Ostensibly a crime book, but more of a hangout novel about four shitheads who keep putting themselves in criminally-adjacent situations. Imagine Seinfeld, but they have to get rid of a dead body and then just kinda carry on with their lives and do other stuff…and you’d basically get the gist. But it’s Willeford, so it’s really good. Four interlinked novellas, each told from the POV of each of the guys. Mileage may vary if you’re not at least a 40-something year old white guy.

It's a very well-woven story that rewards patience because it doesn't really start to come together until about 2/3 of the way through. It's also quite cutting and clever at times, which is appealing. That said, none of the four central characters is remotely appealing (by intent, one assumes), and the casual racism and rampaging misogyny are pretty hard to take, even if they are somewhat accurate representations of mid-1970s attitudes.

This book is really offensive and disturbing on many different levels; you might feel like taking a shower after you read this one. Five stars from me and a re-read down the road.

We have left the world of Hoke Mosley, that brought him fame. Having discovered Willeford from Miami Blues, I hurried to the Shark-Infested Custard which is more of the same. This time four guys have adjoining apartments, share a louche social life, drift apart, come together again. Their tales are told from individual viewpoints, a tricky technique brought off with some flair.

Theres is dark humour, there are murders and beatings, the protagonists emerge as bad men with good instincts or good men with bad habits - the interpretation may vary from reader to reader. Occasionally, Willeford indulges in a showy set-piece that might have been irritating had it not been done so well: the boss trying to move on an underling who doesn't want to go is a splendid example.

Willeford is not for all tastes but will entertain those who can sublimate their scruples for a couple of hundred pages.

4 men, friends in the same complex in Miami, go through their connected and disconnected travails involving killing, that begins with one all 4 are connected to. That's the plot, the rest is Willeford

Examination/indictment of nihilism and narcissism in swinging-seventies Miami. Crisp, Hemingway-esque declarative writing. As a Miamian of a certain age, I found it fascinating to be transported to this time period. Written in the mid 1970s but not published until 1990s.

Compelling writing, and compellingly repellent characters. I felt like the sections were disconnected and nothing was holding the book together. Until the last two pages, which raised the book to a whole new (and terrifying) level.

Leisure suits and swinger life...take a trip back to the seventies with Willeford's classic. I love this one. Reminds me of a more laid back version of Ellis' American Psycho, only these guys are a little more likeable and realistic. Good ole American consumerism and fashion sense thinly veil an inner soullessness that quickly lashes out into homicide. But these guys aren't serial killers, heck no. Just regular normal guys out for a good time. Likeable creeps all too similar to real people. Yikes. That's bleak, M.G.!

Disconnected

I had trouble buying the book because there were too many unrelated stories going on at once. And the personalities were underdeveloped. The men felt much, much older than they were.

Plain nasty book about cold-hearted, single men in Miami - true and awful and compelling.
A rare book without moral compass...dangerously provocative.
(Sounds a bit like a back page review that last bit - 'dangerously provocative' - sorry!)

The title suggests a Willeford throwaway. The book is anything but. One of his best.

A grim portrait of the single male, with all the absurdity on display. It's hard not to like this novel, while at the same time being shocked at how easily these so-called normal men turn to violence and crime. It might be easy to dismiss this as simply a portrait of place and time (Miami, the 70s/early 80s), but I really doubt the nature of the beast has changed that much since then.

A bit rough around the edges, not only in subject matter but style, I suspect this possibly started as a series of short stories or attempts at other novels. That said, Willeford is a master storyteller and observer and both traits are on display here.