The genuine Kinky (of Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys fame) --country singer-turned-novelist--is tough, wry, hip, completely off the peeling wall. Not surprisingly, the fictional Kinky--country singer-turned-amateur detective--is tough, wry, hip, etc.
The plot of Friedman's second book is just an excuse, involving the wasting of a riff of singers at the Lone Star Cafe in Greenwich Village. (Each murder is linked to the lyrics of a Hank Williams song. Don't ask.) Plot as clothesline on which to dangle the wacky wardrobe of aphorisms, wisecracks and non sequiturs known as "Kinkyisms" to a growing underground of groupies.