I was feeling in the mood for some popcorn, and my local library has a whole shelf of Lawrence Block books, so I decided to start the first Matthew Scudder book. It's okay, a more subtle character study and a nice period piece, but not more beyond that.

Scudder is an alcoholic ex-cop, a product of an NYPD where if someone puts money in your hand you take and you don't ask questions. He's not a private detective, because they have licenses and rules, but if you give him a gift he might ask questions for you. The father of a murdered girl wants answers about his estranged daughter, and her relationship with the young man who killed her and committed suicide in his jail cell.

The best parts are Scudder's weird personal code of morality. He's an atheist who tithes, a corrupt man with unimpeachable honestly. His journey takes him from gay bars to suburbs. I enjoyed the investigative techniques of calling people at central archives and badgering them to get you information. The ostensible case doesn't hang together, and it's a matter of the psychology of the participants rather than any evidence. If there's any flaw in the writing, it's that the culprit can be identified as a matter of pacing rather than pondering. (We need to have at least one false lead, maybe two, which means that the true killer should should up at 28% of the story, plus or minus. Try this on police procedural TV, it works great!).

Block is obviously a solid workman as a writer, but I think I like the Bernie Rhodenbarr books better.