I like watching shows like Streets of San Francisco and Trauma and the Dirty Harry movies, because they are set in San Francisco, a city that formed me in my youth. Instead of being relegated to mere background, San Francisco somehow becomes a part of the story, becomes a character. And so I enjoyed reading Ronald Tierney's Death in North Beach, featuring his private investigator Carly Paladino in her second book. (This is first Tierney and first Paladino that I've read.)

I also like writing with fountain pens. Apparently, people who write with fountain pens are considered a bit odd to the rollerball- and ballpoint-using masses, not to mention the texters and QWERTYists, and I'm mentioning this only because I was delighted to read at the beginning of Death in North Beach that not only is a body discovered in the tiny triangular  park on Columbus Avenue and Union Street in front of the Washington Square Bar & Grill (or the Washbag, as the late Herb Caen dubbed it ) (my landmarking has it kitty-corner to Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store, but that's me), but the victim was stabbed with a Montblanc fountain pen! Unfortunately, Tierney spells the brand "Mont Blanc," like the mountain in Switzerland. I'm sure non-fountain pen aficionados will be troubled not at all by Tierney's constant reference to the "Mont Blanc" pen, but I did find it just a tad distracting.

Tierney's story is quintessential San Francisco, with the expected mix of quirky characters, from the hard-boiled detective and Paladino's partner, Noah Lang. and their office assistant, the always stylish and gender-ambiguous and resourceful Thanh to the group of aging artist types who once upon a time were friendly with the first victim.

And then the death count starts climbing.

The inordinate number of murders within a single novel seems to be de riqueur these days, or maybe it's the type of story I'm picking up, and it didn't occur to me that maybe that trend is stretching the suspension of disbelief. On the other hand, it is somehow entertaining when the victims are killed by the tools of their art, and I mean that only within the realm of crime fiction, of the mystery genre.

The Beats are present by reference, such as when Lang questions the painter Agnes De Witt. He says, "Did you know Ginsberg and Kerouac and the other North Beach legends?"

De Witt answers, "Oh, yes. Poor Jack. He was such a sloppy writer. I wanted to take him under my wing and teach him it was not a crime to edit one's own words. They are not sacred."

Yikes, Tierney, yikes. Not only has De Witt failed to recognize what a craftsman Kerouac was, but her criticism betrays Tierney's lack of understanding of Kerouac's process. Kerouac did edit; he agonized over his drafts; and he is an immeasurably better writer than Tierney.

Other than these few admittedly idiosyncratic responses to Tierney's book, I did enjoy reading his PI mystery. It is a fast and entertaining read, almost like watching an episode of a TV series, like Trauma. Not great, but enjoyable nonetheless. I'm willing to read more of Tierney's Paladino novels and also to check out his Deets Shanahan series.