Neil Hockaday is an Irish plainclothes detective working the streets as part of New York City's Street Crime Unit – Manhattan out of Midtown-North. He calls it SCUM Patrol. Hockaday grew up in Hell's Kitchen and was an altar boy. Later, he worked his way through the police ranks and is quite comfortable roaming the streets and avenues of his native stomping ground. Most of his collars are small-time swindles, a few drug busts, and the occasional shooter. For the savages, he carries a .44 Charter Arms Bulldog in a shoulder holster, a .32 Beretta Puma on his left ankle and a .38 police special in a belt snap holster.
In Sea of Green, Hockaday, in first-person perspective, explains that he recently became divorced (no kids) and has moved into a tiny apartment house on West Forty-third Street and Tenth Avenue. After the brief history and introductions the book kicks off with Hockaday discovering that one of his snitches has been murdered. When Hockaday investigates the murder he interviews the man's landlord, a sketchy guy named Howie. A few days later Hockaday returns home and discovers Howie's naked body in his bathtub – dead as Elvis.
Next, Hockaday's superior, Inspector Tomassino Neglio puts him on the case of The Most Reverend Father Love of the Healing Stream Deliverance Temple. It turns out the preacher, a guy named Waterman, has received numerous death threats in his offering plate. During the investigation an unknown shooter assassinates Waterman right in front of Hockaday. Somehow the murder of Waterman ties into a real-estate swindle involving the very dead Howie, the snitch, and a huge swath of land deemed The Jungle.
I have a number of problems with the book. First, Hockaday doesn't have a violent bone in his body. There is absolutely no action whatsoever. He spends his time bar-hopping while contemplating his romantic ties with a cabaret dancer named Mona. Second, this book is a heavy tribute to New York City. Adcock spends pages and pages detailing the city's buildings and landmarks. That's fine, but the book is painted to be crime-fiction. I can read thousands of other cosmopolitan books dedicated strictly to New York. Third, Adcock inserts too much political garbage and personal opinions into the novel. He takes shots at Reagan, the U.S. government, and highlights so many social issues that really don't need to be here. It's like reading new Stephen King novels where he injects his over-the-top anger towards Donald Trump. I don't really give a shit if any author is an elephant or a jackass. Just write stories for people to escape their current environment or situation.
Despite my issues with the book and author, which began to take their toll by page 250 of 312 pages, I soldiered on. The story is a fine one when the author focuses on actually telling it. The limited investigation was still a pleasant reading experience and the tie-in of the story's central murder to the romantic fling was see-through but rewarding. I enjoyed Hockaday's perspective on his childhood as an altar boy and the personal connection he had with the church in attempting to solve the reverend's murder.
If this bloated book was trimmed to 200 pages it would have been a fast-paced winner with plenty of upside. Give me the meat and potatoes, spare the parsley. Mild recommendation.
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