Hamilton Waymire is fast becoming one of my favorite short story tellers. His hint of noir in his private dick stories is perfect. It’s not over-the-top like some of the noir stories I’ve read. The PI in this one has just enough brashness, just enough hard-nosed to make him excessively likable. Floyd Hunter is the type of private dick that you hope would be cheap, nasty and available when you need him. One that you’d find in the yellow pages, or on a business card wedged into a crack in the wall by a seedy pay phone in the back of an even seedier bar.

In this tale, Hunter turns down a job offer from his old sweetheart. She ditched him the night of graduation for a nerdy dweeb who’s father was a millionaire. And Hunter never quite got over her. When he watches her get murdered, he vows to find the culprit. He’ll either kill him with his bare hands, or one of his two precious firearms. Either way, someone’s going to pay for what they did to his not-so-beloved ex.

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