Many of these folks soon wind up dead and mutilated, the victims of a motley Satanic group which Harry eventually comes face to face with in a subway-station black-mass orgy. or what? After finding no trace of Johnny in the asylum where he's supposed to be (a doctor there dies right after being quizzed by Harry), Harry starts tracking down Johnny's old cohorts: a society-deb-turned-astrologist, a seductive Harlem pharmacologist heavy into voodoo ceremonies in Central Park (Coca-Cola dripping over dead chickens), a legendary black piano man, a Chrysler Building tycoon, and some off-season Coney Island grotesques. It's 1959, and narrator Harry Angel-lumpy and aging Manhattan private eye-is hired to find out what happened to 1940s big-band-crooner Johnny Favorite after he went catatonic during WW II action is Johnny still in a hospital. A weird alliance: the jaunty tone and connect-the-dots format of the hardboiled detective story (which Hjortsberg does to unfussy perfection)-wedded to the clichÉs of the occult, complete with black masses, the transmutation of souls, and a Twilight-Zone denouement.
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