["Vegas"] is an exercise in journalism-as-therapy. Dunne makes no bones about that. (p. 6)

Dunne set himself up in a ticky-tacky Vegas apartment and began to roam the Strip, in search not so much of adventure as of the company that misery loves. He found plenty of it, most notably in the persons—all pseudonymous and to some degree fictitious—of a prostitute named Artha …; Buster Mano, an amiably cynical private eye with a special knack for tracking down fled husbands; and Jackie Kasey, a "semi-name" comedian who grossed over $100,000 the year before, yet, in spite of that and his bluster and bustle, remained resolutely unknown and mediocre.

Their stories are funny, poignant and fascinating, and Dunne tells them with sympathy but without sentiment. He understands that no matter how sordid or desperate or even meaningless they may at first seem, there is something distinctly honorable in their dogged...