When James Crumley last published a novel--"Dancing Bear," in 1983--readers and critics went . . . well, let's say ballistic, in recognition of Crumley's chosen genre--private-eye thrillers--and the author's unapologetically American romance with firearms. For writing hip, smart detective fictions and displaying hard-muscled literary sensibilities, Crumley was touted as heir apparent to the genre's founding fathers: Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain, Ross Macdonald et al. He was blessed with a cult following, danced with Linda Ronstadt at his publication party, and Vintage Contemporaries soon reissued "Dancing Bear" and Crumley's earlier works--"The Last Good Kiss" and "One to Count Cadence"--in its line of instant classics. Translation: A legend was born.

But 10 years is a risky length of time for a writer to keep an audience waiting. A lot of water--and mud--flows under the literary bridge. Tastes change. Yesterday's fashion is today's cliche. The tag "long-awaited" begins to grate on the author's nerves and as the hiatus between books expands, so do the rumors, as well as the expectations, both of which attach to the work as excess baggage.

Not that Crumley's narrative juices ran dry in the interim. Much of the past 15 years the author spent working, not on his newest offering, "The Mexican Tree Duck," but on an expansive novel set in Texas, "The Muddy Fork," where nary a PI wanders the landscape. Crumley wrote hundreds of pages (at one point, 800) and threw them away. Somewhere in the process, Crumley's confidence, by his own admission, faltered. In 1991, he confided to an interviewer that he couldn't get the novel's voice or thematic range wrestled to the ground. In the same interview, he also made reference to the dire financial need that motivated the writing of "Dancing Bear."

Perhaps "The Mexican Tree Duck" suffered a similar set of pressures and irresolution. It's as if the author couldn't decide whether he wanted to emulate gonzo Hunter Thompson or earnest James Lee Burke. The resultant voice--a hybrid--is unsteady, emanating whiffs of self-parody, and the novel reeks of commercial acquiescence. Which certainly is no sin, considering the genre, and the rush to pay the electric bill was no detriment to the powerful, poignant "Dancing Bear." But "The Mexican Tree Duck" is over-boiled with too much goofy macho posturing, half-hearted self-effacing mockery and stale humor delivered in a redneck-hippie-warrior vernacular, which seemed fresh (I think) in the 1970s, but today has all the charm of a starving junkyard dog. Indeed, the sleek, spirited horse the author once spurred into the literary wilds has returned as an old gray mare, headed for pasture.