The name "Preston Lang," a pseudonym for an unknown writer, is a guarantor of quality. His storytelling is inventive, tight, fast-paced, dark, and frothy fun, a semi-punk-rock update of the caustic humor of hardboiled predecessors like Elmore Leonard, Charles Willeford, Ross Thomas, Donald Westlake and any writer who can slip a shiv into your pancreas while you're distracted by a punchline.
LOAD is Lang's fourth short novel by my count, and among his best. He knows New York City well, but his storytelling and characterizations kick into a higher gear when he decides to send them out of town and into the heartland. The story: Cyril and Ana Luz are a couple of low-level losers in the New York City crime world, and when Cyril steals a bag of heroin from a dealer for whom Ana Luz works, the two hit the road in search of a buyer and a new start. The two have a snappy sexual chemistry, and a moderate degree of mutual respect, but, like the couple in classics like BLACK WINGS HAS MY ANGEL, you get the feeling that whether they'll fall in love or slip away from one another is an open question, and that low current of tension between the two keeps LOAD managing the miles of Middle America with a steady low current of thrumming tension. The two take on a partner, and complications pile up as fast as high as the body count.
It's too bad pulp novels like LOAD, full of cooled prose and steady low simmering heart, have long ago fallen out of fashion. If this was 1957 and had this was a Gold Medal or Fawcett or New American Library or Pocket Books paperback on a rack in every drugstore in America, LOAD might get the attention it deserves, and Preston Lang might well be thought of with the same esteem as John D. MacDonald, Charles Williams, Day Keene, Harry Whittington and their like. But, because it's 2019, Lang seems doomed to being a cult favorite, and I for one am a happy cultist.