Protagonist Jack McGreary is young man with more than his share of burdens to bear. His mom is dead, his dad is nuts, his girlfriend is apathetic and his hometown of Paradise Flats is one big, go-nowhere dustbowl of despair and poverty. So when dapper grifters Virgil and Miss Rose blow into town--scamming the local yokels with sleight-of-hand tricks and other deceits--Jack sees them as his ticket out. But what begins as a thrilling escape from the tedium of small-town life soon morphs into something more sinister. Ferguson knows how to set a scene--his descriptions of the "Negro" jazz halls Jack and his cohorts haunt are vivid and palpable. So too are his portraits of backwater towns. But Ferguson is also a sucker for clichés (hair like straw, tar-paper roofs et al). And some stuff just doesn't fly.

For example, Jack is portrayed as some kind of natural-born genius able to see through carnival scams, theological tenets and flaws in the human spirit with laser precision. An interesting angle maybe, but highly improbable. The dialog is also strained and larded with hoary banalities (does anyone really say "on account of" instead of "because?" And don't the Irish have the lock on referring to fathers as "Da?")

Ferguson succeeds in painting a striking picture of post-Depression-era America but passage to the end is bumpier than a spin in Virgil's jalopy. Coming from the author who slayed us with gems like "Manitoba - Gateway to Saskatchewan," it's a rather disappointing (albeit ambitious) ride. --Kim Hughes