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Pretty Polly desperately needs Kinky's help in locating her missing husband. It seems Kinky's friend Ratso (Kinky actually has two friends named Ratso; this speaks volumes about Kinky's character) has sung Kinky's praises, and now Kinky will have to do some fancy footwork to justify the compliments. Thus begins the latest adventure of the intrepid (decrepit?) sleuth, The Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover.
It all seems rather innocuous until Kinky is set up to take a fall for possession of a large quantity of a controlled substance, then gets shot by one of Washington, DC's finest, not to mention his near incineration in the back of a burning limo.
There has rarely been a detective in the class of Kinky Friedman, and author Kinky Friedman (no relation) is in a league of his own as well. Imbued with the paranoia of an aging hippie, both Friedmans have little use for the conventions of politically correct 1990s America. And when the case draws inevitably to its close, Kinky is nothing if not philosophical: "It wasn't all that hard to understand. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose and sometimes you live in a lonely loft in February, freezing your ass off, listening to dancing lesbians, gazing at garbage trucks, smoking cigars, drinking espresso, attempting to relate to an antisocial cat, feeling sorry for yourself, and, occasionally, carrying on a rather wooden conversation with a little black puppet head who resides on top of the refrigerator and is the only one with the brains and the imagination to call this place home."
Detective fiction doesn't come much quirkier, or much better, than this.
©1996, ProMotion, inc.