The crime in question connects to Sonchai’s past, sending him headlong down memory lane, where nothing is remotely what it seemed at the time. This is a world where snuff films and leveraged corporate buyouts and twisted revenge and sex with ghosts all dine at the same literary buffet. The fun springs from the realization that Jitpleecheep — for a good time, say that with a mouthful of breath mints — is as clueless as the reader. The ending defies logic or even premonition, and will stay with you long after you’ve forgotten how to spell our hero’s name, illogic and all. But the real treat here is the rare reading experience of a story told by a narrator who is orders of magnitude sharper and more human than not just those around him, but almost anyone who dares to read the book. It’s funny — “I know that I’ve misjudged the strength of the product when the guy in the mural starts to play the saxophone and I can hear one of the riffs from Blade Runner” — it’s provocative — “Without that desperation born of claustrophobia, we would never leave that safest of safe havens (the womb); but the memory of those months of oceanic peace ensure we spend our lives trying to get back in” — and at all times, utterly impossible to quit. That is — and you can pick your poison here — if you appreciate sheer linguistic genius, or if you want a taste of madness from the safety of that den. Larry Brooks is the author of four suspense thrillers.

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