The Prophet Murders Read Online Free Page B

boys were back to manning their stations. Two young neighbourhood toughs had also arrived, and were checking out the club with looks of hunger and insolence. They chose a spot far from the dance floor, against the wall but with a good view. The girls began getting in gear. Naturally, most of them prefer young men. Even if they don’t earn as much money, off they go, saying they are “doing it for fun’’.
    Customers come early for one of two reasons: To make a selection while there are still plenty of girls or to return home at a reasonable hour. But there’s a drawback, which is a bit of common knowledge: The girls are more expensive early at night. As dawn approaches, the price of the unchosen falls.
    And the club sprang to life.

Four
    T ime flies when it’s crowded, and sometimes I don’t even realise morning has come. When Osman plays my favourite songs – and
     he knows perfectly well what would happen if he didn’t – I rise and dance. I never dance to two songs back to back. I would
     perspire. My appearance would be compromised. It is my custom to dance for just one song at a time.
    While they may not be the latest thing, the Weather Girls’ “It’s Raining Men”, Eartha Kitt’s “Where is My Man” and the first
     version of Ajda Pekkan’s “Uykusuz Her Gece (Sleepless Every Night)”, along with, sometimes, “Bambaka Biri (Someone Completely
     Different)”, are definitely played in my honour, as well as a Grace Jones or RuPaul number. I’m also fond of many of today’s
     hits, giving me another excuse to dance.
    The girls, for their part, use the dance floor to display their charms to potential customers. Anyone wanting some attention
     simply heads for the dance floor and lets rip. If they get along well with Osman, he’ll arrange a spotlight. And the show
     begins.
    If Osman has a bone to pick, though, he’ll cut a tune right off, or speed up or slow it down. In other words, he’ll most definitely
     find a way to ruin the show. If nothing else, the spot disappears and the eager performer is left in the dark.
    I have one unbending rule: girls are not to strip on stage. If one dares to, off go the lights. The girl guilty of exposing
     this or that bit of flesh is issued a warning. Those who persist are barred from the premises. Everyone is absolutely familiar
     with this rule.
    Those desperate to show off their wares are free to do so at the tables in the back; to this, I have no objections. Provided
     they maintain a sense of discretion, the girls are allowed to promote themselves. Some of the more self-confident young men,
     that is, those who take pride in their bodies, also make an appearance on the dance floor. Once again, I have no objections.
     I countenance anything aesthetically pleasing, and even enjoy watching.
    As for the occasional flaunting of underdeveloped musculatures, I leave it to Osman to handle things.
    Furthermore, I expect male patrons, as well, to proceed to the shadowy tables at the back. Nothing is to be done out in the
     open!
    Ahmet Kuyu, an actor well past his prime, arrived some time later. For us, his claim to fame has more to do with his infamously
     poor treatment of our girls than his old films. To date, not a single one of the girls who has escorted him from the club
     has escaped without a bruised face. I have been fully briefed on his other nasty and shameless tricks. Despite having been
     taken to an inner room and given a warning, he has dared to come again. Cüneyt must not have noticed, since Ahmet has come
     as part of a large group.
    They were also a mixed group, in terms of age, attire and of course economic status. In view of Ahmet Kuyu’s smarmy deference,
     the most important person in the group was a man who could be considered fairly young. He was looking around with an air of
     superior interest. His clothing was smart, but casual. Not a style I admire. His face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place
     it. He is probably a TV producer,