The Prophet Murders Read Online Free

about spreading stories. If there’s nothing to repeat, he just makes something up. There’s something crafty about everything he does. He thirsts for treachery and duplicity. He’s also the number one accomplice of Sofya, the patron saint of such matters.
    Halfway to the booth, Osman turned to shout: “Turkish or foreign?”
    “Turkish! But no wailing. And nothing too fast.”
    I wouldn’t put it past him to go and play Mahsun Kirmizigül, a Kurdish arabesque singer who wails along to a disco beat and goes by the stage name “Sad Red Rose”. Then I’d have an excuse to give him a good thrashing. In any case, I have been looking for a way to let off some steam.
    “As you know, Ceren’s been hanging out with Gül lately,” Hasan continued.
    “I learned that from you.”
    My Virgin Mary arrived. There were still no customers, so Sükrü joined us at the table.
    “No one knows where Gül is,” observed Hasan, adding, “Sükrü sweetie, could you get me a soda with ice?”
    “Why didn’t you ask when I was at the bar? I just got here.”
    “Sorry about that. I forgot.”
    You’d have to be a fool not to realise that Hasan was doing this on purpose. The kids at the club tell me any number of stories about how he promotes himself to manager in my absence and give them all a hard time. But then again, he can be so appealing. It’s difficult to get cross with Hasan. He has a lovable quality, “a hair of the devil” as the saying goes, and is on intimate terms instantly with everyone. That is, he is nothing like me. Although he hasn’t allowed Sükrü to sit for even a moment, there will be no grudges. It is still to Hasan that Sükrü will first reveal his secrets. Naturally, Hasan will then come and repeat them to me.
    “Who is this Gül?” I asked.
    “She’s new,” Hasan answered. “Very young. A pink and white thing.”
    Sükrü returned with an iced lemon soda, and jumped into the conversation.
    “I saw her once. She was a real piece of Turkish delight.
    Something to nibble on. You get the picture.” Even Sükrü has shining eyes as he describes her. “But I kept my distance. She was jail bait.”
    “What do you mean?” I quizzed him.
    “She was sixteen at most,” explained Hasan. “She came here twice, but we didn’t let her in.”
    “She didn’t even have a beard yet,” Sükrü pointed out.
    They know my unbending rule. No customers under eighteen years of age. I loathe complications. I don’t want the police on our backs for something as silly as that. There are clubs that let them in, that serve them drinks. But my club is not, and will never be, one of those establishments.
    The door opens, and Cüneyt showed in Afet. Her hair was gathered into a tight bun. As a result, the angular lines of her face were even more strained than usual. Clearly, she had spent at least an hour applying eye makeup. Less than half a metre of cloth had been used to clothe her in a creation that passed for a dress, and sequins were liberally applied all across her throat and breasts. Afet totters precariously on that thin line dividing the ridiculously strange from the strangely beautiful. Her feet are large, even for a transvestite. Even so, she had chosen to emphasise them, spilling out of tiny high-heels. As usual, knees slightly bent, she appeared poised to leap forward.
    While it was quite a show, it is far from my idea of true elegance.
    As the proprietor, I rose to greet her. We exchanged air kisses.
    “Don’t ask! I found out after you phoned. Ceren is dead, abla ,” she began. “I’m simply shattered.”
    We settled at a table away from the boys. Hasan immediately came up to ask what we’d like to drink.
    “Whisky,” she said. “No ice. You have got Johnny Walker?”
    “Of course,” said Hasan, indignant.
    “One of those, then.” She turned to me and continued. “They said a fire broke out at her flat. I was terrified. We live in the same building, you know. Then I realised I was