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When I saw the cover of this book on my friend Alex's TBR list, I knew immediately I had to read it.

I can't resist almost any hardboiled fiction from the 40s and 50s, and this one came with this particularly enticing promotion:

Helen is a beautiful, sensuous drunk - and a pathetically easy pick-up.

Wow, I was in.

Before you could say “good-looking dame,�� I had roped two of my favorite ŷ������ friends, Robin and Alex, into a snarky, literary threesome and we were ready to have some laughs, doing a buddy read at this book's expense.

I mean, let's start with the cover:



He holed up with a helpless lush?

Helen's a helpless lush? Okay. But, what's wrong with her dress in the picture? Is the gravitational pull that much stronger in San Francisco that she can't pull her dress up? Is she that overcome with desire at the sight of Harry or is she just so damn drunk she doesn't care anymore?

We all had a few laughs in the beginning. If you have a sense of humor and you don't get too tied up with a feminist viewpoint (or spend too much time cringing at the casual racial stereotypes), you can easily get a good case of the giggles with noir fiction from the 1950s. Helen is described. . . over and over again. . . in childlike terms that are just revolting. A woman during this time period just can't seem to do anything but crawl into her man's lap and babble like a baby.

Only thing is. . . Helen also likes to suck a bottle like a baby. . . and I don't mean milk, y'all, I mean whiskey. Helen is a serious alcoholic and so's her new pal, Harry (who prefers gin). . . and getting to know Harry and Helen is like watching two people with SERIOUS arrested development stumbling drunk all over town, refusing to accept any responsibility as adults.

Before you know it, it's a Leaving Las Vegas situation. You know. . . death by alcohol? Man, this book turned dark quickly and it wasn't what I was expecting at all.

But, here's the kicker: I loved this weird-ass book. Loved it. Not only the edgy, hardboiled writing, but the heart and soul of the story. Yes, it's dated and disturbingly misogynistic, but it kept me flipping the pages fast and furious and it made me think over and over again, about different scenarios.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't cheering on the hapless Harry in his sad rented room at Mrs. McQuade's boarding house.

Sad Harry, kicking back another shot of gin, observing that “Noisy children were playing in the streets, shouting, screaming, laughing; all of them unaware of money and security and death.��

You know. . . adulting is a back-breaking, nail-biting business and many, many people are not cut out to succeed at it.

There's an ache here, a wistfulness. God, why can't so many people find just one little slice of pie left for them on the plate?

This was a sad business that struck a chord in my heart and I felt committed to the victims of this particular train wreck.