In this novel by D. L. Birchfield, a hard-luck Oklahoma Choctaw lawyer, Hom-Astubby, decides that doing things on Indian time just isn't compatible with practicing law. When he tries his hand at becoming an outdoor photographer instead, Hom-Astubby is being driven nearly crazy by a curious problem he never expected to encounter - having constant good luck. Hom-Astubby fears that his unbridled good fortune has come to an end, though, when he befriends a huge abandoned dog while on vacation in southwestern Colorado and then suddenly finds himself at the center of the biggest manhunt and the biggest media event in that state's history. Hunted by Colorado's most powerful cop, with whose girlfriend Hom-Astubby has become infatuated, he can only hope that his luck hasn't run out altogether as he plays detective in a baffling murder. Hom-Astubby seeks the help of former girlfriends he hasn't seen for years - who aren't exactly waiting by the phone for him to call - and even puts his fate in the hands of a Navajo-Comanche bull rider, whose rodeo career didn't last as long as it had taken him to flunk out of barber college. Hom-Astubby races the clock to solve this murder and keep himself from being arrested as its perpetrator.
Where to begin...? Although I did finish this book (and I finish very few that are this annoying), it probably would've gone back to the library if I hadn't been on a road trip.
Parts of it (setting, plot) were well done. but the characters were cheap Dell Books cutouts. The best character is the protagonist, penniless billionaire Indian lawyer-photographer-forensics expert Hom-Astubby. The adjectives in front of his name should give you an idea why these fictitious folk are so preposterously annoying. O yes, and he drives around in a two mpg custom-made million-dollar pimp-RV. His paleface lover, Avalanche O'Neill, is also ridiculous, an Irish -born unspeakably sexy and brilliant journalist-lawyer-dog breeder.
Give me a break. I doubt I need to mention any more of the utterly gross absurdity plaguing this male adolescent fantasy.
Maybe all this hyperbolic rubbish is supposed to be funny. It isn't. The book was a terrible disappointment. Compared to the stories of Louise Erdrich and Paula Gunn Allen, this is a Silk Black Handkerchief blowout.