I am only 90 minutes into this book and I doubt I'll finish it. The writer is attempting a noirish style that he lacks the skill to achieve. His lead character Henry Parker is much too disingenuous to take seriously.
Parker is a young reporter newly hired by the New York Gazette. Like most reporters he dreams of breaking the big story, the next Watergate. After a few months of writing obituaries, the one thing reporters hate to do because it can lead to a dead end (no pun intended). Write them too well and it will become a permanent beat. Write them badly and editors will put you on another dead end beat like, say, covering the water and sanitation district. That's assuming you have union protection and haven't been fired.
Finally, after a month, the newspaper's editor sends Jack on a routine interview to help the paper's Pulitzer Prize winning star with series on organized crime he's working on. And here's where it goes south, way south.
After the interview with a small-time allegedly reformed ex-mobster, Henry gets involved in an incident that stretches plausibility to the breaking point. Henry now finds himself the most wanted man in the city for the murder of New York police officer.
Running scared, Henry calls his editor for help. Any attempt by the reader to suspend his disbelief is squashed like a bug on a sidewalk at this point. The editor tells him he can't talk to him and urges him to turn himself in. WHAT!?!? There's not an editor or journalist alive who wouldn't try to get an interview with a high-profile murder suspect on the run. And if there is, he or she isn't working in journalism anymore. "Come in and talk to me first then go to the police," would be the gist of the conversation.
The book opens with a flashback in which our hero has been shot in the chest and is about to be shot again by either a mob hit man or a cop. I don't have to read the rest of the book to figure how he got in that mess. Sheer stupidity.