One of the best things about reading A Dead Hand: A Crime in Calcutta, is diving face-first into sixty-something writer Paul Theroux’s scenes of epic tantric massages, then flipping to the author’s bio on the dust jacket and giggling about how that man wrote these scenes.

For one thing, Theroux looks like a hybrid of Mr. Rourke from “Fantasy Island,” and our former next door neighbor, a bronzed-skin scuba fanatic who sunned in a hammock on his deck with a Speedo balled up and balanced on his crotch — not unlike a wet seal juggling a striped inflatable ball. With this in mind, I defy you to not titter at this:

She used both her hands, her clutching fingers, to spread her sex like a flower. Or so it seemed to me as I watched, like an opening lotus with reddened and thickened petals.”

That is by far the gem of a limitless collection of touching, prodding, and kneading in this kinda sorta mystery involving an uninspired travel writer Jerry Delfont, who is in Calcutta for business but stays on longer when he receives a handwritten letter from a Mrs. Unger, an alleged fan of his work who needs his help. Her son’s friend, or maybe it’s her son’s boyfriend, wakes in a seedy hotel room and in the glow of his cell phone finds the body of a dead boy laying on the floor. He freaks out, and high-tails it on out of there. Mrs. Unger wants Delfont to investigate this curious case.

Mrs. Unger is a quiet philanthropist, who dresses in Indian fashions and has “magic fingers,” which she uses to seduce the heck out of Jerry Delfont. She splays him out on a table in a scented room and works over his entire body one millimeter at a time. As is often the case with dull, mal-developed male characters, he falls in love with her and does her bidding with a blind, unconditional, puppy-like eagerness. As Jerry gets further into the investigation, he realizes that she is not the untarnished beacon of good that he has been manipulated into believing.

Also: Theroux the author briefly introduces a character named Paul Theroux, an obnoxious writer whom Jerry Delfont can barely tolerate. It’s a strange introduction that really serves no purpose and sticks out like an added mustache crammed onto a Mr. Potato Head.

As far as mysteries go — and I think this is a mystery — it’s not very mysterious. And if it’s a crime novel, it’s even less. Mostly it is filler between the descriptions of tantric massages, which are equal parts hilarious and infomercial for tantric massages that left me craving a good rub down. This is not a great book, it’s a little better than okay. Jerry Delfont, whom Theroux has pinned the plot to, is a lifeless sap with questionable motivations. Nothing to regret reading, though.

Mostly I loved the sexy cover, which is exactly why I bought the book in the first place. I’m a sucker like that.

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Fiction Novel, paul theroux