Eight-Ball Boogie

From Booklist Downscale private dick Harry Rigby starts tossing out wisecracks like lit packets of firecrackers on page one of this Irish crime story, and he doesn't let up until the last sordid plot strand is singed into submission. In both the dialogue and first-person narration, Rigby resembles the gin-soaked love child of Rosalind Russell and William Powell--except he smokes pot instead of swilling martinis. Rigby's incessant linguistic pyrotechnics might seem like obnoxious overkill to some. But readers who roll with the patter--"I wanted to ask how come blondes never got around to dyeing their eyebrows but her eyes were closed and the gash in her throat ran six inches east to west"--will find it driving the story forward at a thrilling pace. That's a good thing, as the plot's a convoluted mess of bitter backstabbing among stock ne'er-do-wells sniffing after an illicit drug concession. But Rigby is a winning protagonist, and the underlying struggle with his memorably sociopathic brother, Gonzo, helps make this a wild ride worth taking. Frank Sennett Copyright В© American Library Association. All rights reserved Review 'I have seen the future of Irish crime fiction and it's called Declan Burke. Here is talent writ large - mesmerizing, literate, smart and gripping. If there is such an animal as the literary crime novel, then this is it. But as a compelling crime novel, it is so far ahead of anything being produced, that at last my hopes for crime fiction are renewed. I can't wait to read his next novel.' Ken Bruen, author of London Boulevard and The Killing of the Tinkers