Only Corson Hirschfeld could make me root for rattlesnakes.

        Of course, he gave lots of other choices in his second novel, Too High. He offered Jesus Bob, the drug freakazoid, and his sister, Rita Rae, sexual acrobat and auctioneer. And the eastern Kentucky vegetarian sheriff who dresses like Johnny Cash and collects arrowheads.

        Actually several people collect Indian artifacts, including a fake Frenchman who wears a sunbonnet and cotton granny dress; and a reclusive dwarf who is the money behind a mountain militia led by General Ben, the camo-clad town barber; and Col. B.J. Butz, whose “prodigious, fabric-hungry behind” earns him an automatic and obvious nickname.

        This untidy confusion of characters appears just after a busload of 436 timber rattlesnakes crashes in McAfee County, Ky. Arriving from Honolulu to sort them all out is retired archaeologist Digger Fitz, who appeared in Mr. Hirschfeld's wonderful and loony first novel, Aloha Mr. Lucky.

        Digger's niece Nikki, a herpetologist grad student with a nasty case of PMS, is the love interest. Eeeuuu. Not for Digger — for yet another gun-toting character. She just uses the incest thing to torment her Indian Hill matron mother.

        I liked Aloha a lot. This one is better. Funnier. Faster. Smarter.

        The author, a Cincinnati fixture, knows Indian Hill. And Kentucky. And snakes for that matter.

        A professional photographer for 25 years, his best-known work is probably the Cincinnati Ballet poster, Rainbow Legs. But he is seriously good. And astonishingly versatile. He has had one-man exhibits at the National Museum of National History and the Smithsonian Institution.

        His work has appeared in magazines as diverse as Playboy, Sports Illustrated, Fortune and Newsweek. He has taught photography at the University of Cincinnati, edited the Journal of Herpetology and was a member of cultural delegations to China and the former Soviet Union.

        Versatile. And intelligent.

        Which does not mean that the murder of Digger's cousin in the first few pages is not as gruesome and bizarre as they come. A fishhook, a man's sock and peppermint-scented fish bait are among the murder weapons.

        The archaeologist and his niece chase clues over the washboard back country roads up to the streets of Mariemont and to overblown houses in Indian Hill. They land in the middle of a feud over artifacts from the French and Indian War, which allows Professor Hirschfeld to give several painless history lessons.

        Professor Digger Fitz, however, is known around the campus in Hawaii as the sex doctor. His lecture on the amorous properties of the Melanesian yam leads to an alliance with a woman wearing only a locket, a tattoo and a gold Piaget wristwatch. She leaves the aging hippie with welts, scratches and a pulled groin muscle.

        The next morning at the conflicted local diner, Chez Pancakes, where the waitress Rubella serves up a blue plate special of pigs feet crepes, Digger learns that the bad guys are getting close. Just then, a tango-dancing gun dealer arrives.

        This is a very busy book. Sometimes a little too busy to tie up all the loose ends. It's a mystery that's not always mysterious. But I kept reading — not to see who-done-it but to see what-they-do-next.

        And always, there are the snakes. On the road. Among the militia. In purses, boxes and bags. Minding their own business. Drug free and sober.

        No wonder I found myself on the side of the snakes. They're the good guys.

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