There is hardly a part of poor James Stark that has not been shot, cut, set on fire, hacked off, or sent to live in Burbank.
There is no weird woman in Los Angeles he has no history with, no kind of supernatural life he has not kicked the ass of, no lame bar where he has not had a drink, no clever but tough yet deep inside nice bartender he has not hit for a smoke, no repulsive act he has not commited.
You get the same thing as in the other three books. Extra noir dialogue, smartassness, a clever phrase here and there, blood and guts.
The schtick is growing stale.