I just read my first Mickey Spillane novel, and it’s not at all what I expected.

My image of Spillane goes back to the 1970s, when I was a teenage kid and would see risque book covers by such authors as Spillane and John D. MacDonald. Judging a book by its cover, I assumed they were tawdry, sex-filled books, and being a good preacher’s kid, that didn’t interest me. Besides, back then, all I cared about was science fiction.

But mysteries have been my primary interest for 20 years. About ten years ago I discovered the older pulp fiction and was delighted by the plots, characters, and relative lack of sexual content. Hammett, Chandler, Whittington, Goodis, Willeford–good stuff.

In 2004, a line of paperback hardboiled crime novels was launched called Hard Case Crime. Most feature covers which hark back to the golden age of pulp fiction, with beautiful women in peril, and not necessarily well-clad. The series, now up to 70-some books, features pulp fiction writers of decades past (Charles Williams, Gil Brewer, David Goodis, Brett Halliday), along with established or promising contemporary writers of the genre.

One of the first Hard Case Crime books was Stephen King’s, “The Colorado Kid.” I knew Stephen King, knew what to expect. It was a decent book (though he should stick to horror), and I decided to try other Hard Case Crime books. To this point, I’ve read 19 books in the imprint.

At Half-Priced Books, I came across “Dead Street,” by Mickey Spillane. I started reading it last night, with ingrained assumptions, and was immediately hooked. The guy can write!

The story is told first-person by Jack Stang, a retired NYPD cop. Twenty years ago, his fiance was abducted by mobsters and presumed dead. Now he discovers that she was found–blind, and with no memory–by a veterinarian who took her in and cared for her. Bettie is now living in a Florida community populated mostly by retired NYPD cops and fireman, and the vet has arranged for Stang to move into a house next to her.

So he moves to Florida, immediately encounters Bettie, and long-buried memories are triggered. Bettie knows nothing about her past relationship with Jack, or her previous life in general. But scraps keep surfacing.

Of course, mobsters had abducted Bettie for a reason, wanting something she could give–but were foiled in their efforts. If they learn that she’s still alive, they’ll come after her. And of course, they do.

In trying to track down the mystery of why Bettie was abducted, Stang makes several trips back to New York. The story gradually unravels. There’s action and killing. But there are also long passages where it’s just Jack and Bettie talking. I’m very impressed by how Spillane constructed this book.

Spillane died in 2006, with “Dead Street” mostly done. Max Allan Collins finished it, using Spillane’s extensive notes, and Hard Case Crime published “Dead Street” in 2007. It’s really a wonderful book. with practically no sexual content and minimal obscenity (for a contemporary book). I couldn’t put it down, and finished the 207 pages in half a day.

I don’t know what Spillane’s other books are like. Perhaps the Mike Hammer series, for which he’s best known, is more in line with the slutty covers of that era. But maybe not. “Dead Street” had the restraint, sexual and otherwise, of detective fiction from the 1940s and 1950s, even though it was written in recent years. I need to spot-check another Spillane book to see if it delights me as much as “Dead Street” did.

It’s easy to recognize Ruth Rendell’s writing. The prose is elegant, and it’s restrained, with strong emotions held in check. When violence occurs, it happens in an almost incidental way, without fanfare. The violence emerges from a well-defined character, and seems totally natural. The fact that she’s a British writer completes the description.

I just finished my fifth Rendell book, “The Lake of Darkness.” Martin Urban wins a large chunk of money and decides to give half of it away to selected people in need–a task which is more difficult than it would seem. Along the way, he strikes up a romance with a young woman named Francesca, who is quite a bit of a mystery.

Occasionally, the narrative switches to Finn, a strange guy caring for his demented mother. Finn is also a killer. The Finn and Urban storylines, obviously, eventually intersect.

The book moves along slowly, yet purposefully. Rendell develops her characters well, and you begin guessing where things are headed. I wasn’t surprised by the ending, but I wasn’t sure just where it would end up.

I prefer lots of action and less description. And yet, Rendell is such a doggone good writer that I’m perfectly willing to plod along with her.

“The Long Goodbye” is among my favorite Raymond Chandler books. The 9-volume Philip Marlowe series begins in 1939 with “The Big Sleep,” and ends with 1958’s “Playback.” I’ve been reading the books in order, which means I have only “Playback” to go. Then I’m done, because Chandler died in 1959.

The book begins with Marlowe’s accidental friendship with Terry Lennox. When Lennox’s rich wife is killed, and everything points to Lennox as the killer, Marlowe helps Lennox flee to Mexico. There, Lennox apparently commits suicide. And the book moves on.

Marlowe gets involved with a self-destructive, alcoholic writer and his wife. This relationship consumes most of the book. Eventually, their story intersects with that of Terry Lennox. Then several varieties of nastiness commence.

The book moves along rather slowly, but not in a bad way. Chandler masterfully creates the smoky pulp noir mood; you can see steam arising from the LA streets at night. I found myself basking in the atmospherics, which is unusual for me.

And yet, this was a different Marlowe. The Marlowe of the previous books–snarky, smart-mouth–is gone. In his place is a more caustic, rude, humorless fellow who bears little resemblance to Bogart.

And gone are the Chandlerisms that make his books so delightful–the sentences, metaphors, and descriptives that stop you in your tracks every few pages. You must, MUST stop to re-read and admire the wordsmithing.

The only real flash of that Chandler came on page 82 with this line: “He was a guy who talked in commas, like a heavy novel.” His earlier books are filled with such things. From “The High Window,” for instance:

From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.

He looked as if he had been sitting there since the Civil War and had come out of that badly.

Out of the apartment houses come women who should be young but have faces like stale beer….people who look like nothing in particular and know it.

We looked at each other with the clear innocent eyes of a couple of used car salesmen.

She had eyes like strange sins.

A rather heavy perfume struggled with the smell of death, and lost.

There are websites devoted to Chandlerisms (like this one). But “The Long Goodbye” contributes next to nothing. It’s just way too serious.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s an elegantly-written book, with everything you could ask of a novel. But the renowned Marlowe wit is missing, and I don’t know why.