Another nympho, dipso, Chicago debacle from Spencer, who's plied this threesome so many times before (Missing Bishop; Kirby's Last Circus; Monastery Nightmare) that be ought, by now, to have refined it, but no such luck: the puerile indulgences are all still here, from cutesy names (Tuthill Willow, P.I., for instance) to leering sensibilities to writing that so overcrowds a sentence it seems like one of those circus cars with too many clowns crammed in it. This author does have talent--but where is the editor who will save him? Tucked in among the excesses, a so-so plot involving an alcoholic nun's quest for her ""model"" niece; the niece who stars in porno calendars, movies, and private shows staged for her husband's amusement; a make-up artist who can't take a punch; a bar tour of Chicago; a virgin landlady with X-rated fantasies; a female bouncer with a hyperactive libido; a world-weary cop (is there any other kind?); and, of course, solving a couple of sideline murders, bleary shamus Tut Willow. Give credit where it's due: this is the only mystery in memory to present a major plot clue during a showing of a porno movie. Give blame ditto: this is the only mystery of late to make much of a character's hand turbo, then title itself Death Wears Gloves.