Robert James, a private detective more interested in chronicling his cases than solving them, gets a midnight call from a young woman whose older husband has been found with a knife in his chest. Murder, corruption, and betrayal ensue as he's drawn into the dark underworld of his client, but hapless Robert and his sidekick, a flower-delivery guy, can't stop drinking, smoking, and philosophizing long enough to keep up. Imagine The Big Sleep via Fernando Pessoa, with a side of Buster Keaton.
This book is written in a most peculiar cadence and style. I couldn't get used to the odd repetition and awkward rambling. The story sounded like it was written by a stroke victim, nursing an opium pipe, coming off a bad LSD trip. I can't really blame the narrator - he's only reading what's been written.