![]() ![]() Then in walks Laureen, a nattily dressed chief administrator (yes, of course Hell has bureaucrats!) who makes Kat an offer she can’t refuse: find a “very significant item” that’s been stolen and she’ll call off Kat’s nightly Torments.īut Kat knows that even in Hell clients lie. Since then (with every day more or less the same, Kat’s long since lost count), she’s been existing on Ward Eight cocktails at Benny’s (a local dive), a few odd detective jobs, and her own all-consuming guilt and pain-never aging, never dying, and certainly never feeling better. This LA limbo’s got a curiously retro vibe, seemingly concocted from old B flicks and film noirs, the cars and the phones and everything else harking back to the Eisenhower era-a sprawling metropolis that resets itself every night, where buildings destroyed one day are magically rebuilt by the next.Īnd so down these mean streets of Hell struts our gal Kat, a kick-ass private eye back in the day-only 42 when she put a bullet in her own brain in 1978. No zombie cows here, but there is a lot of tongue-in-cheek world-building going on-or should that be underworld-building? With Kat cracking wise in the narrator’s spot, Logan concocts an entirely credible, if somewhat peculiar, afterlife, an urban cesspool called Lost Angeles, with its own peculiar rules and routines, where wraith-like Torments descend upon its inhabitants night after night, ripping their souls to psychic shreds, forcing them to relive in agonizing detail the most shameful, painful moments of their past lives over and over. She’s in Hell, literally, in this curious but intriguing, action-packed new fantasy-crime hybrid by Scottish author Michael Logan, best known until now for such bovine bestsellers as Apocalypse Cow (2013) and World War Moo (2015). But LA gumshoe Kat Murphy isn’t circling. Dysfunctional private dicks with troubled pasts-male or female-are a dime a dozen, and those circling the drain aren’t exactly rare birds, either. ![]()
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