Charles Willeford’s style of pulp is quite simple: hardboiled gumshoes, femme fatales who aren’t what they seem, cops in pursuit, observations on culture – when in San Francisco, the obligatory allusions to normalized seediness, reflections on the art world, in this case his detective collects Paul Klee paintings and mostly, relentless prose. A claustrophobic effect by virtue of tight plots. Afterwards you may say that you saw it coming but if you’re honest with yourself you know that you were in the grip of the the breathless prose, seized up with the relentless action. Gorgeous pulp fiction.