We got Lawrence Block’s latest Bernie Rhodenbarr mystery, The Burglar on the Prowl, out of the library. I read these for the unrealistic but amusing light banter and the occasional interesting occupation-neepery, not for the plots, which are always incredibly complicated tangled knots of things. There’s hardly ever a red herring in these, basically, and getting everyone involved in the mystery’s solution somehow tends to be a baroque affair. Plus, there are always at least four different endings.
Prowl has the light banter, no question. But it also has, smack dab in the center of the book, an enormous “ick” factor for me, far greater than Holmes/Russell. The characters appear entirely oblivious to the psychosexual mess they’ve stepped in, which left me with the strong impression that they were all aliens. Ick ick ick. Not recommended.