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Take the guys from Grumpy Old Men, make them Jewish Texan country-singers-turned-private-eyes living in New York City, and you’ve got Kinky Friedman. As I mentioned in my review of Spanking Watson, he definitely isn’t for everyone. He’s overflowing with old-bachelor-crustiness and politically-incorrectness. But despite all that—or perhaps because of all that—I like him.
The beginning of Roadkill finds the Kinkstah in a bit of a funk. When his old friend, Willie Nelson (yep—the Willie Nelson), asks Kinky to join him on the road, he jumps at the chance. But Kinky soon finds himself on yet another case. Members of Willie’s entourage have noticed that something’s been bothering Willie lately, and they ask Kinky to get to the bottom of it. After a little digging, Kinky discovers Willie’s problems began when his tour bus hit a wayward Native American on an Arizona highway. And when Willie’s assistant is shot one night in Buffalo—obviously mistaken for the country singer—Kinky realizes that the situation is more serious than he originally thought.
Who’d want to kill Willie? A vengeful Native American? One of his ninety-seven ex-wives? Kinky races to hunt down the killer before he or she hunts down Willie.
Roadkill is a super-quick read. I ripped through it in a couple of days, laughing all the way. While the case isn’t exactly solid, and I felt like there were a lot of holes and unanswered questions when it was all over, I still enjoyed the story—thanks to Kinky’s wit and saltiness. In fact, I think Kinky Friedman could write a non-fiction book about houseflies, and I’d probably still laugh all the way through it.
If you’re looking for a really solid mystery, this isn’t exactly it. But if you’re looking for a fun read (and you enjoy the occasional dose of old-bachelor-crustiness and politically-incorrectness), give Roadkill a shot.
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