Between the Bridge and the River Read Online Free PDF

way of knowing.
    There’s no justice, thought George, which you’d think he would have worked out by now, given that he’d worked in the legal system for fifteen years.
    Fraser dropped his cigarette butt over the side of the balcony and walked back into Gus’s office.
    Gus’s office, in fact the whole building, was a smoke-free zone, which seemed horribly undemocratic given that most people who worked there smoked. At certain points, usually just after lunch, it seemed as though the entire workforce was huddled outside on the fire escapes or at the entrances, like little pockets of pickets for earlier death.
    He listened as Gus droned on, “. . . blah blah . . . cutbacks . . . setbacks . . . national adverting versus regional viewing . . . percentage . . . demographics . . . ho hum bladdy . . . crappity bladdy crappity blah . . .”
    Gus was technically his boss, so he had to look like he was listening, or at least look like he was trying to look like he was listening. Gus had worked in television for a long time and he knew the realities of star versus management but he was a traditionalist, and also his ego was so huge that he thought most people found him as fascinating as he found himself.
    Fraser was thinking about the new makeup lady—Paula. He loved that when she sucked him off she made a little humming sound that seemed to vibrate right through him, just like Julie used to.
    They probably both read the same edition of
Cosmo
. Unlike Julie, though, she let him come on her face. What a great girl.
    She said she liked it, that it was good for her skin, and also that it was dirty.
    Fraser presumed she was Catholic but he hadn’t bothered to ask.
    “. . . in conclusion smaller raises performance related blah brubbadah team pull together loyalty one of the family badaadah pigity pop.”
    Fraser snapped into the present when he heard the cadence and timing indicate that Gus’s monologue was over. He smiled at Gus. Then looked at Margaret.
    Margaret smiled professionally at Gus.
    “Well, you’ve been very clear and precise, and of course you are aware of Fraser’s popularity. Why don’t we think things over and come back to you with some real numbers?”
    “Fine,” said Gus. “Think it over but . . .”
    And off he went again.
    “. . . bladdy back in the days of . . . live documentary . . . my early years . . . investigative journalism . . . bruuddding broagde . . . vargggy pladdy blop . . .”
    By the time Margaret and Fraser left the meeting, they were almost ready to accept a pay cut just to get out. Meetings with Gus, particularly negotiation meetings, were just excruciating. Gus was very smart. He’d bore you to his will.
    I hate that fucking cunt, thought Gus. You had to think
cunt
these days, there were not too many occasions when you could say it out loud. Gus longed for the old days when
cunt
was okay and you could drink at lunchtime without some mad cunt suggesting you had to go to cunting rehab for alcocuntyholism. Arse. Fucking arsey cunt.
    It was Americans who’d ruined the word
cunt
. They thought it was some kind of derogatory term for a vagina, or someone who had a vagina, but it had never been that in Scotland.
    In Scotland the word
cunt
was cheery, like
shite
or
shortbread
.
    Fucking Global Village, everything got confused.
    Deborah, Gus’s secretary, who was one of the main people he never said the c-word (as it was now known) in front of, brought him in a cup of tea. Gus was terrified of her because she was very sexy, with her dyed blond hair and her zaftig body pushing at the little Chanel suits she wore. He was convinced she would file a sexual harassment suit against him if he even looked at her the wrong way.
    He was wrong, though. Deborah secretly wanted Gus to grab her and kiss her hard on the mouth, his big jaggy mustache scratching her face. She wanted him to pull her hair and rip her tights off and plunge his big hard cock in her cunt.
    She didn’t say that out loud, of