I suspect that everyone who has a favorite author does not love all that author's books equally. I'm as big a fan of Peter Abrahams as I think there is, and I admire all of his works, but I don't love them all, and NERVE DAMAGE is a book I love only because of the things that are in every Abrahams novel: the smooth dark glide of the prose, and the off-the-nose quality to everything every character says and does that Abrahams himself has called "the power of the oblique," a quality that deepens the reader's engagement with the text far beyond that of what most works of crime fiction do.
NERVE DAMAGE is a Peter Abrahams book I struggle to love, though I kind of do anyway for the above reasons, which are in abundant evidence. But this book in many ways feels like Abrahams in a creative holding pattern, with many of his characters echoing — strongly — characters and plot fragments from earlier works of his, rendering them more pallid that perhaps necessary. And plotting, especially in third acts, has never been Abrahams' strongest suit, and in this one the plot sails so far over the top of one's ability to suspend disbelief as to be distracting. You read Abrahams for reasons other than plot, but the thin characters and canned conflicts in NERVE DAMAGE don't make that easy.
Nonetheless, there are pleasures to be found in NERVE DAMAGE, mostly in Abrahams'd deliciously dark prose, rendered here with a leavening sliver of black humor. As a political power broker tells the story's POV character, terminally ill artist Roy Valois, who's on a mission into his late wife's murky power-adjacent past to find out just what happened to her: "Twenty or thirty years into a life in politics, they got nothing left inside to know. What’s not sold and bartered just got pleased away." He adds: "You’re thinking Washington and Lincoln. Pretty clear that those days are long gone. We’re in a late Roman phase, just scratching and clawing to hold on.”
There are worse ways to do that than by reading Peter Abrahams novels, even this one.