Sometimes a writer doesn't get the recognition he deserves. David Foster Wallace, a writer who was too post-something-or-other for my tastes, takes his own life and he's all over the front pages. James Crumley, on the other hand, well, you had too drill a long way down to even find out that he died, the other day, at only 68.
Crumley wrote what were, more or less, crime novels on acid. I can highly recommend "The Mexican Tree Duck" and "Bordersnakes" because I have read them. I'm sure his other Sughrue / Milodragovich novels are just as good. He may be gone, but his books can still be found. Read 'em.
