Bodies aren t supposed to surface in the La Brea Tar Pits anymore. At least not human bodies. So when the corpse of an elderly but far-from prehistoric male appears in the oily slime, traffic slows down on Wilshire Boulevard and people stare. Especially screenwriter and sometime-sleuth Ben Crandel. Little does he suspect that this unsavory interlude in an afternoon stroll with his adopted son Petey, and Stanley, his beloved basset hound, will soon whisk the three of them headlong into a criminal underworld as sprawling as L.A. itself.

Living on the edge amidst the glamour of Hollywood s studio offices and the grime of its back streets and alleys, Crandel assails both with wit and determination. His screenwriting career is still an uneasy compromise between the typewriter and the bottle, but it s definitely on the upswing. At least until he s told to butcher a screenplay by his lifetime idol, Alfie Wilde, a Hollywood legend now lapsing into alcoholic senility. Crandel would rather take a scissors to the Bible. A horrible discovery prevents him from doing either—someone s kidnapped Petey and Stanley.

Pitting himself against both cops and crooks in the effort to reclaim them, Crandel uncovers a morass of corruption that runs the gamut from assault and extortion to murder and body-snatching. On this blighted hell of Hollywood, wickedness and passion predominate; loneliness and despair prevade; sleaze and glitz intermingle.