Just three more
victims. Random killings as all the others, despite the delightful daydreams.
Then he would be safe forever. Then he would become the man he’d always wanted
to be, immune from the imbecilic insults and violence the world imposed.
Because he could ignore it, knowing what he knew, knowing who he was and what
he had done! Could turn a blind eye and deaf ear on it all, smiling, forever
smiling. And would be passionate enough, sexual enough, sure enough to handle
not only the whale, but attractive women, many of them, on the side. As strong
men did. As would be his right, his prize…
 |
| Jove, May 1980 |
Normally, I’m not a fan of serial killer novels. Typically
they’re the same old plot, some loony whackjob who can’t relate to women,
stalking and murdering them one by one under the cover of darkness. It’s been
done so often, and so badly, that I often avoid the altogether. Besides, you
can get that same story from CNN and it’s become tiresome. Sunset People by Herbert
Kastle could have easily fallen into the same trap that so many serial killer
novels fall into, that is, become boring by the whole cliché of the genre.
Misfit loser who has spent his life feeling picked on?—Check! Domineering
mother?—Check! Browbeating sexless wife?—Check!
Beautiful heroine who becomes the loser’s latest obsession?—Check! Set in Los
Angeles?—Check! This novel covers all the bases. So, you might wonder why I
should bother writing about it. Well, because this 1980 novel takes the old
tropes and sets them up all neatly into a sleazy buffet for you, yet everything
about the ingredients seem just a little off. As if the pages you’re turning
echo with a quiet snickering between the lines and the joke is on you.
Maybe I’m reading way more into the novel than Kastle
intended. Maybe it was written as a by-the-numbers potboiler for a buck. I have
no idea because Kastle isn't explaining his motive for cranking out this 381
page bad boy. But I’m thinking there is something more to the novel than just a
sleazy serial killer thrill-ride. Kastle seems smarter than that. And, after
finishing the novel, I’m almost of the belief that it was an attempt at
something of a satire of the genre.
Here we have Larry Admer, the fucked up cop. No, Larry
Admer isn’t the brooding alcoholic mess that most cops in these novels are.
Instead, he comes across as a petulant prick, by turns praising and berating
Diana Woodruff, the heroine of the novel, and the sister of The Silencer’s
first victim. As for actually working the case and following the clues…well
Larry isn't that kind of cop. His idea of detective work is calling Diana on
the phone and bitching to her about why she doesn't put out for him. After all,
he reasons, Diana works in a massage parlor, for Christ’s sake! She’s just a
cheap massage parlor whore he tells her. Sure, Diana consents to go out with
him on a few dinner dates. But those dates are more whining and dining than
anything else. It’s no wonder she doesn't put out for him; he’s a complete dick
and a crummy detective to boot. And he’s supposed to be the good guy.
Diana Woodruff, the cheap massage parlor whore, is really
an intelligent thoughtful young woman who has pretty much accepted that she’s
meant to service men without forming any kind of long-lasting bond. This can be
blamed on her dysfunctional parents, but that’s too easy a reason. Yeah, her
parents sucked, but mostly, she’s got a yen for hot sex without the emotional
baggage that comes with it. That’s something Admer can’t seem to quite wrap his
ego around. Diana should be more likable a character but is really something of
a cipher. There is no window to her soul that one can crawl in through. Until
her sister’s murder, she had no anchor in life and nor oar to steer by.
Diane’s life is mostly working night hours at the Grecian
Massage Parlor and reading novels like Portnoy’s Complaint, until the night
her sister is shot dead on a sidewalk off Sunset Strip. Immediately, the
presumption is that Diane’s sister was a prostitute. Why else would she be out
alone dressed the way she was dressed? Diana rightly figures that the cops
don’t give a hoot about the death of another prostitute. So she decides to
accept Admer’s clumsy advances in the hopes that she’ll learn who killed her
sister, so that she can wreak vengeance on the motherfucker herself.
The Silencer, our serial killer, is so named because no
one reports hearing any gunshot when he kills. It’s given away in the first
chapter of the novel who The Silencer is. He’s a schmuck named Frank Berdon. A
short dumpy fat loser of a guy who finds a loaded gun on the street after a mob
hit goes haywire, leaving him alone with a dead guy and a loaded gun. The gun
itself is a 10 shot .22 automatic with a MAC silencer. For Frank, it means 10
bullets of retribution to unload on all the sluts and bitches who've tormented
him, ignored him, made fun of him…you get the idea. You can meet dozens like
him on any given Saturday night at the clubs. Since the identity of The
Silencer is given, the drive of the novel is watching him unravel as he shoots
his way through one victim after another. The one thing they all have in common
is not that they’re prostitutes, as The Silencer believes, but that they’re
misguided dreamers lured to the Sunset Strip via events that abandon them to
the whims of insanity. A rock star’s girlfriend, a jilted lover, an out of work
actress who believes she’s the character she once played on TV, a teenage girl
escaping from a rapist, to name a few. All of their stories are wrapped into
the lure of the Strip, hopeless and ripe for the picking. These are the “Sunset
People.”
This is the second novel by Herbert Kastle I've read, the
other being The Millionaires, which I also liked. I can’t say why I liked
these novels, by all reasons I shouldn't. Maybe it’s just a matter of sordid
tales told well.
