Second paragraph of third chapter:
The limo driver had parked within ten feet of a hot dog stand that boasted a big picture of my face on an ad board taped on the lower panel of the cart. Like I needed the cosmos to remind me of the difference between me and Rudy. Soon as we got into the limo, Rudy took a call on his cell. The driver took us to a restaurant on Park Avenue South. I couldn't even pronounce the name of it. It looked French. Rudy disconnected his call soon as he left the car and said, "I love this place. Best ramp soup in the city."
Having whined about creative typography in my last review, I'm going to salute the creative presentation of the title here, TH1RT3EN – no doubt about what it means and no violence done to anyone's culture.
This is a thriller set in a New York courtroom, a celebrity murder trial where the real villain is an absurdly intelligent and horrible serial killer whose ability to outwit the forces of law and order is only just outmatched by the grit and determination of the narrator. The gruesomely realistic detail helps to distract from the fundamental improbability of the plot, and it's an entertaining read, if not Great Literature. You can get it here.
This was my top unread non-genre book. Next on that list is Jack, by Marilynne Robinson.