Death in Girne

So, now he was going to drop the official crap. The tension drained out of the room. We sat at the foot of the bed, me naked, Farki, at least initially, fully clothed. He unbuttoned and flared his shirt, showing a muscular, lightly hirsute chest and a six-pack belly. The man worked out—sometimes he worked out on top of me. He knew his body aroused me. Turks turned me on. His hands wandered over my naked body, we kissed, and I unzipped him and pulled him out, pressing my thumb into his piss slit and lightly stroking a cock he had every reason to be proud of.

"Where do you keep the—?"

"You want that—all of it? Now?" I asked. I knew that he would, now that we'd gone this far, but he was here on a murder investigation and still he was randy for it. I wanted him to be at least a little embarrassed. I had known the man who was dead. And Balian had suggested I might have something to do with the death.

He shrugged. "It's what you're here for. I'm keyed up. You pulled it out."

So, I had. And of course it's what I was here for—a young, blond American to service randy Turks in a Turkish town. "There's one here," I said, finding a yet-to-be-used packet among the bedclothes.

"You do it."

I opened the condom pack, extracted the disk, and rolled it on his cock. We were now ready for whatever. I knew he wouldn't leave until he'd fucked me.

"Were you having me surveilled, Balian?" I asked, as we worked each other up to the inevitable. "Are you jealous of me? You know what I do."

"It wasn't you my men were following," he said. "But I can't say more about that now. Either you don't know and don't want to know, or you do and you are in trouble." He let that sink in before he continued. "When you were in the hotel room with Ilham, did you see a brown leather briefcase?"

"I didn't notice anything like that," I said. I didn't want him to know what all I'd seen, but a brown leather briefcase? No, not that I could remember.

"I don't want to know about the drugs—about the cocaine. Yes, we saw evidence of that on the desk in the room."

"I didn't snort any of that, Balian," I quickly said. "I am not into any sort of drugs." Well, there was weed, but I chose to think of that not being any worse than tobacco.

"Good. A briefcase. Think hard."

I thought hard. "No. I saw a small suitcase, but it was blue, soft sided. What is it about a brown leather . . . oh, shit. Well, OK." He had run his hand into my long, blond hair, which the Dane had taken down along with his—his was long and blond too; we were twins as we were entwined he was humping me. Mine was a reddish blond, though, and Dieter's had been almost platinum.

"Seni istiyorum. Seni şimdi istiyorum—I want you. I want you now," Farki growled, and dutifully, I lay back on the bed and opened my legs. When Balian used Turkish with me, I knew he was in high heat.

"No. Binmek çük—Ride the cock. I want you to ride the cock."

He pulled me over into his lap, facing him. My knees dug into the mattress beside his hips. I positioned myself over his raging erection and somewhat painfully but passionately lowered my channel onto the shaft. I was surrendering to him quite willing.

He held my waist in his hands and bounced me up and down on his shaft to his ejaculation. Towards the end, he raised my legs and hooked my ankles on his shoulders, taking full control over moving my body on his cock. I extended my arms behind me, grasping his kneecaps to hold myself steady. As he jerked and came, I lifted the legs up and spread them in a V—a V for his victory and my satisfied surrender. Fucked to yet another very satisfactory death.

Every day a little death—or several.

When he disentangled himself from me and rose from the bed, he rolled the spent rubber off his cock and, giving me a sneery sort of smile, flipped it over the side of the bed to land with the others that had accumulated on the floor there in the night, his on top of the others, as if to denote that he trumped the Danish soldiers.

At the door, as he, his uniform in pristine trim again and looking quite spiffy and pleased with himself, Farki turned and said, "He was stabbed. Several times. There was a lot of hate or passion behind it."

"I liked Ilham," I said. "I was with him several times. He was good to me. And he was fun to talk to. I liked him. I'm sorry he's dead. I didn't kill him."

"Was he as good with his cock as I am?" Farki asked.

The universal question of johns for their rent-boys. As long as they got release, why did they care? But then what Balian Farki and I had was a bit more of a relationship than most of the times a coupled with a man. Still, it was a question a male whore should not be trapped into answering. "You know I can't make comparisons like that, Balian," I said. "Let's say that you do me well enough that I keep letting you do me."

And he had done me that morning very well—very well indeed.

"Am I better than that Danish soldier?" he then asked.

"There were two Danish soldiers, Balian," I said. "They were studs. They did me together."

That shut him up on that topic.

The last question I asked Balian before he left my room was, "Ilham never told me what he imported. Do you know?"

"Yes. Air conditioners. Industrial strength ones—for office buildings, shops, and factories."

"You can't fit an air conditioning unit in a brown leather briefcase," I said.

"No, no you can't," he agreed.

I was exhausted and it wasn't yet 10:30 in the morning. I went back to bed and slept the sleep of the dead until it was dark outside again. I'd taken four men in the previous twenty hours—one of them now dead. No, wait, including the Israeli tourist on the beach in the early afternoon, on the sand in the privacy between boulders running down to the sea, with him on his back, and me riding him, it had been five. I went to sleep, dreaming of an army of men on top of me, one after the other, sometimes more than one, fucking me, each one fucking me to a blissful death, each one pestering me on whether they did it the best.

Tanju Hamdi didn't force me out onto the street until after ten on that sultry summer night. He gave me a few hours to mourn the loss of a good customer. By the time I went out on the street, Balian Farki had called to let me know that the medical examiner had cleared my alibi. Ilham had been murdered at least a half hour after I'd been seen leaving the Dome Hotel.

"Are you sure you didn't see a brown leather briefcase, though?" he asked.

What was it that was so important about a brown leather briefcase—and, if Farki's men weren't following me, was it Ilham they had been following—and was it because he was supposed to have a brown leather briefcase that now was missing?

* * * *

At midnight I was walking back down to the harbor from a pub on Kalakini Solak in the upper town, to the east, above the commercial port that was on the other side of the castle from the inner harbor. I had a German sailor from a Lebanese-chartered freighter in tow. He was nearly drunk but not so drunk to not know what he'd come to the pub for in addition to beer. And he'd had the price and had paid it. I had included a room, let by the half hour, in the British Club. We were on the steeply inclined cobble stone street leading down into the harbor when he couldn't hold it any longer. We stopped and he slipped into an alley to relieve himself against the wall. I stayed out on the street, my back to the wall, instinctively taking up the "I'm for hire" stance, one leg bent and foot against the wall behind me, and waited for the German sailor to be done in the alley.

As I waited there, in the deep shadows, I noticed the two men—one of them appearing at the top of the incline and the other one down where the street poured into the harbor, with the British Club on the corner to the east. There was something ominous about the men. They were just standing there, for a moment, looking at me. Then, though, almost in consort, they started walking toward me.

At that moment, the German came out of the alley and both men stopped in their tracks. The German was bigger, brawnier than either the other men, and he clearly could be seen as such even in the heavily shadowed street. The German seemed not to notice the men were there. All of his attention was on me.

He wasn't, in fact, finished with his business in the alley, and it wasn't only his piss he couldn't hold until we got to the British Club. He pulled me into the alley. My last moment on the street was devoted to checking above and below. The two men were retreating.

The sailor fucked me there, in the alley, up against the wall. He pushed me, back to the wall, and came in close, capturing my lips with his, his hands busy undoing my belt and his and pushing our shorts to the ground. The hands then went to our cocks. I just stood there, my hands grasping his beefy biceps and let him have his way. He didn't want anything but a quick fuck, and he took that. He was a tall, heavy dude, beer bellied, but so strong that he was going to have what he wanted.

He had a beer can cock, but it wasn't long. He fumbled around with a condom and then lifted my left leg, hooking my knee on his hip, which gave him enough access to my ass to get his cock inside me. Helping rather than fighting him, I tilted my hips up to be able to take more of him inside me and encircled his waist with my arms, gave him the words of encouragement and the sounds of being taken magnificently that all quick-in-and-quick-out johns—or Johannes, in his case—like him wanted to hear. Grunting with his strong thrusts up inside me, I gave him what he wanted: a warm passage to release in, the sensation of being "The Man," the virile, irresistible stud.

"Oh, baby, baby," I murmured in his ear, as he released. It was a service that came with the price he'd paid.

With a "Das war gut—That was good" mumble of appreciation, he stepped away from me, stripped off the condom, tossed it on the ground in the alley, pulled his shorts up, and was gone.

When I came out of the alley, the two men who had stared me down were gone too. They both were youngish and swarthy Turkish thugs as far as I could see in the dimly lit space. There weren't many mugging down this close to the inner harbor, but I supposed there were some and that was what I had escaped, thanks to the German sailor not being about to hold his fumbling lust.

* * * *

I didn't think any more of that strange, "almost" encounter until the next day when Tanju somewhat nervously told me Abay Dalman wanted to see me—right then—and there were two of his men here, at the British Club, to take me to him.

The two men were the ones who had almost accosted me on the road down into the inner harbor the previous night.

"I don't think—"

"There's nothing but to go with them, Lucas. Dalman is the major mobster in this area of the island. Don't worry, you'll be OK. We pay him off. It wouldn't be good business to do anything to someone who pays him off." Tanju's voice was too shaky for me to have much confidence in his attempt at showing confidence, though. The man was sweating.

That didn't stop the two thugs from taking me out of the club and across to the water, where they put me in a motorboat and motored out of the inner harbor, into the outer harbor, and then out to sea. They took me out to a large, fancy yacht within sight of the shore, but not by much.

I was hustled down into the bowels of the ship, to a small cabin dominated by a double bed with restraints chained to the four corners. There they put me in the position and did to me what I assumed the whole purpose of this cabin was for.

It was like it must have been employee's day in the underworld. I was stripped and spread-eagled on the bed, face down and ass elevate with a bolster under my belly and wrists and ankles tied off at the four corners. The two thugs who brought me out to sea fucked me—roughly—for nearly an hour—each. The ass fuck wasn't anything new or special for me, though. The screaming I did was the strapping one of them did on my back, ass, and thighs before he mounted and fucked me.

That must have all been to soften me up and put the fear of holding secrets to me, because not long after the second of the thugs left me, an older Turk came in. He was large of body, but powerful and mean looking, and quite clearly in command. I assumed I was now meeting the head gangster of the region, Abay Dalman.

He sat down on the side of the bed and glided his hand over me, intimately. He seemed to enjoy tracing the welts his thug had raised on my back and buttocks.

"I gave you to my men because I wanted you to know how badly I wish you to answer the one question I have for you. If I accept the answer, they'll take you back to the harbor. If not, I'll give you back to them until I receive a satisfied answer. If that never is provided, well, you know the expression, 'swims with the fishes,' I think."

He laughed. I didn't find that concept amusing, so I didn't. "What's the question?"

He didn't answer right away. He apparently wanted me to think about how serious his question was for a while longer. He picked up the leather strap and beat me again with it. I put more power behind the stroke than his thug had and I squirmed and screamed more enthusiastically for him than I had for his boy. Then he too mounted my ass, penetrated my channel with his shaft, and fucked me to his release. When he was done, he asked the question, speaking up over my deep moans, whimpers, and sobs.

"You were the last one known to see Rifaat Ilham alive at the Dome Hotel."

Oh shit. Rifaat Ilham again.

"He was holding something for me," Dalman continued. "What did you do with it?"

I panicked. "With what? I don't know what you mean." But, then, I did know what he meant.

"He had a brown leather briefcase that was mine. I think you took it. What did you do with it? It's mine."

The fucking brown leather briefcase. Everyone wanted it. I'd never seen it. That's what I said, but it was what else I'd said that saved me, I think. "I don't know about any briefcase," I said.

Dalman stood, took up the strap, and laid into me some more. There must have been something in what Tanju had said about not ruining something that made the man money, though, as I realized that neither he nor his thug was doing much more than redden me up and raise some welts. No skin had been broken—at least yet.

"Please, please. I can't tell you about something I didn't see," I begged when he decided to rest his arm. "I never saw a briefcase in the hotel room." But then I added. "The police asked me the same question. They asked me if I'd seen the briefcase too."

"The police? The police asked you about the briefcase? The police know about the briefcase?"

That clearly shook him. I stuck the knife in again. "You didn't have to kill Ilham for the briefcase. The police were there right after I left. They knew he had the briefcase."

"Kill Ilham? I didn't have Ilham killed," Dalman declared. "He was a trusted associate. I thought you may have killed him and taken the briefcase."

"I wasn't there when he died. I left before that and have an alibi, and, as I said, I don't know a damn thing about any briefcase. Ilham was a good customer. Why would I kill him?"

"Well, fuck," Dalman said, and he rose off me and disappeared. Not long after that, his two thugs came in, released me and let me dress, and took me back to the inner harbor in the motorboat. They didn't apologize or anything, and I didn't ask for one. Although a bit painful, I'd found the strapping to be an interesting sex experience. I'd come both times they did it to me. Tanju had a salve that did wonders on the wounds.

And, since I was still alive, I guess the gangster had believed me about the briefcase and had decided that collecting protection money on me was better than letting me swim with the fishes.

Dalman had somewhat indignantly declared he hadn't had Ilham killed, though. That was rather interesting. But I didn't think of that for a few days.

Two days later, I was in Lefkosa, attending Rifaat Ilham's funeral. I'd liked the man. I figured I owed him that much—to attend his funeral. He'd laid me, though, several times, so I didn't intrude myself front and center. I hung back on the edge of the small crowd that gathered at the cemetery. The young widow had a hard time with the funeral and had to be helped by a young man—a man who I thought I recognized from somewhere.

As I was standing there beside two old crones in black, I heard one of them say, in Turkish, "So nice that her brother is here to give her support."

The other crone snorted and said, "That's not her brother. That's her next husband to be."

That jogged my memory and I remembered where I'd seen the man before.

When I got back to Girne, I called Balian Fakir immediately.

"I went to Rifaat Ilham's funeral today," I said, "and I saw someone there I think you should know about—Ilham's widow was being escorted around by a man I saw in the lobby of the Dome Hotel when Ilham took me up to his room that last day. He was still there when I left the Dome."

"Interesting," Fakir said.

"When you talk to him, you might look around for that precious brown leather briefcase you all are interested in."

"Oh, I don't think I'll be the one talking to him," Fakir said. "There are more efficient ways of handling something like that in Turkish Cyprus. I'll tell someone else about it. And best you just forget about the briefcase."

Ah, Abay Dalman.

"But if you want the brown leather briefcase—"

"I think it will be fine if it gets back into the hands of its owner. Just drop it, Lucas, for your own good."

Ah, the complex world of the protection system in Turkish Cyprus, I thought. Well, that's too big for me to worry about. But curiosity still picked at me. "What's in that brown leather briefcase anyway?" I asked.

"You still don't want to know that," he answered.

Later, I decided he was right about that, and I didn't mention it again. I was helped in that decision a week later when I read the obituaries in the Lefkosa newspaper and saw one about the young air conditioner installer, Demir Baki. I recognized the photo in the paper, even though he looked a couple of years younger in the photo than he'd looked in the lobby of the Dome hotel or at Rifaat Ilham's funeral.

* * * *

The night was late in the Girne harbor, but the festive atmosphere evoked by the twinkling lights reflected off water below, the view of arms-entwined strolling couples, and the sound of laughter at the tables on the quay went on. It was after midnight—just the start of life in the Girne inner harbor. I was standing by the full-length window in the Dome Hotel, looking down into the harbor—the same window I stood at the night Rifaat Ilham last fucked me and died. I was thinking of him—fondly—and all that had transpired since he'd died. There was a sameness to this scene, though. Life goes on. The difference between the then and now was that, with Ilham, it was becoming a relationship. This was just a transaction—less messy.

The man—the client, the john, the seks istemcisi—an old Turk, gaunt, craggy faced and hawk nosed, but still, I was surprised and pleased to find out, hard bodied, a sailor, but one who owned the ship rather than sailed for someone else, was over at the desk, stroking his cock, ogling my naked body, and snorting up lines of Coke—just like Ilham had done on that night. But, unlike Ilham, he didn't offer me a snort. He had made quite clear that I was there just to lay down for him and be laid.

This one was a mainland Turk, with a small, expensive-looking yacht docked down in the inner harbor. He was just here for the night in his sail around the Eastern Mediterranean. He had two young sailors with him, who I watched him pay attention to on his boat as I sat at a table on the quay. He wasn't fucking them as I watched, but it was close. He obviously was in heat. He saw me too as he scanned the activity at the restaurant tables lining the quay. I angled my chair from the table, facing him, spread my legs, and let my hand dangle in front of my basket.