Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Page A

tried to kiss my hand and I resisted. In the end, with İnci’s help, I won.
    Ã–zcan said he was very upset about what had happened to me. I studied his face intently to see if he was being sarcastic. But no, he was serious. Yet if he was upset, why had he previously tried to convince the police that I committed the murder?

    He seemed to read my mind. “It was Musa who said you must have done it. I just went along with him, miss. But it had nothing to do with you, did it? You don’t go and murder everyone you have a quarrel with.”
    I nodded. He was just a kid of fifteen or sixteen. He was bound to go along with what his elders said.
    â€œYour uncle—”
    â€œHe ran off with my brother’s money on Tuesday night. Osman had a payment to make early the next morning so he’d taken the money home for safe keeping. My uncle found it somehow and ran off with it. We always keep an eye on him because we know he’s no good. He must have taken it while everyone was asleep. We let our folk know it had gone in the hope of getting some back before he’d spent it all. But they haven’t come up with anything yet. Nor have the police. Drink, gambling, women – that man’s into everything. He probably regretted taking it and went back to see Osman. Then I expect they got into a fight and he ended up shooting him.”
    â€œDid he always carry a gun?”
    â€œNo way, miss. My uncle’s pathetic. We keep an eye on him. But he’s no good. Osman’s given him jobs at several places, but he always picks a fight with someone within a couple of days. He makes any street thug seem like a gentleman. We only put up with him for my poor dead father’s sake.”
    â€œBut if he didn’t have a gun, what did he shoot with?”
    Ã–zcan looked at me as if I were some species of extinct panda.
    â€œMiss, where do you think you’re living? This is Turkey,” he said. “Getting hold of a gun is no problem if you have the bucks. Show me the cash and I’ll have it for you in half an hour. Only the best, what’s more.”
    â€œWhat business are you in?” I asked.
    â€œWe don’t deal in guns. I said I could get you one, not sell you one of ours.”

    â€œThat’s not why I asked. What other business are you in, apart from car parks?”
    â€œAll kinds of things.”
    â€œHow many car parks do you have?”
    â€œLet me see,” he replied, and started counting aloud using his fingers. “Two streets in Beyoğlu are completely ours. And Tarlabaşı. You already know the one in Kuledibi. And we have a large one in Cihangir.”
    â€œWhen streets get closed to traffic, they’re turned into car parks. Is that how you got yours in Beyoğlu?”
    â€œYeah, that’s right. We have the whole of Ä°mam Adnan Street and Büyükparmakkapı Street.”
    â€œWhere do you get permission to turn streets into car parks?” I asked out of curiosity.
    â€œFrom the council. We pay our taxes, down to the last penny. We’re doing people a service. What would they do if we didn’t operate car parks there? Where would they leave their cars? Do you have a car, miss?”
    â€œI do,” I said.
    â€œWell, if you went for a night out in Beyoğlu, where would you park? You wouldn’t want to leave your car just anywhere. There are tramps, thieves and glue-sniffers all over the place. They get high on those thinners, take hold of a nail as long as your arm and scratch along the sides of cars, one end to the other. Who’s going to keep an eye on that scum? The police can’t be chasing after them twenty-four hours a day. Tell me miss, would you leave a brand new car parked in the road these days while you go out drinking?”
    I couldn’t understand why Turks always seemed to think I was an idiot. Because I was German? Because of my orange hair? Anyone living in Istanbul knew