It is early 1942. You are in San Francisco, and you need a private eye. Sam Spade is rumored to be in Istanbul. The Continental Op has been drafted and is a sergeant in the Aleutians. Philip Marlowe is up at Little Fawn Lake investigating the disappearance of Mrs. Derace Kingsley. Lew Archer is in the army. Who’s left? Nobody but C. Card. You haven’t heard of C. Card? That’s all right. Nobody has.
When you hire C. Card, the hero of Richard Brautigan’s eighth novel, you have scraped the bottom of the private-eye barrel. But you won’t be bored. No, indeed. Because when C. Card finds some bullets for his gun, you will be in for some fast, funny, slam-bang private eye adventures. Unless of course C. Card starts dreaming of Babylon. If C. Card starts dreaming of Babylon, all bets are off.
Not since Trout Fishing in America has Brautigan so successfully combined his wild sense of humor with the incredible poetic imagination he is rightfully famous for around the world. The adventures of seedy, not-too-bright C. Card, as he carefully wends his way between fantasy and reality, Babylon and San Francisco, are a delight to both the mind and the heart.
