Free Cuts by Richard Laymon Page B

at them , he thought. I saw plenty of Mary that night.
    Probably as close as I’ll ever get.
    Too bad she wasn’t on the social committee.
    But I bet she’ll be at the Halloween party.
    Last year, she’d shown up as a belly dancer.
    Suddenly, Lester realized he was only a block away from the Willow Inn—and erect from his thoughts about Mary.
    Stop thinking about her, he told himself. Think about something unpleasant.
    Think about Helen, that’ll take care of it.
    He thought about Helen, and it did.
    In spite of the dark interior, Lester felt conspicuous as he crossed the thick carpet to the bar. This was the first time
     he’d ever entered a cocktail lounge alone.
    It’s no big deal, he told himself. It’s not like a real bar, just part of the restaurant.
    Relax. Nothing to be scared of.
    Just everything.
    What if somebody sees me in here?
    So what? It isn’t against the law. And I’m not with anyone.
    Feeling hot and nervous—but somewhat daring—he sat down on a bar stool. On the other side of the counter were lighted rows
     of liquor bottles.
    The bartender came over. “What can I get you?” he asked. Nothing gruff or pushy about him. Just a pleasant, regular guy like
     a restaurant waiter.
    “I’d like a margarita,” Lester said. “On the rocks.”
    “Coming up.”
    “Thanks.”
    He watched the bartender make his drink.
    Kind of exciting, he thought. I should come to these places more often.
    When the martarita was ready, the bartender placed a cocktail napkin in front of Lester and set the drink on it. “Would you
     like me to run a tab?”
    “Huh?”
    “Run a tab for you?”
    “Oh. Yeah, I guess so.” Lester blushed. “Sure. Thanks.”
    Nodding, the bartender turned away.
    Probably thinks I’m a moron.
    Big deal, he thought. So maybe I’m not an old hand at barroom stuff.
    He started to pick up his drink.
    “Why, that is you,” said a voice behind him. A woman’s voice. With a soft, Southern drawl. “I thought I recognized you, Mr. Bryant.”
    Oh, my God.
    He turned his stool and looked up at a shadowy, lined face. Its smile and sad eyes were framed by red hair. “Oh, hi,” he said.
     “How are you, Emily Jean?”
    “Well, I suppose I’m just fine.” She laughed lightly. “You know, Mr. Bryant, I hardly recognized you at all without Helen
     by your side. Are you aware that we don’t recognize one another so much by facial features as by context? Did you know that,
     Mr. Bryant?”
    “I’d suspected it,” he said, though he wasn’t sure what she meant and didn’t care.
    What if she tells Helen about finding me here?
    Maybe she won’t even remember it, he thought. She does seem a little smashed.
    “Are you here by yourself?” she asked.
    “Yeah. Just thought I’d drop in for a quick one on my way home from work.”
    “Would you care to join me at my table?” Emily Jean asked. “Afternoon libations are so much more delicious when imbibed in the company of friends.”
    I’m a friend?
    He felt himself blushing.
    “You’re right,” he said.
    “Splendid! Come with me, then. I have just the nicest little table over in that corner away from all the hustle and bustle.
     I don’t care for hustle and bustle, do you?”
    “I hate it,” Lester said, though there seemed to be no hustle or bustle. The cocktail lounge was very quiet, almost deserted.
    As he climbed off the stool, he waved at the bartender. “I’ll be at a table,” he called.
    “No problem,” the bartender said.
    “Over in my special corner,” Emily Jean announced.
    “Gotcha.”
    She started walking toward her table, Lester close by her side.
    “When I saw you come in,” she said, “I thought to myself, ‘My, but that does appear to be a familiar face.’ You were out of
     your proper context, however, without Helen, so I had quite a problem placing you for a minute or two. Do you come here often?”
    “No, not often.”
    She sank onto a booth alongside her table, scooted over, and patted the