In vintage crime fiction getting the hero laid—or at least having the opportunity arise—is almost a mandatory requirement. The main character of Evan Hunter's, aka Ed McBain's, 1952 novel The Evil Sleep is a heroin addict who, at a certain point, has had cold and hot sweats all day long, hasn't showered, shaved, or brushed his teeth, yet manages to get laid by a clean, beautiful woman. This was a dead giveaway that she was shady, and dead giveaways in mysteries are something authors should avoid. Even so, The Evil Sleep is an interesting book. It's about a junkie who wakes up with a corpse, and must dodge the police, find the real murderer, and get a fix, or somehow keep his shit together without one. It was later published as So Nude, So Dead. The cover you see here, which is unattributed, came from an auction site. Our copy, which came cheap as part of a lot, is basically coverless. By which we mean the femme fatale was cut completely out, probably to end up as part of some high-school art student's collage that has long since gone to a landfill. Very naughty. If you want to buy this in good condition the price might run $400. That's even naughtier. 

Above, the cover of Orgy Man by Dean Hudson, a Greenleaf Classics house pseudonym used in this case by veteran sleaze author Evan Hunter, writing for Greenleaf's Idle Hours imprint, with cover art by Robert Bonfils, copyright 1964. Hah. We did that all in one sentence. 

Before we do anything else here are five book covers of women shooting men. And here's a book cover of a woman whipping a man. And here's one of a woman about to stick a gun in a man's mouth. This is just paperback art, which is not to be taken too seriously, but we felt we needed to de-Weinstein things a bit anyway. So what's going on with this book? A sleazy casting agent named Stirling Steele catches wind of a beautiful singer and goes to Nashville to promise her anything she wants as long as she ends up naked on her back. Instead he gets arrested for trying to corrupt her morals and finds himself in jail with a friend of his, also a shady agent who'd heard about the singer and shown up in Nashville for the same reason. The jail is run by a hot matron, and there's also a beautiful— Wait. Let's stop. This is silly. The plot doesn't matter at all. Orgy Scouts is so stupid and badly written it isn't even worth summarizing. Why do we torture ourselves with these books, you're wondering? Because we buy them in lots, and others in the group promise to be better. We'll see. This one is copyright 1967 with art by Tomas Cannizarro. 

In Evan Hunter's 1954 novel Don't Crowd Me an NYC advertising copywriter seeks tranquility in the lake region but instead finds himself encountering two sisters with very different temperaments who both seem to find him irresistible. Then, of course, there's a murder to spoil everything, and it looks like he's the only one who can solve it. The plot may sound improbable, but Hunter, born Salvatore Albert Lombino, was better known by his pseudonym Ed McBain, which means you would expect this to be decently written. And in fact you would be correct. The cover art, which is great, was painted by Walter Popp. 

Above you see ze cover of... COUGH COUGH! Had something in the throat there. Above you see the cover of Dean Hudson's, aka Evan Hunter's, Twisted Tulips, yet another winner from Greenleaf Classics, this time for its Leisure imprint. 1966 copyright with uncredited art.  

Above, Passion Suburb by Evan Hunter writing as Dean Hudson, published 1962. The suburb in question is called Rustic Acres, and it’s filled with horny women who bed any man who happens along. Or as the local Chamber of Commerce put it on the brochures: If you lived there you’d be boning by now. The cover art is by Harold McCauley. 

Today we have another cover collection for you. We had noticed quite a few pieces of pulp/sleaze art featuring syringes as a central element, so we’ve gathered up twenty examples, with art by Michel Gourdon and others. Some of these are from Flickr, so thanks to the original uploaders.