Three hours later, soaked, chilled, and seriously pissed at all primates, Danny stood at the mouth of a downtown dead-end alley. He hadn’t seen the monkey for half an hour, but he’d long since figured out its destination. He’d have been here two minutes after that if he’d been able to find a cab, but cabs, it seemed, were avoiding long-haired bearded sandal-wearing coatless artist-types tonight.
A single blue light illuminated a rust-red door at the alley’s far end and the black letters stencilled on it: “Honest Art’s Avant-Garde Art Supplies.” Smaller letters beneath the main sign added, “And Surplus Store.”
The door opened before he got there, revealing a short, brawny figure, silhouetted against the bright interior light. “Well, well, well,” it said. “First a wet monkey, then a drowne
