From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. At the start of Crumley's brilliant new hard-boiled detective novel, Montana PI C.W. Sughrue (introduced in the author's 1978 crime classic,
The Last Good Kiss) is relaxing in a hot tub with his old buddy, psychiatrist William MacKinderick. Their team has just won the state championship in the over 50 softball league. Sughrue, whose body bears "more scars than a practice corpse," has even quit smoking. But when MacKinderick hires him to shadow some of his patients to see who may have taken personal files from his office, his old wild urges come roaring back. "I wanted another cigarette. So badly I couldn't remember why I had quit." Cigarettes, whiskey and cocaine all return to Sughrue's menu as one patient after another dies a gruesome death, and the reasons for the murders becomes less and less apparent. Soon Sughrue can threaten a bad guy with the warning, "I've got a hangover that would kill a normal man." Crumley shows his usual deft touch with poetic language (a shady lawyer boasts "a smile as innocent as the first martini") and humor ("I'm a private investigator, sir; I leave the blackmail to the lawyers"). The themes of nightmarish madness, betrayal and survival will glue readers to the page. Crumley remains one of the finest writers in the Raymond Chandler tradition.
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--This text refers to the
Hardcover
edition.
From Booklist
"I'd been older a few hours ago, but now those Scotch-Irish redneck genes had taken over. Plus a couple of Vicodins. I was a fistful of random trouble again." There's no doubt who's talking: got to be C. W. Sughrue, Crumley's aging, perpetually pickled, still-crazy-after-all-these-years sleuth, on the warpath again. It wasn't supposed to be this way, C. W. keeps telling us, as he chugs the pills, inhales the weed, and swills the booze across most of the western U.S. in search of . . . well, what exactly? We don't know, that's for sure, and it's anybody's guess if C. W. does. It all starts when Sughrue's Montana pal, psychiatrist Mac, hires him to find out who stole the shrink's computer disks, containing confidential details about his clients. Soon, though, those clients have begun to die in incredibly gruesome ways. The plot doesn't thicken so much as congeal, but anyone who reads Crumley knows that storyline is only an excuse to get our ol' boy on the road and on the juice. Yes, it's starting to sound a bit too familiar, but there's something about C. W.'s unrepentant thirst (both for booze and vengeance) and his willful foolishness, his absolute inability to do the sensible thing, that makes him stand out in a genre on the verge of being taken over by reformed drunks and socially responsible adults. This is character-driven fiction for those who want no part of designated drivers.
Bill OttCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
--This text refers to the
Hardcover
edition.