I have to confess my shock upon picking up this book in the bookstore in realizing that there are people still writing these fantasy New York books. Presumably for people who don't and probably never will ever live in New York City. What nonsense! But that's forgivable considering the immaturity and inanity of poor Harry Driscoll. Re TFK's plot: picking lint out of your navel is a fine activity, just don't write about it. I consider fake books with fake premises, books like these, a crime. Thankfully they're few and far between. I hope we're not witnessing a McInery-Ellis-coked-out 80s surge in boring novels again. Save your time.