Cujo Read Online Free PDF

salvage something. Work our way back in.” He bit into his sandwich.
    â€œClosing up for ten days is going to hurt us.”
    â€œYou think we’re not hurting now?”
    â€œSure, we’re hurting. But we’ve got those Book Folks spots to shoot down at Kennebunk Beach—”
    â€œLisa can handle that.”
    â€œI’m not entirely convinced that Lisa can handle her own love-life, let alone the Book Folks spots,” Vic said. “But even supposing she can handle it, the Yor Choice Blueberries series is still hanging fire . . . Casco Bank and Trust . . . and you’re supposed to meet with the head honcho from the Maine Realtors’ Association—”
    â€œHuh-uh, that’s yours.”
    â€œFuck you it’s mine,” Vic said. “I break up every time I think of those red pants and white shoes. I kept wanting to look in the closet to see if I could find the guy a sandwich board.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, and you know it doesn’t. None of them bills a tenth of what Sharp bills. What else can I say? You know Sharp and the kid are going to want to talk to both of us. Do I book you a seat or not?”
    The thought of ten days, five in Boston and five in New York, gave Vic a mild case of the cold sweats. He and Roger had both worked for the Ellison Agency in New York for sixyears. Vic now had a home in Castle Rock. Roger and Althea Breakstone lived in neighboring Bridgton, about fifteen miles away.
    For Vic, it had been a case of never even wanting to look back. He felt he had never come fully alive, had never really known what he was for, until he and Donna moved to Maine. And now he had a morbid sense that New York had only been waiting these last three years to get him in its clutches again. The plane would skid off the runway coming in and be engulfed in a roaring firecloud of hi-test jet fuel. Or there would be a crash on the Triborough Bridge, their Checker crushed into a bleeding yellow accordion. A mugger would use his gun instead of just waving it. A gas main would explode and he would be decapitated by a manhole cover flying through the air like a deadly ninety-pound Frisbee. Something. If he went back, the city would kill him.
    â€œRog,” he said, putting down his meatball sandwich after one small bite, “have you ever thought that it might not be the end of the world if we did lose the Sharp account?”
    â€œThe world will go on,” Roger said, pouring a Busch down the side of a pilsner glass, “but will we? Me, I’ve got seventeen years left on a twenty-year mortgage and twin girls who have their hearts set on Bridgton Academy. You’ve got your own mortgage, your own kid, plus that old Jag sportster that’s going to half-buck you to death.”
    â€œYes, but the local economy—”
    â€œThe local economy sucks! ” Roger exclaimed violently, and set his pilsner glass down with a bang.
    A party of four at the next table, three in UMP tennis shirts and one wearing a faded T-shirt with the legend DARTH VADER IS GAY written across the front, began to applaud.
    Roger waved a hand at them impatiently and leaned toward Vic. “We’re not going to make it happen doing campaigns for Yor Choice Blueberries and the Maine Realtors, and you know it. If we lose the Sharp account, we’re going to go under without a ripple. On the other hand, if we can keep even a piece of Sharp over the next two years, we’ll be in line for some of the Department of Tourism budget, maybe even a crack at the state lottery if they don’t mismanage it into oblivion by then. Juicy pies, Vic. We can wave so long to Sharp and their crappy cereals and there’s happy endings allaround. The big bad wolf has to go somewhere else to get his dinner; these little piggies are home free.”
    â€œAll contingent on us being able to save something,” Vic said, “which is about as likely as the