Barbara Ludman ROADKILL by Kinky Friedman (Faber & Faber, R69,99)
There have been many books featuring the author as amiable detective, once the main man in a country and western band, now ensconced in a New York loft with a cat, a good supply of cigars and a singing espresso machine. The Kinky Friedman saga is an acquired taste. Those who acquire it find him hilarious, a reaction that’s puzzled me – until Roadkill, that finally hooked me.
The books are redolent of ageing hip, but that’s not their real appeal. Anybody who called his country band Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys is likely to cheer up the reader with heavy doses of political incorrectness. Add to that the odd touch of mysticism and a way with images, and we’ve got a pleasant few hours.
The books feature real people in dangerous situations. Presumably, the people Friedman writes about don’t mind.
In this one, Friedman finds a gypsy staring back at him out of his bathroom mirror, telling him to travel; he gets a summons from country singer Willie Nelson; someone is apparently trying to kill him.
Not that Nelson notices much; he moves through the world in a cloud of dagga smoke, offering Kinky one joint the size of a kosher salami, another one the size and shape of an old-fashioned rural butane tank.
But various helpers – Native Americans, local jollers, a gangster – help our detective sort it all out. Sort of.