The first, “Coffee, Black” by Bill Cameron, is a great bit of caffeinated noir – a coffee-house mystery that perfectly captures Portland’s espresso-fueled and anti-corporate culture. Camron has the hard-bitten prose down flat:
She’s a touch thick, not quite shed of her winter fat, but she wears her flesh with oblivious self-assurance. I have no doubt a man with a flatter belly could pay her bar tab and bed her the same night, with no idea of the problems she’ll cause over breakfast.
Philip Marlowe could not have said it better himself.