The Hunter (Parker, #1)

by Richard Stark

“What are you going to do, Parker?” she asked, and the quaver of fear had finally reached her voice. “I'm going to drink his blood,” he said. “I'm going to chew up his heart and spit it into the gutter for the dogs to raise a leg at. I'm going to peel the skin off him and rip out his veins and hang him with them.”

Subtlety is not Parker's strong suit.

She had caused that, just one of the things she'd done to him. Crossed him and cuckolded him and jailed him and put his prints on file in Washington, D.C. Given him a continent to cross. She had done it. No other woman could have. There had never been a woman anywhere in the world to trouble him, till her. There never would be again.

He could look out at the street, and let his fifteen-cent cup of coffee cool. It was a Park Avenue coffee shop, and expensive. Pastrami on rye, eighty-five cents, no butter. Like that.

How much would it be if you added butter?