Kirk Atlas was of indeterminate ethnicity, with a shaved head that glistened like a dull gold. His torso was the size of a mini fridge, packed tight into a five-foot-six-inch frame. He was bare-chested under a white gym suit with maroon stripes. He wore Puma sneakers on his feet and dark Versace sunglasses, a tattoo of a black panther etched above the word "Gangsta" on his forearm. On the long glass coffee table was an empty bottle of Havana Club, dirty ashtrays, a can of Coca-Cola, and a .45.
I have bolded the part here that I really like. A torso the size of a mini-fridge. It paints the perfect picture.
Atlas finished whispering in Albert's ear and sat back smugly on the plump leather sofa, smoking a Cuban and drinking rum from a crystal glass. He beamed at me like I was a camera ready to snap his picture.
That last line kills me. This is my favorite kind of description. I don't want to read pages and pages on the shade of blue in a woman's eyes. Give me something creative and quick and I am perfectly happy. More than perfectly, actually. Good description can get me excited and want to write myself.
After reading the first chapter I really think I may have to go out and get his book, Chinatown Angel.