My brain was craving horror, Lansdale had been on my mind for one reason or another (probably from digging into the archives of toomuchhorrorfiction.blogspot.com, one of my favorite pastimes), and I had this kicking around—why not?
The opening was ferocious. Words that come to mind when I read Lansdale: unsparing, uncaring, vicious, sardonic. Act of Love was his first novel and these traits were already on display, even if his signature voice wasn't fully developed.
Overall, I'm fond of Lansdale's work. I've mostly read his short fiction, with a few bites of longer works. I think I read Bad Chili about 15 years ago, and I definitely read some of his stories in comic form when I was much younger and still impressionable—stuff like Jonah Hex: Two Gun Mojo and Riders of the Worm, not to mention the hilariously graphic adaptation of Dead in the West. Heinous stuff, in a good way. Probably too harsh for a 13-year-old brain, which might explain some things.
Perhaps I came in expecting too much from a debut. The opening murder, complete with POV ultraviolence and a nauseating twist, suggested this would be unrelentingly grim, way over the top, maybe on par with the work of the soon-to-come splatterpunks, even if the serial killer subject matter was relatively straightforward. But the book is neither as consistently vicious as those opening pages nor as compelling as what Lansdale would later accomplish. Instead, it mostly reads like bad cop fiction. Dialogue scenes go on forever, unnecessarily padding out the middle of an already short novel. Hard to say whether Lansdale was simply green and didn't have an eye for what to cut, or if he needed to hit a word count so he could get paid for a novel-length work.
Characters do have distinctive voices, a Lansdale trademark, which sets it apart from true boilerplate dreck, but the book is pretty clunky overall. For one, it's primarily structured as a detective novel, but the lead detective does almost no detective work... the plot merely unfolds. Had this continued throughout the entire book, this would be a 2-star book at best.
But when Lansdale writes about violence, he comes alive. Make of that what you will.
The reason to read a book like this is for the visceral thrill of the horrible parts. Like Jack Ketchum's early stuff, this isn't quite splatterpunk, but the violence is just extreme. Lansdale's murder set-pieces are ruthless, excruciatingly grim and shockingly vivid, which is why the book maintains a certain reputation. I won't pretend this is art, but there is a raw power animating the darker pages.