James Crumley writes hardboiled fiction like a Raymond Chandler who is still alive and drinking after all these years, and doing drugs on top of that. And has a closet full of guns.
C.W. Sughrue is the Hunter S. Thompson of hardboiled detectives. If H.S.T. could've shot people (other than himself.)
I love it. I lost count of the colorful characters and falling bodies, but you don't read Crumley for the plot. You're just along for the ride.
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