Elmore Leonard didn't write crime novels. He wrote screenplays that happened to be published as books.
Every sentence is dialogue. Every conversation crackles. Every character sounds exactly like themselves—not like "a criminal" or "a cop" but like this specific hustler, this particular hitman, this exact wiseass from Detroit who thinks he's smarter than he is. Leonard made dialogue into plot, criminals into comedy, and pulp fiction into high art by refusing to admit there was a difference.
His rules were famous: Never use a verb other than "said." Never use an adverb to modify "said." Leave out the parts readers skip. What he actually did was strip crime fiction to its molecular structure—character plus voice plus trouble—and prove that's all you need.
These 15 authors share Leonard's DNA: the conviction that how people talk reveals who they are, that criminals are funnier than civilians, that plot comes from character rather than twist, that good dialogue makes description unnecessary, and that crime fiction works best when it stops trying to be Literature.
The purist. The extremist. The guy who wrote entire novels that are basically one long conversation.
Higgins took Leonard's dialogue obsession and pushed it further. No description. Minimal tags. Just criminals talking in bars, cars, restaurants—revealing themselves through what they say and how they say it. He's Leonard without the action sequences.
The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1970): Small-time gun runner Eddie Coyle is facing jail time. He talks to the ATF. He talks to his criminal contacts. He talks himself into a corner. The whole novel is conversations—in cars, in bars, in parking lots. By the end, you know everyone intimately just from how they speak.
The connection: Both write dialogue that sounds recorded rather than written. Both let voice carry everything—plot, character, theme. Both trust readers to follow conversations without guidance. Both write about criminals who are working-class guys with a side job.
The difference: Higgins is even more minimal. Leonard gives you some action, some description, some traditional prose. Higgins: pure dialogue. Leonard: 80% talk. Higgins: 95% talk. Both prove dialogue is enough.
The Boston thing: Higgins owns Boston the way Leonard owns Detroit and Miami. Same attention to local speech patterns, neighborhood hierarchies, who drinks where. Both make place audible rather than visible.
Read Higgins for: What Leonard's method looks like pushed to absolute extreme. Crime fiction as overheard conversation.
Also essential: Cogan's Trade (became Killing Them Softly), The Digger's Game (gambling debt), The Rat on Fire (arson).
Leonard's equal. His competitor. The other guy who mastered comic crime.
Westlake wrote under his own name and as Richard Stark. As Westlake: comic heist novels about incompetent criminal Dortmunder. As Stark: cold professional heist novels about ruthless thief Parker. He could do Leonard's funny criminals and also do something Leonard rarely attempted—pure noir without jokes.
The Hot Rock (1970): Dortmunder agrees to steal diamond. Steals diamond. Loses diamond. Steals it again. Loses it again. Repeat five times. Each heist is expertly planned. Each plan fails hilariously. It's Leonard's comic timing applied to pure farce.
The connection: Both write criminals who are basically working stiffs with unusual jobs. Both find humor in professionalism—these guys take crime seriously even when it's absurd. Both write dialogue that reveals character instantly. Both make you root for thieves.
The difference: Westlake is gentler. More slapstick. Leonard's criminals are dangerous even when funny. Westlake's criminals are hapless. Leonard: criminals who might hurt you. Westlake: criminals who'll hurt themselves. Both hilarious, different threats.
The Parker novels: As Richard Stark, Westlake writes lean, brutal heist novels. The Hunter (became Point Blank and Payback) is crime fiction stripped to pure function. No jokes. Just violence and money. Shows Westlake's range—he could do both Leonard and Jim Thompson.
Read Westlake for: Leonard's comedy with higher body count of failed plans. Criminals as working-class heroes.
Also essential: Bank Shot (Dortmunder), Jimmy the Kid (Dortmunder), The Hunter (Parker as Richard Stark).
Leonard relocated to Florida and given psychedelics.
Hiaasen writes about Florida the way Leonard wrote about Miami—as place where criminals, tourists, developers, and lunatics collide constantly. But Hiaasen adds environmental outrage and even weirder characters. His criminals aren't professional. They're opportunistic idiots destroying paradise.
Skinny Dip (2004): Marine biologist Joey Perrone's husband throws her off cruise ship. She survives. Decides to torture him psychologically rather than report him. Meanwhile, he's involved in fertilizer scam poisoning Everglades. Ex-cop helps Joey. Everyone's insane.
The connection: Both write Florida crime as comedy. Both create vivid lowlifes. Both write women who are smarter than the men pursuing them. Both find humor in violence without making violence harmless.
The difference: Hiaasen is angrier. Environmental crusader. His villains are developers, politicians, corporations—Leonard's villains are individuals. Hiaasen: systemic crime. Leonard: personal crime. Both entertaining, different targets.
The ecology thing: Every Hiaasen novel includes environmental disaster. Strip clubs and panthers. Murderers and mangroves. Crime fiction becomes eco-activism. Leonard never preached. Hiaasen can't help himself.
Read Hiaasen for: Leonard's Florida made more absurd. Crime fiction with ecological conscience.
Also essential: Tourist Season (terrorism), Strip Tease (politics), Sick Puppy (development).
Leonard's opposite. His dark reflection. What happens when you remove all humor from crime fiction.
Ellroy writes about Los Angeles the way war correspondents write about war zones. His novels are brutal, obsessive, paranoid. His prose is staccato—short sentences, no articles, pure momentum. He's anti-Leonard: where Leonard relaxes you with comedy, Ellroy assaults you with violence.
L.A. Confidential (1990): Three LAPD detectives—brutal enforcer, ambitious politician, incorruptible investigator—navigate 1950s Los Angeles corruption. Murder at coffee shop. Hollywood prostitution ring. Police brutality. Everything connects. Everyone's guilty.
The connection: Both write about institutional crime. Both trust readers to follow complex plots. Both create multiple viewpoint characters. Both write about criminals and cops as equally compromised.
The difference: Everything else. Ellroy: no humor, dense prose, historical obsession, everyone's evil. Leonard: constant humor, easy prose, contemporary settings, criminals are likeable. Ellroy is Leonard's nightmare version—same story, zero laughs.
The Demon Dog: Ellroy's self-invented persona—conspiracy theorist, his mother's murder, obsessive researcher. He lives the noir he writes. Leonard was quiet professional. Different approaches to same material.
Read Ellroy for: What Leonard's crime world looks like without safety net of humor. Pure noir intensity.
Also essential: The Black Dahlia (murder), White Jazz (corruption), American Tabloid (JFK conspiracy).
The psychopath whisperer. The one who went inside criminals' heads and stayed there.
Thompson wrote paperback originals in the 1950s—pulp novels that were secretly literary masterpieces. His criminals aren't charming. They're disturbed. His first-person narrators reveal themselves slowly—you realize you're reading a psychopath's confession.
The Killer Inside Me (1952): Small-town deputy sheriff Lou Ford seems friendly. Aw-shucks manner. Helpful attitude. Then he starts killing people. Narrator is unreliable, violent, unrepentant. Thompson makes you complicit—you're inside this monster's head, seeing through his eyes.
The connection: Both write about violence casually. Both create criminals who seem normal. Both trust readers to handle moral complexity without guidance.
The difference: Leonard maintains distance through comedy. Thompson eliminates distance through first-person psychosis. Leonard: you watch criminals. Thompson: you become criminal. Both disturbing, different methods.
The darkness: Thompson died broke, forgotten. His novels were too dark for mainstream, too literary for pulp. He was rediscovered in 1980s. Now he's considered master. Leonard got commercial success during lifetime. Thompson got cult status after death.
Read Thompson for: Crime fiction as psychological horror. What happens when narrator is villain.
Also essential: Pop. 1280 (sheriff), The Grifters (con artists), Savage Night (hitman).
Leonard's Florida predecessor. Wrote Miami before Leonard made it famous.
Willeford wrote crime novels that were simultaneously funny and disturbing. His detective Hoke Moseley has no teeth (literally—can't afford dentures), lives in fleabag hotel, solves cases despite department bureaucracy. He's Leonard's kind of character—competent professional dealt bad hand.
Miami Blues (1984): Ex-con Freddy Frenger arrives in Miami, steals from airport, accidentally kills Hare Krishna, steals cop's badge and gun, starts pretending to be detective. Real detective Hoke Moseley investigates. Violence escalates. Nobody's quite hero or villain.
The connection: Both write Miami as character. Both create criminals who improvise constantly. Both find humor in brutality. Both write cops who are as flawed as criminals they chase.
The difference: Willeford is weirder. More unpredictable. Leonard's plots make sense. Willeford's plots spiral. Leonard: controlled chaos. Willeford: actual chaos. Both entertaining, different levels of insanity.
The poverty: Willeford's characters are broke. Can't afford dental work, decent clothes, reliable cars. Leonard's criminals are working class. Willeford's criminals are underclass. Money matters differently.
Read Willeford for: Leonard's Miami with more desperation. Crime fiction that's uncomfortable.
Also essential: New Hope for the Dead (Moseley), Sideswipe (Moseley), The Burnt Orange Heresy (art crime).
Boston crime fiction elevated to tragedy.
Lehane writes about working-class Boston neighborhoods—Dorchester, South Boston, places where everyone knows your family, your history, your mistakes. His crime novels are about how violence ripples through communities, how trauma becomes inheritance, how place traps you.
Mystic River (2001): Three childhood friends from Boston neighborhood. One was abducted and abused as child. Years later, one's daughter is murdered. The abused friend becomes suspect. Past trauma erupts into present violence. Nobody escapes undamaged.
The connection: Both write about working-class communities. Both create characters shaped by geography. Both write dialogue that sounds authentic. Both understand loyalty and betrayal.
The difference: Lehane is darker. More literary. Leonard: criminals are entertaining. Lehane: crime destroys everything. Leonard: comedy with danger. Lehane: tragedy with occasional humor. Both great, different tones.
The weight: Lehane's books carry emotional freight Leonard avoids. His characters suffer. Their pain matters. Leonard keeps things lighter—violence happens but doesn't linger. Lehane: violence echoes forever.
Read Lehane for: Leonard's working-class criminals with psychological depth. Boston noir.
Also essential: Gone, Baby, Gone (child abduction), Shutter Island (asylum), A Drink Before the War (Kenzie/Gennaro debut).
Leonard's heir in Los Angeles. Police procedural meets character study.
Connelly created Harry Bosch—LAPD detective who's obsessive, difficult, incorruptible. His cases are meticulously plotted. His prose is clean. He's Leonard's storytelling clarity applied to traditional detective fiction. Plus Mickey Haller—defense attorney who works from Lincoln Town Car.
The Lincoln Lawyer (2005): Criminal defense attorney Mickey Haller represents rich kid accused of assault. Client seems guilty. Case gets complicated. Everyone has secrets. Haller has to navigate law, ethics, and survival. Plot twists without cheap tricks.
The connection: Both write professionals who are good at their jobs. Both create plots that surprise without cheating. Both write dialogue that moves story forward. Both make Los Angeles vivid through specific details.
The difference: Connelly is more traditional. Classic mystery structure. Leonard: loose plots driven by character. Connelly: tight plots that satisfy. Leonard: criminals. Connelly: cops and lawyers. Both pros, different beats.
Read Connelly for: Leonard's clarity applied to procedural. Los Angeles crime done right.
Also essential: The Black Echo (Bosch debut), The Poet (reporter), Blood Work (retired FBI).
Los Angeles noir through Black experience. Historical crime fiction that matters.
Mosley created Easy Rawlins—World War II veteran turned reluctant detective in post-war Los Angeles. His mysteries are also history—segregation, police brutality, economic marginalization. He writes about survival in America when being Black and competent made you dangerous.
Devil in a Blue Dress (1990): Easy Rawlins needs money for mortgage. Takes job finding missing white woman. Gets pulled into political corruption, murder, violence. Can't trust police (they're racist). Can't trust criminals (they're deadly). Has to solve case while staying alive.
The connection: Both write about competent professionals navigating dangerous situations. Both create vivid sense of place through dialogue and detail. Both write about people outside legitimate economy.
The difference: Race changes everything. Mosley's characters can't call police. Can't trust system. Easy's competence is liability—makes white people nervous. Leonard's criminals are criminals by choice. Mosley's criminals are criminals by necessity. Both great, different Americas.
Read Mosley for: Leonard's style applied to racial reality. Historical noir.
Also essential: A Red Death (Easy), White Butterfly (Easy), Black Betty (Easy).
New York crime fiction from alcoholic detective's perspective.
Block created Matthew Scudder—ex-cop, recovering alcoholic, unlicensed PI who works for cash. His books are meditations on guilt, addiction, survival. He also wrote Bernie Rhodenbarr (gentleman burglar) and Keller (hitman). Block's range is impressive—comedy, noir, everything between.
When the Sacred Ginmill Closes (1986): Scudder remembers case from before he quit drinking. Bar owner asks for help. Simple favor becomes murder investigation. Scudder's drinking clouds everything. Past and present blur. It's crime novel and addiction memoir simultaneously.
The connection: Both write about flawed professionals. Both create New York/Detroit as character. Both write dialogue that sounds real. Both make you care about criminals.
The difference: Block is more introspective. Scudder thinks about consequences. Leonard's criminals don't analyze themselves. Block: crime fiction plus psychology. Leonard: crime fiction stripped clean. Both excellent, different approaches.
Read Block for: Leonard's crime fiction with more interior life. New York noir.
Also essential: Eight Million Ways to Die (Scudder), A Walk Among the Tombstones (Scudder), The Burglar in the Closet (Rhodenbarr).
Texas crime fiction mixed with horror, humor, and pure weird.
Lansdale created Hap and Leonard—biracial detective duo in East Texas. Hap is white, liberal, draft dodger. Leonard is Black, conservative, gay Vietnam vet. They solve crimes, beat people up, argue politics. Lansdale mixes crime, horror, comedy, martial arts into something uniquely his own.
Savage Season (1990): Hap's ex-wife returns with plan to recover money from armored car robbery. Hap and Leonard agree to help. Everything goes wrong. Violence escalates. Bodies pile up. It's crime novel, buddy comedy, and meditation on masculinity.
The connection: Both write dialogue-heavy crime fiction. Both create odd-couple partnerships. Both mix violence and humor without diminishing either. Both write about working-class characters.
The difference: Lansdale is weirder. Adds horror elements, more extreme violence, deeper friendship. Leonard: criminals as professionals. Lansdale: criminals as family. Both violent, different emotional registers.
Read Lansdale for: Leonard's method applied to Texas grotesque. Crime fiction plus everything.
Also essential: Mucho Mojo (Hap and Leonard), The Two-Bear Mambo (Hap and Leonard), The Bottoms (standalone).
Irish noir. Brutal, literary, nihilistic.
Bruen writes about Ireland—Galway specifically—with savage economy. His detective Jack Taylor is ex-cop, alcoholic, violent. His prose is staccato, poetic, bitter. He's Leonard if Leonard was Irish and suicidal.
The Guards (2001): Jack Taylor is kicked off police force for drinking. Becomes private investigator. Investigates girl's death police ruled suicide. Drinks constantly. Alienates everyone. Solves case. It's noir taken to absolute limit—no hope, no redemption, just survival.
The connection: Both write lean prose. Both create damaged professionals. Both write about people who refuse to quit despite everything.
The difference: Bruen is darker. No comedy. Pure bleakness. Leonard: criminals are likeable. Bruen: everyone's doomed. Leonard: entertainment. Bruen: punishment. Both great, vastly different tones.
Read Bruen for: What Leonard's method looks like without safety net. Irish noir.
Also essential: The Killing of the Tinkers (Taylor), The Magdalen Martyrs (Taylor), Priest (standalone).
Western noir. Montana crime fiction.
Crumley wrote about private detectives in the Mountain West—Montana, Wyoming, places where violence still feels frontier. His detectives drink, fight, investigate. His prose is hard-boiled mixed with lyrical description. He's Leonard relocated to cowboy country.
The Last Good Kiss (1978): Detective C.W. Sughrue searches for missing writer. Case leads through bars, brothels, failed relationships. Everyone's damaged. Everything's beautiful. Montana becomes character—vast, empty, unforgiving.
The connection: Both write about professional investigators. Both create distinctive regional voices. Both write about lonely people doing dangerous work.
The difference: Crumley is more lyrical. Adds landscape description Leonard avoids. Leonard: dialogue carries everything. Crumley: dialogue plus scenery. Both great, different emphases.
Read Crumley for: Leonard's method applied to Western noir. What happens when optimism dies.
Also essential: The Wrong Case (first Sughrue), Dancing Bear (Milodragovitch), The Final Country (both detectives).
Crime fiction as advocacy.
Vachss was lawyer specializing in child abuse cases. His novels feature Burke—investigator working outside system to protect children. His books are brutal. His villains are child predators. His politics are explicit. He's Leonard if Leonard wrote to change laws rather than entertain.
Flood (1985): Burke is hired to find child molester. Takes case because he was abused as child. Investigates through New York underworld. Violence is explicit. Moral clarity is absolute—anyone who hurts children deserves death.
The connection: Both write about professionals with codes. Both create tight networks of criminals who protect each other. Both write dialogue that reveals character through speech patterns.
The difference: Vachss has agenda. His books are activism. Leonard: entertainment. Vachss: mission. Leonard: criminals are complex. Vachss: some criminals are irredeemable. Both write crime fiction, different purposes.
Read Vachss for: Crime fiction as moral crusade. What Leonard's method looks like with political purpose.
Also essential: Strega (Burke), Blue Belle (Burke), Hard Candy (Burke).
Leonard for people who want their criminals more polished.
Parker created Spenser—Boston PI who quotes poetry, cooks gourmet meals, has stable relationship. His cases involve murder and corruption. His dialogue is witty. His books are short. He's Leonard if Leonard wrote about educated middle-class detective instead of criminals.
The Godwulf Manuscript (1973): Spenser is hired to find stolen manuscript at university. Case involves student radicals, drugs, murder. Spenser solves case through investigation and violence. Parker establishes template: wise-cracking detective, complex case, clean resolution.
The connection: Both write fast-paced crime fiction. Both write dialogue that carries story. Both create professional protagonists. Both respect genre conventions.
The difference: Parker is cleaner. Less morally ambiguous. Spenser has girlfriend, code, consistency. Leonard's criminals are messier. Parker: hero. Leonard: antiheroes. Parker: comfort food. Leonard: spicy cuisine. Both satisfying, different flavors.
Read Parker for: Leonard's pace with traditional hero. Boston crime fiction.
Also essential: Promised Land (Spenser), Early Autumn (Spenser), Looking for Rachel Wallace (Spenser).
Dialogue is character. They don't describe people—they let them talk. Voice reveals everything: intelligence, background, intentions, lies.
Criminals are professionals. They treat crime as job. They plan, improvise, make mistakes. They're not evil—they're working.
Plot comes from character. Story isn't imposed from outside. Events happen because this specific person would do this specific thing in this specific situation.
Humor doesn't reduce stakes. Characters joke because that's how people handle stress. Comedy and danger coexist.
Place is audible. You know you're in Detroit or Boston or Miami from how people talk, not from description.
Competence is attractive. We root for characters who are good at their jobs, even when their jobs are illegal.
No prose showing off. The writing is invisible. Every sentence serves story. Nothing draws attention to itself.
For pure dialogue: George V. Higgins (The Friends of Eddie Coyle)—Leonard's method perfected.
For comedy: Donald E. Westlake (The Hot Rock)—heist fiction as slapstick.
For darkness: Jim Thompson (The Killer Inside Me)—crime fiction as horror.
For place: Carl Hiaasen (Skinny Dip)—Florida crime.
For psychology: Dennis Lehane (Mystic River)—working-class tragedy.
For traditional mystery: Michael Connelly (The Lincoln Lawyer)—legal thriller.
For literary: Lawrence Block (When the Sacred Ginmill Closes)—crime fiction plus.
For historical: Walter Mosley (Devil in a Blue Dress)—race plus noir.
Most accessible: Robert B. Parker—easy entry point.
Most challenging: James Ellroy—no safety net.
Most like Leonard: George V. Higgins—could be same writer.
