Belt-whippin' communist ladies and shootin' guys in the face ought to be more fun.

Redeemed only by the phrase, "I am the evil for good!" ( )

Why did I read a Mickey Spillane pulp? He's a name I remember from my kid days - splayed in ads on the backs of the Sunday supplement magazines, together with drawings of shapely blondes, clearly in distress. I never sent in my money for the books back then, but when his name reappeared after the pulps were rediscovered some years ago, I put him on my reading list.

I just finished the first of three novels ("One Lonely Night") in this collection. Spillane's famous private eye, Mike Hammer, is caught up, almost from page one, in a web of "commie" intrigue. Apparently, you never have to wait long for action in a Spillane yarn. Routing out the commies - and killing most of them - is what happens in this book. Of course, between the killings Hammer beds a couple of the female revolutionaries - all the while reaffirming his intention to marry his faithful secretary, Velda. Oh, and every movement is punctuated by a smoke (Luckies is Hammer's brand) and a swig (neither the brand nor type of hooch is identified).

The book is fascinating as a right wing peek at America during the early days of the Cold War. Published in 1951, it's too early for Joe McCarthy or Roy Cohn to make appearances, but Hammer does find time to sit in on the Rosenbergs' trial:

"Those damned Reds pulled every trick they knew to get the case thrown out of court. They were a scurvy bunch of lice who tried to turn the court into a burlesque show.

But there was a calm patience in this judge and jury, and in the spectators too that told you what the outcome would be. Oh, the defendants didn't see it. They were too cocksure of themselves. They were The Party, They were Powerful. They represented the People."

Yep, Hammer talks about "those Reds", and there are also Japs, and pansies, and colored guys and dames galore. This is unfiltered mid-century Americana, and for that alone it's worth a read. There might be a little too much action - and not enough thoughtful passages - for the Hammett and Chandler fans, but Spillane is clearly the heir of those writers.