The opening chapters describes the awkward and gruesome death of a bon vivant, one who likely never thought he’d die on a toilet. Then again, that’s nearly how Elvis died. Death can come at odd moments.
The ironically named Ded Smith, with his “detached objectivity, logical thinking, and other such social inadequacies”, is the exact opposite of the deceased. He’s not an acerbic Sherlock Holmes by any means. Mr. Holmes had a personality. It seems as if Mr. Smith has none. He’s the sort of man you wouldn’t really notice.
However, the author painfully pries up the carapace of this stolid turtle to reveal the maelstrom of emotion occurring under his shell. Ded has suffered heartbreak, so devastating you wonder he doesn’t buckle under the weight of it. He suffers bursts of crippling claustrophobia. This is a man of parts and mysteries and you suspect that uncovering them will be as fascinating as learning about the life of the dead man crouching.
The deceased is called Ickey Jerusalem, a moniker that either makes you chuckle or spew your drink. He was a riotous character while he lived, the sort who was always making the papers or the gossip rags. He’s the one your parents warned you about, the sly imp promising a good time and a lifetime of regrets, sort of like a night out on the town that culminates in a bad neck tattoo.
The gallows humor of the cops and Mr. Smith’s internal musings make you realize this is going to be one topsy-turvy investigation, one rife with misplaced humor, oddball observations, philosophical imaginings and ribald sexual hilarity.
The ironically named Ded Smith, with his “detached objectivity, logical thinking, and other such social inadequacies”, is the exact opposite of the deceased. He’s not an acerbic Sherlock Holmes by any means. Mr. Holmes had a personality. It seems as if Mr. Smith has none. He’s the sort of man you wouldn’t really notice.
However, the author painfully pries up the carapace of this stolid turtle to reveal the maelstrom of emotion occurring under his shell. Ded has suffered heartbreak, so devastating you wonder he doesn’t buckle under the weight of it. He suffers bursts of crippling claustrophobia. This is a man of parts and mysteries and you suspect that uncovering them will be as fascinating as learning about the life of the dead man crouching.
The deceased is called Ickey Jerusalem, a moniker that either makes you chuckle or spew your drink. He was a riotous character while he lived, the sort who was always making the papers or the gossip rags. He’s the one your parents warned you about, the sly imp promising a good time and a lifetime of regrets, sort of like a night out on the town that culminates in a bad neck tattoo.
The gallows humor of the cops and Mr. Smith’s internal musings make you realize this is going to be one topsy-turvy investigation, one rife with misplaced humor, oddball observations, philosophical imaginings and ribald sexual hilarity.