The Kiss Murder (14 page)
I could have given her a tongue-lashing, but my business sense forced me to hold back. After all, she was a customer at the club. That said, her efforts at becoming a client of a more intimate nature were for naught.
It was my turn. They called me into the room. I sailed off on winged steps, and floated into the steam room flushed with the unbearable lightness of the newly liberated. Naturally, I did not neglect to toss one last flirtatious glance over my shoulder. One for the road, so to speak. How was I to know what this would lead to? It all started so innocently.
Despite being able to breathe only with difficulty, I endured the steam for the appointed time. When it was over, my face glowed with the radiant pinkness of a newborn’s bottom.
I thought I’d have a lemon soda in the lounge before moving on to the solarium. On my way there, I nearly fell straight into the lap of the waiting journalist. She gestured to the chaise longue beside her, so I reclined there.
“I was so sorry to hear about your friend,” she began. “It happens all the time, doesn’t it?”
“Murder, you mean? Unfortunately, yes,” I replied.
Buse’s fame seemed to have a taken an upturn now that she was dead.
“And the police aren’t of much help, are they?” she continued.
“That’s right . . .”
All I wanted to do was concentrate on my soda.
“Tell me a little about it,” she persisted.
The tone of professional sweetness was unmistakable. It made my skin crawl.
“Are you trying to interview me?”
“No, not at all.” She backtracked. “It’s my fault, I’ve given you the wrong idea. Do forgive me. I was just curious—I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. The moment I begin asking questions I’m somehow transformed into a pesky reporter.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I redirected my attention to my soda, stirring the ice with my straw. I was in no mood to answer questions.
I admit I have a weak spot for considerate women, but she wasn’t one of them. Instead of leaning back and shutting up, she kept her eyes fixed on me. Without even blinking.
Disturbed by the stare, I glanced over at her.
“You’ve got a lovely nose. And those thick eyelashes . . .” she said.
When pronouncing the word “thick” she seemed to lick her lips. I supposed—hoped, even—that it was natural for anyone saying the word.
“When I was at the club I didn’t realize how handsome you are,” she continued. “It was so dark . . .”
She was most definitely hitting on me now.
“Now that I have the chance to get a good look at you, I can’t tear my eyes away. You’re really far more attractive without makeup. Some strange sort of charisma. You could have any woman you want.”
As though I fretted over my skills in how to attract women. If I hadn’t been a regular at the salon, I would have given her a real piece of my mind, but I didn’t want to make a scene.
“When did you begin?” she asked.
I pretended not to hear.
“I mean, how did it all begin?”
Her face managed to arrange itself into an expression that was both cunning and curious. As though she would be able to produce an instant “cure” if she could just ascertain how it all started. I scowled.
She realized she had gone too far. At least she retained that much decency. We both sat silently for a moment, her eyes still on me. She began breathing more quickly. That golden moment of silence was clearly coming to an end. But I was still unprepared for what came next.
“Did you know that I interviewed Buse a few months ago?” she casually remarked. “It never made it into print. I’m considering having at least some of it published now.”
She certainly knew how to pique my interest.
“What did she talk about?”
“Her experiences as a transvestite, mainly, as well her relationships, the kind of men she liked, that sort of thing. She told me a secret or two as well.”
My antennae were fully extended. Signals were being received.
“She drank quite a bit during the interview, even smoked a joint at one point. When she offered me a puff I refused on principle. The work ethic, you know. She must have been pretty stoned considering all she told me. About herself, and others. A long list of names. Celebrities, businessmen, politicians, performers of all kinds. Some of them famous, others rather obscure . . . You wouldn’t believe it. We’re not supposed to name names without confirmation of some kind, but I did anyway. It would have been quite a story. The exclusive of the year. I was all ready to collect my awards. But somehow, for some reason, it never got published. I was told off by my editor-in-chief, asked if it was my intention to ‘have this newspaper banned.’ He also said we’d be bumped off one by one even if it wasn’t banned. The things Buse told me. I suppose I couldn’t really have expected to see it in print.”
I was all ears.
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
She continued examining my face and pretended not to hear me.
“She told me about her childhood, her teen years. All she went through. The hardships.”
“I’d really love to listen to a tape of that interview. In fact, I’d like to have it as a sort of memento . . .” I ventured.
“Why, of course. Let’s leave together. You can come over to my place. We’ll have a drink together while we copy it.”
I was in luck. I was onto something big. Yes, she was still after me, but she wouldn’t be the first woman I’d had to fend off. When dressed like this, I get attention from the ladies; when dressed as a lady, from the men. I hoped she wouldn’t misinterpret the smile that was spreading across my face. I didn’t want any hassles. While I’d be happy to indulge in some harmless game-playing, I wouldn’t go any further. And I didn’t even know her name. I had no intention of sleeping with a woman whose name I didn’t know.
My solarium séance was scheduled to last for twelve minutes. She was already done, but she’d have to wait.
I skipped off to the solarium.
Chapter 18W
e drove to her house. Each shift of the gears meant a chance for her to fondle me. I said nothing—in fact, I may even have encouraged her a bit. All bets were off until the cassette was produced. She talked about herself the entire way. She was a graduate of Notre Dame Scion; when she divorced her diplomat husband she returned to Istanbul and began a career as a journalist. No, I hadn’t the slightest idea what it must be like to be abandoned for a chocolate-colored Portuguese girl. And the girl apparently wasn’t even ethnic Portuguese, she added, although she did produce the same “vujt vujt” sounds. Our lady journalist had been destroyed. The fact that it came out of the blue only made it that much more devastating. She seemed to assume that one could be slowly accustomed to betrayal and deceit. My eyes on the prize, I remained tight-lipped in the face of her lapses of logic and roving hands.
e drove to her house. Each shift of the gears meant a chance for her to fondle me. I said nothing—in fact, I may even have encouraged her a bit. All bets were off until the cassette was produced. She talked about herself the entire way. She was a graduate of Notre Dame Scion; when she divorced her diplomat husband she returned to Istanbul and began a career as a journalist. No, I hadn’t the slightest idea what it must be like to be abandoned for a chocolate-colored Portuguese girl. And the girl apparently wasn’t even ethnic Portuguese, she added, although she did produce the same “vujt vujt” sounds. Our lady journalist had been destroyed. The fact that it came out of the blue only made it that much more devastating. She seemed to assume that one could be slowly accustomed to betrayal and deceit. My eyes on the prize, I remained tight-lipped in the face of her lapses of logic and roving hands.
We walked up to the third floor, with her leading the way. I scrutinized her legs all the way up the narrow staircase. Her left foot was landing at an odd angle. The heel of her shoe was badly worn.
A cat greeted us at the door. It didn’t like me. We entered an amazingly untidy living room. The PC had been left on, coffee cups crusted a deep brown were scattered about. She was clearly a chain smoker. The flat reeked of stale smoke, and the ashtrays hadn’t been emptied for days. I silently nodded in solidarity with the ex-husband. Real ladies and their gentlemen husbands do not live in such squalor. She was no lady.
The expression on my face must have given me away.
“Excuse the mess, darling. It’s a bit untidy, I know. Would you believe I just never have the time to clean up? You understand. It’s the price we all pay for living alone.”
I thought of my own flat. At the moment, it wasn’t all that much different from hers.
At some point on the way here I had become
sen
. It was something else to be endured for the sake of the cassette.
sen
. It was something else to be endured for the sake of the cassette.
“And there’s no cleaning lady at the moment,” she said. “The last one ran away. I asked the super’s wife to find a new one. I can’t be bothered with that kind of thing.”
But she could be bothered with trying to get me into bed.
Straightaway, she plugged the portable tape player into the stereo.
“You’ll be amazed when you hear it. She dropped so many names I thought she was lying at first. When I checked later, I found out that half of them are known for that sort of thing. But like I said, they never get written about. The self-censorship of the press. Or perhaps it’s a form of self-defense.”
She rummaged through a small basket on the floor full of tapes, many not in their cases, and CDs. I gave her credit for being able to find anything in that mess, but kept my thoughts to myself. I just stood and waited. I hadn’t spotted a suitable place to sit.
“You’ll have a glass of wine, won’t you?”
“I don’t really drink.” Now, if I’d only left out the “really,” that sentence would have had the desired result. It was too late.
“You’ll join me, then.”
So that was the game plan, to get me drunk. Well, I’m not that kind of girl. Or boy, even. There would be no passing out after a single glass, allowing myself to be ravaged. And I’m very experienced when it comes to the subject of overzealous ladies.
She returned with the wine. Both glasses were the size of vases. We would be sharing an entire bottle.
She didn’t shrink from caressing my cheek as she handed me my wine. I waited for her to sit down, then chose a seat across from rather than next to her.
Without waiting for a response, she continued talking. If that was how she conducted her interviews, she must have had next to no material to work with.
She polished off her first glass and moved on to her second. Mine was still full to the brim. Half an hour had passed. My copy of the tape hadn’t been recorded yet. I could hear the whir of the cogs. She’d begun slurring her words. Sentences were being abandoned so she could gaze meaningfully at me. And there I sat, the proverbial Cheshire cat.
In short, I was not having the time of my life. I began resenting the tape and what I was forced to put up with to get it. I thought for a moment of blaming Buse. The whole thing had started because of her. Upon second thought, I abandoned the notion. I had only my curiosity to blame. That’s right, it’s always been my great weakness.
Like the proverb goes, pricks or prying . . . Even now I should have been able to get up and go—but my curiosity kept getting the better of me.
Finally, I took another glance at my Swatch. It was nearly half-past five. I immediately interrupted her, as though it had only just occurred to me.
“I have an appointment at six, I almost forgot.”
“With whom?”
“With a man,” I said. It was the first lie that came to mind, and sufficiently searing.
“But we were having such a good time.”
She had no intention of getting up to see me off. I rose to my feet.
“Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll get it,” I said, taking the original cassette from the tape player. You can never be too careful. I had no intention of subjecting myself to this woman once again.
The expected protest was duly uttered.
I firmly responded, “It’s of personal value to me. I’d like to keep the cleanest copy.”
After I’d placed the cassette in my jacket pocket, I went over and placed a kiss on her cheek. That much I could, and should, do.
“Thank you so much,” I added.
I raced out of the house, down the stairs, and into the first taxi I spotted. I still couldn’t remember her name. It was either unusual or common. But what was it? I decided not to give it a second thought. One way or another, she had been of assistance, whether I knew her name or not.
I couldn’t wait to get home and listen to the tape.
Chapter 19M
y sweet, if messy, home was waiting for me. I had so much to do before heading out for the club that night. I wasn’t all that optimistic when it came to the usefulness of the tape, but it was going to demand a lot of my time either way.
y sweet, if messy, home was waiting for me. I had so much to do before heading out for the club that night. I wasn’t all that optimistic when it came to the usefulness of the tape, but it was going to demand a lot of my time either way.
It was hard to imagine Buse the introvert suddenly deciding to confide all her secrets, the details of her past life, to some so-called journalist. That is, unless she’d been drugged. If she had been doped up, she may well have talked at length, but it would have been a garbled mix of fact and fiction.
It’s impossible to predict what someone on drugs will do. There are those who, after a few joints, find themselves in the embrace of their fantasy lover—and do nothing but nod off to sleep.
Cocaine can transform a macho man into an unbelievably sinuous sissy. A few snorts, and even the most irreproachable caveman can suddenly bend over and grab his ankles. I know. I’ve seen it. When the drug wears off they act like nothing’s happened.
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