Charles Willeford's Hoke Moseley series. Having run short on new Elmore Leonard, I figured I'd go to Miami's closest author to him. Snappy dialog, decent, yet quirky plots, and a warmer feel than many authors. He's my fall reading pick.
While not from the Moseley books, here's a sample from a personal memoir of his -
"In hospital language a patient does not urinate, micturate, pee, piss, or take a leak. He voids. Or, as in my case, he is unable to void.
Hospital jargon is mid-Victorian. My hemorrhoids were not chopped out, hacked away, or operated upon. Instead, my asshole was dilated and debrided. There is no sex talk in a hospital either. Sex organs, male and female, when they are mentioned at all, are discussed formally, as elimination tools; nor is there, apparently, any distinction made between toilets for men and women....
Several years ago, before I ever thought of entering a hospital, a friend told me that a nurse’s aide would give a man a slow handjob for five bucks. Unsurprised at the time, I filed the information away, thinking I might be able to use it in a novel some day. I have been sorry since that I failed to press my friend for details. On the disinterested outside, I had no reason to disbelieve him. But on the inside, watching these harried, grimly smiling nurses’ aides—probably the lowest IQ occupational group of employees in the nation—rushing about inefficiently, but earning every cent of their $2.40 an hour, I wondered vaguely how my friend had gone about getting his slow handjob. He would have had to draw them a picture. However, discounting the denseness of the nurses’ aides understanding, the lack of privacy, the hospital stench, and the permeating reek of indignant death, these factors in combination, drove all thoughts of and about sex from my mind during the two weeks of my stay. ".
If a man can write that gloriously about hospital stays, and his asshole, he can certainly write good pulp.