It's not so much that this book is bad, exactly; it's just that it's not really very good. It fits perfectly well into that collection of pulp fiction that Amazon routinely gives away at 0.99p or less. Think Capote, Kerouac and the distinction between writing and typing. At full price for this, and after hearing the author feted all over the BBC airwaves a week or two ago, I expected much, much better.
Myron Bolitar is a PR for athletes and sports stars, or 'sports agent' in the jargon. He also, for no very good reason, doubles as an amateur sleuth. He and his friends all live in Made-for-TV Movieland, just a couple of blocks over from Columbo, Starsky, Hutch, Angela Lansbury, Dick van Dyke, T.J. Hoooker, Mr T., etc. etc. So no need for any actual writing to set the scene, then.
Plot: involves blackmail via dubious-but-legal soft porn magazine titles. Staking out a PO Box. Cars. Beautiful women. Americans. Dry wit, some of it witty.
Characterisation? Well, people say and do stuff, but only the same stuff all the same people say and do in all the same stuff that's going down just a couple of blocks over in Made-for-TV Movieland. Nobody thinks. Nobody feels. Nobody learns.