The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy Read Online Free

concussive that would make perfect tools of revenge. Bridge always tried to be fair in his dealings, but that never stopped unsatisfied customers from seeking recompense of a physical nature. But those weren’t the reason he avoided physical contact. No, the real reason was that he just hated people on an almost universal basis. He hated the cloying press of humanity, the parade of simpering mongoloids that walked the face of the earth as if they owned it. He hated them for their greed, he hated them for their vices, and he hated their sweating, stinky desperation which fell off of them in waves no matter the circumstance. He hated Mr. Sharp-Dressed man here, for whatever connection this well-heeled faker wanted from Bridge.
    Bridge wondered how Sharp-Dressed managed to not sweat his balls off in the intense Los Angeles heat outside, but the man showed only a thin line of perspiration on his brow. “You got a business card?” was the first question Bridge asked him. In any other environment, Bridge reckoned the man would have whipped out the bizchip before their handshake was even cold, but the potential illegality of the situation had obviously put the guy off personal revelations.
    “Of course,” Sharp-Dressed answered, whipping out a small card wallet from his breast pocket. He hesitated as the chip left his pocket, wondering if he really should be handing over his particulars to someone who could link him to a crime. “Isn’t this business usually anonymous? No names and all that business?”
    “Do you do business with a motherfucker won’t tell you his name?”
    Sharp-Dressed had a good think about that, finally handing over the card with only a slight reluctance tugging at the corners of his smile. The paper-thin silicon wafer glowed with exposure to the pulsating light show of the club, an animated presentation complete with video of the card’s owner flashing boldly from the card’s electronic paper surface. The man oozed oily confidence even from the bizchip.
    “Your business with me is as secret as your confession,” Bridge continued as he eyed the card. “You already kpleou alrenow my name. We’re just evening up the deal.” Of course, Bridge was lying. Anonymity was a buzzword of his, but it wasn’t religion in his line of work. Bridge’s first priority was protecting his own ass, and if that meant he had to “know a guy” he worked for when someone else asked, like a frisky cop or a mean big bastard with a big bastard gun, he’d sing like a canary. Knowing guys meant knowing their dirty little secrets, and he could trade secrets as well as connections when the need arose. “Good to meet you, Brandon Thames, Film Distribution Assistant,” Bridge read from the card. “Are you a cop?”
    Thames appeared taken aback, his affected calm showing signs of wear. “Boy, you don’t waste any time. I like that, I dig that. No, I am not a cop. I’m not wearing any kind of wire or listening device.” He manufactured a smile for Bridge, a smile filled with the ivory produce of a very expensive dentist and the cloying charm of a social predator. He opened his coat to display a crisply-laundered white shirt, as if that would allay all Bridge’s fears.
    “Wasting time is a sin in this business, and spending time in jail for what I do is a serious waste of time,” Bridge replied.
    “And what do you do, exactly?”
    “I am my name. Artemis Bridge, pleasure to meet you. I’m a bridge, THE bridge, the path to whatever it is you want, so long as what you want is something hard to find that someone else has. It may be rare, it may even be illegal, but if you need it, I am the guy that knows the guy that’s got it or does it. I’m the main circuit in the relationship network, I’m the go-between and the get-to-know. You stand here on one side of the bridge with a need, and somewhere on the other side of the bridge is the guy who can fulfill that need. For a nominal fee, I connect you with him. I do not