Atlantic City, at least according to Rob Ryan's latest, is in the running to be the armpit of America. It's all cheap, cracked bar-tops and stores eager to sell whatever kinds of offensive hardware your cheap, cracked heart desires. Ed Behr sees it all from his cab.

As a matter of fact, the overweight Behr's seen altogether too much in his thirty-something years, some inside of a penal institution on account of what the gang did on an entirely innocent family. They all paid. Some, the battered and abused Lester, more than others. Except Billy Moon. He walked. His own cowardice, the intervention of his crim-bigwig papa, whatever; Billy Moon walked away.

Only now Ed Behr scents payback. Payback for Lester. For the others. For himself. With Billy running big errands for dad and money sloshing this way and that from grandiose casino deals and his own sweaty Net porn stable, there's more than enough to go round. Especially if you're determined enough. Have a big enough gun.

Once you get past an obvious nod to Lorenzo Carcaterra's tiresome Sleepers, there is much here to admire. For a British journalist, Ryan's mastery of place and accent never feels less than assured. His debt to a contemporary hard-boiled tradition is obvious, but Nine Mil (rotten title, incidentally) never strays into pastiche. Dialogue is sharp and, even if his women do tend towards cliché, the characterisation of the principles - especially the lumbering, self-deluding Ed - is on the money.

It is, mind, a little too saggy in places for its own good. Ryan tends to toss in detail - the Net, jazz, fine art photography - for its own sake. Research is a delicate balancing act and this feels way over-cooked; a good editor should have snipped at those. But that, rather like Ryan's seeming unwillingness to bring things to a close, is quibbling over niceties. Nine Mil is good. Damn good.