Downscale private dick Harry Rigby starts tossing out wisecracks like lit packets of firecrackers on page one of this Irish crime story, and he doesn't let up until the last sordid plot strand is singed into submission. In both the dialogue and first-person narration, Rigby resembles the gin-soaked love child of Rosalind Russell and William Powell--except he smokes pot instead of swilling martinis. Rigby's incessant linguistic pyrotechnics might seem like obnoxious overkill to some. But readers who roll with the patter -- "I wanted to ask how come blondes never got around to dyeing their eyebrows but her eyes were closed and the gash in her throat ran six inches east to west" -- will find it driving the story forward at a thrilling pace. That's a good thing, as the plot's a convoluted mess of bitter backstabbing among stock ne'er-do-wells sniffing after an illicit drug concession. But Rigby is a winning protagonist, and the underlying struggle with his memorably sociopathic brother, Gonzo, helps make this a wild ride worth taking.