“Hey, you’re Groucho Marx,” he slurred. “I loved you in A—A Night at the—oh, whatsit now?” “A Night at the Opera?” Perry suggested, landing nearby. “Yesh, yup—” He giggled. “Yeah, thatsit. A Nightly Opera—” Icky grinned at me, her fake cigar clamped between her teeth. “Ohmygoshthankyou,” she said to the man, then turned a triumphant look on me. “See, it worked! He really thinks I’m Groucho Marx!” “Yeah, Icky, you got me. You have him fooled by your cunning disguise and not because he’s, you know, stunned halfway to oblivion.”
