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“in California. The Silverback was resting his bulk in the one overstuffed easy chair in the bungalow’s main room. Shoshana Glick had propped her rump against the edge of the desk that held the big computer monitor. Dillon Fontana, clad all in black, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the jamb. Werner and Maria had gone home for the weekend.
“What’s noteworthy,” Dillon said, “is that Hobo began doing representational art after he started communicating with Virgil.”
Shoshana nodded. “I’d noticed that, too. But Virgil doesn’t paint—I asked Juan in Miami. He doesn’t do any sort of art. So it’s not like the orangutan gave Hobo a tip or encouragement.”
Marcuse was drinking Coke from a two-liter bottle that looked small in his hands. He took a swig, wiped his face, and said, “It’s the flat screen.”
Shoshana turned to look at him.
“Don’t you see?”
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