Pagan Sex: A Novel of Dark Romantic Suspense

Pagan Sex

D H Young

Cabin Fever Press

Copyright ©2020 DH Young

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Foreword

Prologue (Old Freddy)

Chapter One (Jeanette)

Chapter Two (John)

Chapter Three (Jeanette)

Chapter Four (John)

Chapter Five (Jeanette)

Chapter Six (John)

Chapter Seven (Jeanette)

Chapter Eight (John)

Chapter Nine (Jeanette)

Chapter Ten (John)

Chapter Eleven (Jeanette)

Chapter Twelve (John)

Chapter Thirteen (Jeanette)

Chapter Fourteen (John)

Chapter Fifteen (Jeanette)

Chapter Sixteen (John)

Chapter Seventeen (Jeanette)

Chapter Eighteen (John)

Chapter Nineteen (Jeanette)

Chapter Twenty (John)

Chapter Twenty-One (Jeanette)

Chapter Twenty-Two (John)

Chapter Twenty-Three (Jeanette)

Chapter Twenty-Four (Janos)

Chapter Twenty-Five (John)

Chapter Twenty-Six (Jeanette)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (John)

Epilogue (Portia)

Thanks for Reading!

Dedication

This one, in spite of the title, is dedicated to Danny and Paul. Parenthood is an odd thing. So is friendship. You guys taught me a lot. Thank you.

Foreword

Events in this novel occur over a fairly wide span of time. Even so, I cheated. Nearly everything I describe either exists or used to exist…but sometimes I’ve moved places and events by up to ten years.

Poker players and Las Vegas aficionados may be especially likely to notice this. What can I say? I’ve been going to the place for about twenty-five years, and I’ve lived there for a few of them. I love it…partly because of its flaws. But I also cheated in Bonham and Austin, because I thought it made a better story.

Prologue (Old Freddy)

Freddy Shackleton stumped around a corner of the B building. Chest pains, smoke from the dump fires, the Young Gadjo sneering at him and swaggering like a boy who’d never been laid—was this why he had come to America?

No. Obviously it was to fix dishwashers. Freddy waited for the idiot boy to open the resident’s apartment door. Fifteen years in the job, fixing anything that broke, stretching the owner’s dollars till they screamed, and Freddy still didn’t get access to the apartment keys on his own. Who trusts a Gypsy? Naturally he had made a duplicate of the key to their cabinet just in case he needed them someday. But it was offensive. Fifteen years.

Inside, Freddy grunted as he lowered himself to his knees in a stinking puddle of water in front of the dishwasher. Now his pants would be stained. Perfect.

He began removing the screws that held the machine in place. The Young Gadjo leaned on a counter.

Freddy twisted his neck to glare at him. Don’t you have something better to do?

I gotta be sure you fix it right. If the buyer checks with the lady who rents this place we want her to say everything’s in good condition.

Freddy pulled the dishwasher out, looked behind it, and nodded. Stay here, then. Don’t let anybody steal anything. I need to get a hose.

What’s wrong?

Freddy cocked an eyebrow at him, then said what he thought. The roofs leak. See that stain? Your dad hasn’t painted these buildings since he bought them twenty years ago. They were painted badly, whenever it was done. They have almost no insulation. We are half a mile from the city dump, which has been on fire for two weeks. Smell that air? Yes? No buyer will care about a dishwasher. Okay? Also, since you ask nicely, I need a new hose because the rats—who live very well here—chewed this one to get to the water inside.

The boy scowled. Don’t tell anybody about the rats! If you do, I’ll tell my dad to fire you. What are you gonna do, huh? You’re too old to get a real job.

Freddy measured the boy. Some of Freddy’s family were fond of him, because they had known him since he was in diapers. He had been a sweet child, even if born an outsider…a gadjo. But as a teenager this boy had grown stunted in spirit, with all the soul of a hedgehog.

Freddy grunted a laugh at the thought. Before Freddy’s father had brought their kumpaniya across the Atlantic, all the families together, Freddy and his people had eaten many hedgehogs. All over Europe.

Stay here, he told the boy. I will be back with a new hose. If I need to buy more of this size, which I might, it will be half an hour.

Outside, drifting smoke from the dump fires stung Freddy’s eyes. Buda, Texas was just south of Austin…but it stank like Freddy’s memories of Budapest. Back in 1956, when he and his family had left that place. Back then, Freddy had seen boys younger than the Young Gadjo dead and twisted in the street. One had been crushed beneath a Russian tank while Freddy—Ferenc, then—and his older brother had watched, hidden behind an expensive and useless Chevrolet.

What would this boy have done, if he had been there? Did he carry a knife? A gun? Extra food?

Never mind. The boy would never learn, and he was not Freddy’s problem.

On the other hand it was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Freddy had a meeting at six. Plenty of time to fix the dishwasher…but the resident would not return for three days. Freddy decided the boy could wait in the apartment until he got tired of it. Perhaps it would be good for him.

Freddy went to to the leasing office and spent the next hour on paperwork instead.

But he wondered: how had he done this to himself? And why? He had not always been so…settled.

Back in the apartment he and his wife Cybil shared—ten percent off the rent; this was a deal?—Freddy lifted a silver bracelet with a strange triple-spiral design out of the box he’d put it in nearly fifteen years before. Because it had belonged to his dead brother Janos, Freddy was supposed to consider it unclean. Marhime. Along with Freddy’s whole life in this place, maybe, according to the beliefs he’d absorbed as a child. Shrugging, he slipped the bracelet onto his left wrist anyway. His wife glared, but what did she know? Today, it felt right to wear the thing.

And it might get a reaction from the businessman Freddy planned to meet, who had known Janos long ago.

Freddy did not trust the man. Why was he planning to buy this apartment complex? Supposedly he would demolish the apartments and build something new—not that Freddy was going to tell either the Young Gadjo or the boy’s irritating father about that—but the businessman had privately guaranteed he would provide a job for Freddy and also a new place for Freddy’s people to live. What was he up to? And why now?

Freddy nearly made it out of the apartment before his sister slammed her way in through the front door. No such luck.

"Look at the Rom Baro! she said, taking him in. Big man! Where are you going, all dressed up?"

Freddy shrugged. Portia, I am going to a health club. This is how they dress there. You know I have a meeting. It is important business.

"Oh, important! At this meeting what will you do? Will you tell your gadjo businessman that the Gypsies need a place to settle? That we have lost our spirit, that we are beggars now?"

Freddy grinned at her. We have always begged. When we had to.

You know what I mean! Portia grabbed the hem of her skirt as if about to toss it into the air, but neither of them could keep from smiling. You don’t care about the old ways anymore, old man.

Freddy shrugged. She knew better. But he answered anyway. I care. But I am already unclean, and this health club will not improve matters. Tossing your skirt now won’t defile me—it will only show off your fat thighs.

She made a fist, then grinned and stood aside. Be careful today. This man has a plan we don’t understand.

Of course he does. But we are the Gypsies, not he. Tricks are our business, not his. Freddy straightened up. "And I am Rom Baro here."

Freddy pretended not to notice the look she and Cybil exchanged. But truly he did not know what to do. Why, he wondered again, had he allowed himself to become so complacent, so…frail and ancient and stuck? He was only sixty-five. He still had some life left to live—didn’t he?

There had been starvation in Europe. Much worse than anything here. But new lands had crept over the horizon as the kumpaniya had walked. Now the kumpaniya were mostly scattered to the winds, and Freddy was Rom Baro to fewer than twenty of his people in Buda.

Still. Perhaps this nearby fire that fouled the air was a sign.

It would be something to lead his people on the road again. Perhaps they could even return to Europe. Maybe…maybe there was more adventure to be had.

Freddy sighed. Perhaps this businessman would give money for transport in lieu of a job and a home?

But for now, a health club. For now, Freddy would be an American.

He headed for his cherished ’57 Chevy, a rare spring in his step. He had been so stagnant, for so long. And it thrilled him to realize he would soon move on.

If he could help it, he would never stop for more than a few days again.

Never.

Chapter One (Jeanette)

You’re what? my boyfriend Larry asked me after I finally made myself track him down.

I glared. You heard me. Look, I’m not trying to trap you or anything. Just tell me what you want to do and we’ll go from there. We were standing just outside the front door of the bowling alley where he worked, but the stench of its mildewed carpets had followed us.

Jesus.

I nodded sympathetically, though I was pretty sure he wasn’t thinking of the mildew. But he didn’t seem to be looking at me anyway.

One little blue cross on a test strip. One little baby on the way, one new life in the world. Out of billions, I kept telling myself, this couldn’t count as a crisis.

Jesus, Jen, he repeated, throwing in a nickname I hated. I didn’t see this coming. Uh, look… he studied his shoes …is it the money you need?

I’d loaned him three hundred dollars, and—probably as a direct result—he’d been dodging my calls for a week. I’d taken the pregnancy test three days ago, but I’d waited to tell him in person.

So, now I’d done that. The nature of our future relationship was becoming clear. I tried to control my voice and my face. All right, Larry. Yes, the money would help.

He nodded. I get paid tomorrow morning. I’ll cash the check and bring the money to your apartment.

I nodded, turned, and walked away. My eyes and throat weren’t happy—I decided it was the mildew, and took deep breaths as I made my way to a bus stop.

I really wanted to get back home, and take a bath. And stay away from people for a little while.

But the next day, by six PM, Larry hadn’t shown up. And four days of moping, I suddenly decided, were about my limit. I was all done with sitting around my apartment feeling sorry for myself.

Not that things were completely out of control. I’d been cutting classes at UT, but my friends had brought me notes from Physics and Calculus, so I wasn’t too far behind in the important stuff.

But the money was more of an immediate problem, and I had to do something about it. Sure, Dad was paying for college—I was a Physics major, planning to go into Astronomy even though he wanted me to head for medical school, following his example, after I graduated—but I was actually pretty close to broke. Because I’d stupidly loaned Larry that three hundred dollars.

Anyway, I needed cash for rent…and today would be good. I doubted Dad’s response, when I finally confessed my situation, would be to meekly give me more money. He’d be more likely to show up on my doorstep, all ready to save me. Which would include taking me home with him, I was sure.

So I tied my hair behind my neck—I hate my hair; it’s sort of a blonde afro even on a good day—and grabbed some jeans and a sweatshirt. Time to confront Larry. Again.

He wasn’t working tonight, and he wasn’t answering his phone. But I knew he had Caller ID. So I’d check his apartment first, then think about calling his friends and letting them know he had my rent money. If I needed to.

I found a seedy-looking guy smoking on the porch when I got there—mid-thirties maybe, long greasy black hair, jeans wrinkled from living in them, and a potbelly poking out from beneath a dingy gray T-shirt. He tried to pull the shirt down when I got close, and his eyes lit when he saw I was headed for the door he was leaning against.

Here for the game? he asked.

What game? Here for Larry. I need to talk to him.

Oh. Larry?

Yes. Definitely. Please, I thought, Larry, be here. Don’t be an asshole tonight.

The guy shrugged and opened the door for me.

I’m Matt, he mumbled as I edged around him. His breath stank of the cigarette and cheap beer. Well, college.

Jeanette. Pleased to meet you.

The place? A wreck. Larry had two roommates, but they’d been in Cancun for a couple of weeks. If he didn’t clean it up, they were going to be royally pissed.

Voices. Loud, male, obnoxious. Not a surprise at this point. I picked my way through the entry hall—a waste of space; I’d never liked Larry’s apartment—and peeked around a corner into the living room.

Six guys, ranging from Larry at 20 to a guy who looked vaguely Indian—like from India—and maybe in his mid-sixties. Sitting around an eight-sided table I’d never seen in there. But I could see what it was for.

Larry, I said as calmly as I could. I need to talk to you.

He started guiltily at my voice, then glanced down at the pile of poker chips and money in front of him and gave a nervous smile. Hey, hon! Didn’t I tell you I was busy tonight?

I think everybody else at the table winced. That’s fine, Larry. I’m glad you’re having a good time. But can you step outside with me for a couple of minutes?

Uh. Sure.

So, do you have the money? I asked when we were alone.

Sure, he said, sounding wounded. I told you I would.

I frowned at him, but decided to let that pass. So give it to me, Larry, and I can get out of here.

I turned to go back inside and he spoke again. But y’know, Jen, I can’t take it off the table yet.

I stopped, staring away from him. Why not?

It’s the rules. I can’t take money from the table until I quit.

How had I ever wanted to spend any time with this guy? Suddenly I realized I was relieved that he hadn’t shown any sign of interest in the baby.

Whose money is it, Larry?

Look. I’ll pay you back when the game’s over. He brightened. I’ll bring it over later. Uh, maybe tomorrow if the game goes all night. I mean, I can’t quit, I’m the host.

Two hours later—and that was an eternity for me as I leaned on the wall and tried not to meet anyone’s eye, but I wasn’t going to trust Larry to pay me back once I left the apartment—Larry lost all the money he had in front of him.

I just nodded and straightened up. No point making a scene; I was done.

But then, sweating heavily, he got more chips out of a box and put them in front of himself. Nobody said anything, so I went back to the wall.

Three hands later Larry and this guy who looked like an Ivy League recruiting poster started raising each other, shoving chips into the pot. I leaned forward, then caught myself and settled back. Larry’s eye had been twitching the way it does when he gets nervous—but it wasn’t now. Was he going to win enough to pay me after all?

I’m all in, Larry announced in a voice so quavery I thought it should inspire anyone who was paying attention to fold. I’m not good with people, but it was obvious.

The other guy looked at him for a while, then glanced over at me and smiled in apparent sympathy. He began counting chips to call.

The hell with it, I decided. Larry was a jerk, and this guy had smiled at me. Fold, I told him.

He stopped and stared at me. Are you serious?

Larry slammed the table with his right hand. But he kept his left hand on his cards. Shut up, Jen, damn it!

Yeah, like that was going to happen. See what I mean? I said. He knows he’s going to win if you call.

Mr. Ivy League turned up his hand—the jack and ten of spades. You sure? Look, the king and queen are on the board—the only way he can win is with an ace-high flush.

I shrugged. I barely knew what a flush was. Your decision.

He smiled at me again, so I added: But if you fold and I’m right you have to take me somewhere for coffee.

Larry was trying to control himself, but it looked like his blood pressure might actually cause his eyes to pop out.

Yeah? said Mr. Ivy League, barely glancing at Larry. Deal.

And he threw his cards away.

I nodded in approval. See you outside, jack-high.

Larry jumped up and screamed at me, but I went out the door instead of listening. Screw him.

By the time I got outside I was nauseated and shaky, so I sat down on the steps and leaned against the rail, hoping Mr. Ivy League would just stay inside.

But he followed me out. You okay? he asked as he closed the door.

No. I’m pregnant.

Oh my god. What was I saying? And what was the poor guy supposed to say to me now?