BEHIND SUNSET

A 20-something transplant from Queens, New York, learns that in Los Angeles, there are even worse jobs than writing copy for a porn magazine.

Though Elliot Gross is just an associate editor at Raunchy, he finds himself getting plum assignments like interviewing plastic surgeon Gary Kishkewicz, vagina sculptor to the rich and famous. Maybe the magazine’s publisher, Vic Kingman—who started out selling dirty playing cards on the Brooklyn subway— sees him as a kindred spirit. Whatever the reason, when Vic asks Elliot to track down his latest girlfriend, Crystal Waters, who’s disappeared leaving only a sex tape to remember her by, Elliot is stumped. He reaches out to Farah Foxxx, “the closest thing he had to a source,” who writes Raunchy’s “Dear Slut” advice column. Before she can get a line on Crystal, though, Farah turns up dead in her Hollywood apartment. More people die, including a talent manager who was wearing Elliot’s Raunchy logo jacket when he was killed in a drive-by shooting at a concert in Pasadena. Eventually, Elliot’s shenanigans piss off enough people to get him fired. He ends up working with his childhood friend Pedro Plotkin for Melody Bright, a New Age mystic who channels the 1000-year-old spirit Zona to an army of believers across the globe. Elliot’s exploits get zanier and zanier, but there’s always a sly wink behind Gordon’s prose (is it really a coincidence that the name of Melody’s deity is Hebrew for “whore”?) that lets the reader know it’s all gonna come together in the end. It does, but only when you’re done laughing your ass off.

Hardboiled Hollywood, as only a New Yorker could write it.