“Our client doesn’t want too many people involved. She found out her lover’s married, she wanted to leave him, but the bastard won’t let her go. He beats the woman day and night. The poor thing’s all messed up, her face, everything. It’s kind of like charity work. You’ll get your money straight from us. You trust us, don’t you, Ali?”
Ali turned and looked at Hasan. He’d done a lot of jobs with these two cronies, and he’d always been dealt a fair hand. He thought the plan over for a moment, and then nodded. It wouldn’t take him half a day to get them a truck. Easy money, he thought. He remembered the tip he’d received on the following week’s horse races; he could really use that money right about now.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
The Ford Focus pulled over in front of the house and the driver took a quick look at himself in the rearview mirror. These rendezvouses still got him all worked up. They’d had sex probably more than a hundred times in this house, on the stone floor, in bed, in the tiny bathroom, breathless, their sweat mingling, but here he was with butterflies in his stomach, as if it were the first time all over again. He was in a good mood. The last time they’d met, he’d really roughed the girl up, taking his rage at some two-bit cheat out on her. But tonight he would be gentle, win her over again, mend her broken heart. And of course he would be duly compensated for his kindness.
Deciding that his hair looked okay, he smiled. He ran his fingers over his goatee.
It’s going to be one fine night, he said to himself.
As he walked toward the house, he thought about what he’d say if she brought up the whole divorce thing again. He was determined not to leave his wife — no way. Fire ran through his veins at the mere thought of her moaning beneath another man; no way that was going to happen. His lover had to accept him just the way he was, period. If she insisted on whining about it, he’d simply remind her of the beatings she’d already been given. He’d shut her up, somehow. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that; he didn’t want to beat around the bush, so to speak, with such unsavory topics. He imagined his little angel looking at him amorously, like she used to when they first hooked up. He missed that.
He slipped the key in the lock. So let’s see if she’s been a good girl and done as I said, he thought. Or maybe she had another surprise in store for him? He looked at the bed, hoping to find the young girl there, naked, as he had instructed her to be. A roguish smile spread across his lips.
But there was something else waiting for him on the bed, something unexpected. A stranger, a guy, oddly contorted and, holy fuck, covered in blood from the waist down!
The man just stood there, dumbstruck.
Even the two bullets that sent him collapsing to the floor failed to erase the stunned look from his face.
“You sure we’re at the right place?” Hasan asked.
Murat shook his head. “Of course, man. I came here twice and checked it out. This is it.” He turned the key in the lock; the door clicked open. “See, the key fits.”
The two partners quietly slipped through the door. They held onto their guns, just in case. The woman who had hired them was going to invite her lover, their target, here for sex, and they would be waiting. It was a simple but solid plan. This house, which was used by several couples in rotation, was supposed to have been empty at that hour.
But it wasn’t.
When he heard the door open, the half-naked man lying in bed looked up, a stupid smile spreading over his face. He was obviously expecting someone else, probably a woman. A second later he reached under his pillow, pulled out a pistol, and moved to raise it at them. It was a big mistake. Two bullets each from two silent guns nailed him to the bed.
Hasan and Murat turned to one another and cursed.
“Fuck.”
The truck turned the curve slowly, careful not to scrape against the cars parked on either side of the road. It was still the middle of the night; in a few hours, the streets would be packed with vehicles bound for the Bosphorus Bridge. One of Istanbul’s more fashionable neighborhoods, Altunizade was home to modern office buildings with glass façades and shiny apartment complexes reserved for the upper crust, all surrounding the grandiose shopping center, Capitol. The truck passed first by the apartment complexes, then by Capitol, then by the office buildings, before driving through an underpass and emerging at the top of a hill that led down to Üsküdar and the Bosphorus shore.
Ali knew this street well. When he was a kid, he used to come visit his grandfather here, in a house in the Gypsy neighborhood behind the riot police building. He was fond of his grandfather; in fact, Ali was the only person in his family whom the man really liked. A generous Istanbul gentleman with a dour face but a heart of gold, he had always had a big soft spot for his grandson. Disowned by his daughters, the old man had taken his final refuge in this neighborhood. Ali would come here alone to see him, usually without even telling his mother. He felt safe, as if he belonged, there amongst the Gypsies, who sat on the sidewalk chatting, and amongst the slovenly children and the old, wrinkly faced women watching the passersby, and even amongst the trash that littered the street from one end to the next. Poverty had always had an allure for him; he felt more comfortable in run-down neighborhoods like this one than he did in fancy restaurants or upscale hotels.
The avenue was every bit as fascinating now as it had been back then. It was like the crossroads of two civilizations, with police buildings situated like a border control between two different cultures, splitting the avenue almost right down the middle. Below the riot police building was the Gypsy quarter, which was always rowdy with weddings or brawls, while above it stood rows of two-story houses, each with its own garden, all left behind by the Greeks, all still standing calm and silent amongst centuries-old plane trees.
It was in front of one of these houses that the truck slowed to a halt. Its walls were painted dark green, unkempt grass overran its front yard, which was home to a single, paltry tree, and its borders were marked by stones and surrounded by an iron fence. Next to the front door was a chair facing the street, and a folded-up picnic table. Ali pulled on the parking brake and got out. He looked left and right and then, seeing that the coast was clear, started walking toward the house, with a large black sack in hand.
He didn’t need to knock. He’d called Hasan on his cell phone before he parked. He figured they’d be watching for him through the peephole in the door, and he’d figured right. As soon as he reached the door, it opened up. He silently stepped inside. He’d just parted his lips to greet the other men when he saw the two bodies lying in the middle of the room, and so he let out a curse instead.
“Fuck!”
The young woman waited excitedly for several minutes after the man got out of the Ford Focus. That asshole, who was inevitably late for every appointment, couldn’t have been more punctual this time around; he must have been hungry for his lover’s skin. If it had been me who had called him over here, would he have come? If I were his mistress, and not his wife? She couldn’t be sure, and so she banished the unpleasant thought from her head. Time was passing at a maddeningly slow pace. The fact that nobody was emerging from the house was a good sign. Or was it? What if something had gone wrong? God forbid... Her phone rang and she looked at the screen; she was relieved to see that it was Hasan. Still, she answered, just to be sure.