I could have taken that three hundred dollars and gone to school for a year, by washing dishes two hours a night. I had worked for that money, too; shocking wheat for twelve hours a day in the August sun is no vacation. But Slim Coleman convinced me that we could run that three hundred into enough to take us both for four years.
I hadn’t even had time to get a haircut—and I did want a haircut; now it was pretty shaggy.
But Slim, diplomat that he is, didn’t even seem to notice my hair. “I’ve got a real deal,” he said, and his deep eyes were shining with enthusiasm. “Have you got any money?”
“Some,” I said cautiously.
“It takes three hundred. Have you got that much?”
I had intended to say no, but Slim has a way of fixing his deep, somber eyes on you that gives ineffable dignity even to a touch. “Okay,” I said hopelessly. “What’s the bite?”
“Well, you see, it’s like this.” We went into a drug store and ordered cokes, and Slim characteristically insisted on paying for them when he probably couldn’t have bought a package of cigarettes. I let him pay, too. I had three hundred and one dollars, and I had no intention of parting with a nickel of it—except a dollar for a haircut.
“I was using the brain-finder and I ran across the owner of this unused garage in the Loop. His name is Richard LaBombard and he’s got a lot of parking lots through the Loop, and you know what he’s doing?”