Chapter 33

After the music ended, Icky and Alison were at cross-purposes. Icky wanted to smoke but was out of cigarettes. Alison wanted to get a copy of the paper to see if they were following up on the lead she’d provided.

They paid the bill and headed up Old Kings Road in search of news and nicotine. Alison scored first. She found a box selling the Pest and started riffling through it, looking for an exposé of sexual harassment at Penn.

Meanwhile, Icky was prattling excitedly about an apartment that he had rented with Sammy and Joe. It was cheap, discreet, and kind of a dump—not that any of them cared. As they approached the corner of Mechanic Street, Icky made a show of sniffing the air. There was an aromatherapy spa on the corner, and the place reeked of noxious essential oils and sinus-penetrating herbal concoctions. “It smells like a Superfund site.” Icky was pleased with his clever choice. “Put down that paper for a sec so I can show you the secret entrance.” Icky led Alison around the corner, where a door allowed entrance to the apartment in back. It was painted the same shade of white as the entire side of the building. Hardly secret, but certainly discreet. The only other feature was an old-fashioned fire escape with elaborate counterweights that provided emergency egress for the second- and third-story apartments. “We’re movin’ in our stuff and things’ll be cookin’ in a coupla days,” Icky crowed.

Just then, one of the NewGarden security guards happened to be coming up Mechanic Street from the direction of the Friends School. He was still dressed in commando getup. The combination of the beret, several days’ growth of beard, the commando sweater, and the visible sidearm gave him a startling and formidable aspect. Icky perked up when he saw him. He sniffed the air like a hound picking up a scent and told Alison excitedly, “Must be a foreign brand if I can smell it on top of this stench.” And he rushed over to bum a cigarette.

Icky returned a moment later, inhaling with obvious pleasure. “Right again: Gauloises! I don’t think that guy knows any English, but us tobacco connoisseurs speak the same language. He was so pleased that I like Gauloises, he gave me the rest of his pack.” Icky held out the distinctive blue package with four or five cigarettes in it for Alison to see.

She had more pressing things on her mind. She’d already been through the Pest once, carefully, page by page. There was no coverage of her story. Now she was thrashing each sheet, her fury growing as she noticed what they were writing about instead: car crashes, the granting of liquor licenses, the weather and the heartbreaking tale of a family that couldn’t buy a condo in Garden Township because they owned too many dogs. What did she need to do, connect all the dots, spell it out for them?

Furious, Alison wadded the whole paper into a ball and dropped it in the gutter where she started kicking it, swearing violently each time she struck it. Icky joined in and soon they were playing a form of soccer, punctuated by profanity and, eventually, laughter.

They sat on the curb in front of the barbershop to catch their breath. “Sonsabitches,” moaned Alison, shaking her head.

Icky was lighting another Gauloises directly from the one he’d just finished smoking. “I keep telling you, let it go.”

Alison shrugged. “Easy for you to say.” She took the cigarette from Icky’s lips and puffed distractedly. The harsh tobacco made her cough. Icky tenderly took the cigarette from her so she wouldn’t burn herself by accident. Finally the spasms died down enough for Alison to complete the thought that had just struck her: “If I were you, I’d stay away from those security guards. They give me the creeps.”