Constantine is a drifter, a man with a lot of miles behind him and a lot more ahead and a number of jobs in between that never showed up on anyone's books. He hitches a ride on a bright spring morning with a little man named Polk, Heading down a country road in Polk's hopped-up car, the two men share a few clgarettes. Later, when Constantine walks toward the big brick house, the Beat in his head, the grip of the, 45 warm in his hand, the siren walling at his back, he thinks that the whole thing started on that road, with the car stopping for his upturned thumb. He thinks that what happens to a man are put in motion by something just that small, that random and he laughs and keeps on walking. Shoedog is noir writing at its finest, a modern crime novel with the lingering resonance of good whiskey and the brutal recoll of a shotgun blast.