Charles Willeford's early 1956 novel Wild Wives is the hard-boiled equivalent of a punk song. Fast, furious, and short. It feels a bit more of a product of his crime story detective predecessors (Raymond Chandler, Dashielle Hammett, etc.) in the characterization of the tough guy private dick, Jake Blake, who gets mixed up with the beautiful but crazy Florence Weintraub. Before you know it Blake is into it knee deep due to his lack of due diligence. While I feel the story is overall an archetype of the genre, there are little bits where Willeford infuses his own particular sensibility. As anyone who has read The Burnt Orange Hersey, that he has predilection for modern art and her ewe have a potential customer who has a room full of Paul Klee paintings. While, Hank Mosely likes his Early Times bourbon, but Jake likes gin and juice, although I am sure both have a taste for steaks. Then there's a bit where the characters rift on martinis: the desert: 9 parts gin and one part vermouth with toothpick sans garnish. Overall, it's another fun ride with Willeford.