Read Online Amnesia by G. H. Ephron - Free Book Online Page B

cream scoop, and a hammer. But I’d always returned to wait the forty minutes on line so I could fork over a buck fifty and pay homage to Steve’s artistry.
    Steve’s was an addiction Kate and I shared. We went there after our first time together. Hot fudge and ice cream seemed the only appropriate final act of indulgence.
    I parked my car on the street and locked up. I walked the two blocks to Johnny D’s, checking every so often over my shoulder. It was a habit I couldn’t shake. I couldn’t forget that for weeks, Kate and I had been completely unaware of Ralston Bridges stalking us as he carefully planned his attack. Knowing that I could so easily be followed, watched, without feeling even the slightest unease, made me uneasy now.
    There was no sign of Annie’s Jeep. Feeling like a dark-suited alien, I threaded my way through the little crowd of smokers standing outside. In the half-light inside, the sound of recorded blues filled the space. On the right side of the club, tiny white lights twinkled above the bar. A luminous television screen at the far end of the bar seemed to hover in a cloud of cigarette smoke. On the smoke-free side of the club, separated by a shoulder-high wall, were tables, a postage-stamp-sized dance floor, and a small elevated stage.
    The place was packed and customers from the bar area jockeyed for position in the opening between the two halves of the club. I followed a young man with a ring through his lower lip to a table for two at the back with a good view of the stage. A kid whose hair was buzz-cut on the sides and green Brillo on top was checking out speakers and a tangled mass of cables. The people at the table next to me were laughing and pouring beer from a pitcher. I didn’t recognize most of the groups featured in the posters that lined the walls. I took off my jacket and loosened my tie. Then I unbuttoned my shirt collar and rolled
the sleeves. I opened and closed the menu, checked my watch.
    When I glanced toward the entrance, Annie was making her way over. She stopped to exchange long-lost-pal greetings and hugs with a variety of bar denizens — male, female, and indeterminate.
    â€œSomething to drink?” the young, spiky-haired waitress asked us when Annie settled beside me.
    â€œDo you have Sam Adams Bock Beer?” Annie asked. The waitress nodded and I wondered what it took to get her hair to stand up on end the way it did. “Do you want one, too?” Annie was asking me.
    â€œWhat’s it like?”
    â€œIt’s like … You’ve never had it?” I shook my head. “Well, it’s a little unusual. You can only get it at this time of year. They brew it from the dregs at the bottom of the barrel. They take all this slop and it comes out a dark, sweetish-tasting beer. I like it.”
    It sounded awful to me. “Sounds good. Make that two,” I found myself saying.
    Annie said, “Can I get an order of conch fritters, sweet potato fries, and crab cakes?”
    The waitress looked expectantly at me. “I’ll have the same,” I said.
    â€œCome here a lot?” I asked, glancing at the bar and noticing that one of the men she’d greeted warmly on arrival was staring at us.
    Annie grinned. “Some. You know who else hangs out here … or at least used to?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSylvia Jackson. She used to come in here all the time. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. But she rarely left alone.”
    â€œShe had lots of boyfriends, I gather?” I asked.
    â€œShe certainly did. All the same type. Italian hairdressers and stunt doubles for Arnold Schwarzenegger. And then, we have
Stuart Jackson — a hundred twenty pounds dripping wet. Given her taste in men, I can’t figure out what she sees in him. He’s such a dweeb.”
    â€œA dweeb.”
    â€œTo use the technical term.”
    â€œOn the other hand, he adores her. And he’s very smart,” I