Take four corpses, three beautiful dames, two concussions, and one world-weary Chicago PI in the shape of Paul Pine. Stir in twenty-five million dollars' worth of McGuffin in the shape of an ancient manuscript. Add a sympathetic word-portrait of a dying Mafia don and a least-likely suspect ending with more holes in it than a St Valentine's Day massacree. Spread thinly over a plot so convoluted that the author has to provide footnotes:
"I'm the girl who came to America with Kurt. Antuni told you about me - weren't you listening?"
Don't just sit there, sister, give us the page number so we can look it up.
Garnish with several large pinches of salt and set aside for use whenever someone claims that hardboiled mysteries are more 'realistic' than cosies.
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