Thoroughly competent. In its own odd way, self-fulfilling in that lead character Mickey Murphy (L.A. lawyer) often asserts that an L.A. lawyer would make a good subject for a suspenseful film--which is pretty much what the narrative turns out to be. Mickey seems like he would have a good time with Larry Sportello (Inherent Vice, Pynchon) were Mickey not living 25 years later. The "Rodney King" verdict provokes the last stages of the narrative, though it is hard to imagine a story more different from Richard Powers' The Time of Our Singing which, on the great calendar/clock of fictional time, is winding up right around the corner from Mickey's hole-in-the-wall, "Flywheel, Shyster, and Flywheel" law office. Mickey is a noirish, hard-talking, wisecracking guy, of Irish ancestry (Gee? With a name like Mickey Murphy?), who occasionally, when the reader is not looking, especially when food is mentioned, slips into being Bernard Samson for a short time. There are dames. Killer dames. To die for and to die because of. And inversions, reversions, perversions, and other versions. I enjoyed it, but, as I thought about The Last Bookshop in London perhaps the greatest weakness of this novel is that it is exactly what one would expect it to be.