, I took two small steps toward him. Yes, that would do.
“I think I sprained my ankle,” I said, bending over. I could jump farther from a crouching position. He didn’t suspect anything.
“You asked for it,” he said.
Before the words were out of his mouth, my right foot had connected with the middle of his face. I quickly let loose two more kicks. He was now sufficiently dazed.
Changing feet in midair, I dealt a heavy blow to his left knee-cap. Then I booted him right between the legs. He doubled over. Clasping my hands together, I clubbed the base of his skull, then seized the hand wielding the gun. By bringing my knee up sharply against his extended arm, twice, I forced him to drop it. Then I kneed him in the face. He collapsed spread-eagled onto the ground.
I bent over to pick up the gun. That was a mistake. He was lying on the ground, but not quite unconscious. A hand suddenly gripped my right ankle, and I lost my balance. No big deal. I had the gun. I placed it against his nose. Raising his head slightly from the ground, he gazed at it, with his good eye, and fainted.
Süleyman’s having fainted was a mixed blessing. It would enable me to get away, but it also meant I wouldn’t be able to get him to talk. And I had so looked forward to conducting an interrogation at gunpoint and getting to the bottom of the whole business.
I could keep the gun trained on his head and wait until he came to. A real bull of a man, he’d regain consciousness in no time. I could then proceed with the question-and-answer session.
Or I could leave him there. But that would only mean even more thugs chasing after me. This time one person had come to get me. Next time it would be an army.
I was still on an asphalt road on a black night. It wasn’t the most suitable place to sit and have a good think. What’s more, exhaust was sputtering out of the tailpipe and straight into my face. I felt nauseated.
There was no need to subject myself to more. In order to make sure Süleyman remained out cold, I gave a cursory kick to the back of his neck. He seemed to become even more sprawled and lifeless. Like someone finally relaxing after numerous days of hard labor.
I thrust the gun into my cloth belt and quickly searched him. He wasn’t packing any other weapons, but I felt a cell phone in his jacket pocket. Perhaps I would be able to search through his phone book, find out who he had last called. I pulled out the phone. It was switched off, and I didn’t know the PIN code. There was nothing I could do here. At home I’d crack the code in no time. I stuck the phone into my thick belt.
Next, I took his wallet. His name was Süleyman Bahattin Aydın. He must have been named after both grandfathers. He was twenty-seven years old. Born in Istanbul. His driver’s license was registered under the same name. It featured a baby-faced youth doing his best to look tough. The wallet also contained a thick wad of cash and two credit cards, one of them gold, issued by two different banks. I felt like I deserved all of this money. It would barely compensate me for my dress, which was made of fine Italian cotton, but it would have to do.
When he rustled slightly, I hit him again. Naturally. He seemed to relax into the deep slumber of a moment earlier. It’s so important to allow the muscles and joints to fully relax. By doing so, we wake up refreshed from even a short nap. Many aches and pains, as well as some illnesses, are the result of the failure to stretch out. As I remembered his tense posture and swaggering at the club, I decided I had in fact done him a favor, thus assuaging any guilt I may have felt.
As a final precaution, I removed his belt, tying his hands behind his back with it. Most people would pass out cold for at least twenty minutes after a sharp chop to the base of the skull, but this guy was extraordinarily tough. The lid of his good eye was flickering even now, and his back arched slightly. Such amazing resilience and ability to recover so quickly could only be the result of years of training. I silently applauded him.
Leaving him lying on the ground behind the car, I quickly riffled through the glove compartment. His registration and insurance documents were in order. And registered in his own name. In short, I had discovered nothing to reveal the identity of his employer. Finding a packet of condoms, I laughed softly. With the door open, and my eyes on Süleyman, I sat in the car, gun in hand. I inspected myself for damage: the skirt of my dress was torn. There were scratches and cuts on my naked arms and legs. At the sight of each one, I felt the stinging. Until I’d actually looked, I hadn’t felt a thing. That I was filthy seemed even more important. I was covered in dirt and dust. Over this I cursed long and lustily.
There was no point in waiting around. Süleyman didn’t seem like the sort I’d be able to break, no matter how long I held a gun to his head. He knew as well as I did that I wouldn’t actually kill him. At most, I could only dare to shoot him in the arms or legs, just to frighten him.
I looked at the gun in my hand. It was covered with my fingerprints. I wiped it thoroughly with my skirt, then stuck it in the glove compartment.
I switched off the engine and took the keys. Just to be on the safe side, I wiped any possible fingerprints off the steering wheel, glove compartment handle, and car doors.
Then I returned to Süleyman. He was still lying face down on the road, fast asleep. A thread of blood and spit drooled out of his mouth and onto the pavement. Lips parted slightly, he was bestowing a kiss on the asphalt. I nudged him in the ribs with my foot. He didn’t respond. There’s no way I had killed him, but I leaned over to check his jugular vein, just in case. It was pulsing at regular intervals. He was tough enough to recover fully in a few days.
I ran through the alternatives facing me: (A) Wait for him to come to and interrogate him—which I had already decided against; (B) Take the car, leaving him behind; (C) Leave him and the car, and find some way to get home on my own. I tried, and failed, to come up with an alternative D.
There was nothing to prevent me from taking the car and going. But what would I do with the car later? Also, I didn’t have my driver’s license with me. Traffic checks and police barricades were common at this time of night, especially on the weekend. If I abandoned the car somewhere, someone might see me and identify me later.
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