Failing to find a book that moves, I stumbled through the house, lost, aimless, drifting, when the mailman came with my latest Crumley, and this is the first line-

When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.

Too first-liney and too many cliches (ramshackle joint, crusty old men with drinking dog buddies), but Sonoma and the last part works. It's a go.