Monday morning. It was raining in Chicago. A slow, dirty, omnipresent rain that would probably continue for the rest of the day. Perfect for a Monday.

Chongo got up and made some coffee. Very strong. He ruefully contemplated the bullet hole in his desk that had resulted from his fit of temper over the gorilla bank whose fragments now lay in the dustbin.

"I'm an idiot," he said to himself. "A jerk. I oughta be hung out to dry like an old banana peel."

He sipped coffee for awhile and thought about the young baboon who had asked for his autograph the other day. "Poor kid. He doesn't know his idol is a jerk who runs out of money cos of his own bad spending habits and then blames a 'piggy bank' for his problems."

Meanwhile Magenta was clearly in danger. Great danger. And she was most likely in Australia while Chongo was in Chicago, Illinois with $16 to his name and a tip about someone called Vito Fresnelli.

Well, first things first. It was time to get the train back on the tracks and rolling. Chongo finished his coffee, and dialed Vito Fresnelli's number again. Still no answer. Okay, then. Time to pay a visit to 17 Spartan Boulevard. He slipped into his working trenchcoat, picked up the violin case that contained the Thompson submachine gun, and headed out into the wet and gritty streets of the Windy City.