Kirkwood, who wrote two sentimental/slick post-Salingeresque novels has now written a scruffy-slick small book about one James Zoole, 38 and an actor, who's so far down he must have hit bottom. He's lost his job; his oldest friend with other inclinations; his girl of a year and a half; he's been twice robbed. And his cat Bobby Seale is dying. But there's worse or better to follow on New Year's Eve when a prowler (the same one whom ripped him off earlier) enters his apartment. Zoole shoots at him and ties him up. He's a young punk called Vito who is very ""vivid""; they smoke pot together and Vito who's been known to ""cruise anything"" makes the offer and supplements it -- tangibly. . . . Frantic lowjinks which conclude with the self-justifying disclaimer ""Does everything have to make sense?"" Perhaps not, but it might have helped.