Written in the Kinky Friedman vernacular, this book is a hilarious read, a colorful journey. Fun, splendid, you really ought to read it.
The Lone Star Café itself was practically an institution in New York, sometimes bordering on a mental institution. There was enough Irving Berlin’s White Christmas around on any given night to decorate a large nativity scene.
The setting for this murder mystery who-done-it is, well, the Lone Star. And private investigator Kinky is never at a loss for words, hard-boiled quips, or kinky-isms.
It was Thanksgiving in New York, and about the only thing I was thankful for was that I didn’t live in New Jersey.
I liked him so I always gave him a little extra rope. Figured he’d either hang himself or start up a rope factory.
‘I’m pretty busy,’ I said. Actually, I had enough spare time to macramé my nose hairs, but it’s never a good idea to let people in New York think you’re not busy.
‘Money may buy me a fine dog,’ I said with some dignity, ‘but only love can make it wag its tail.’
When he’s not solving a murder mystery you might find him “doing a little horizontal mambo” with Uptown Judy or Downtown Judy. The eccentric Kinky enjoys making coffee, lighting cigars, and talking to his trusty cat, Cat.
I put on my hat and coat, grabbed a few cigars for the road, and told the cat she was in charge while I was gone.
I sat up in bed and looked first at the cat and then at the clock. The cat yawned. The clock said nine-thirty.
“Zany!” that’s the word I was looking for. A great read. I really enjoyed it.