By the beginning of the second month we had a moving ramp. The boys upstairs put the car on the ramp, the car came downstairs and went through the reducer, came out on the other side and onto a platform. We had a tow-truck that just backed up, reached down a steel platform under the front axle, and walked away. It was funny to see that two-ton truck hauling a toy car across the floor.

Yes, we had a deal. Late at night, after we’d closed up and had time for some coffee, Slim would talk about how we were going to build a chain of parking ramps across the country.

“We’ll make billions,” he said, his deep eyes shining with a faraway fanaticism that only Slim Coleman can exhibit, “and we’ll be known as the saviors of civilization. We’ll call ourselves Parking Unlimited.”

Then one night the building inspector came. We were just resting for a moment, with no cars in sight, when we looked around and there he stood. It startled us, because absolutely no one was allowed in the basement.

“What do you want?” Slim asked, and just then a car appeared on the ramp, coming down to the reducer.

“I’m the building inspector. I’m checking on the weight you’re putting in this building. It’s an old building, you know.” And all the time his eyes were darting everywhere.

“Did LaBombard send you?” asked Slim. The car was halfway down.

“Well, not exactly; we’re interested in this from the safety angle.”

A second car’s nose showed around the curve. I began to sweat.

“Okay,” said Slim. “Look us over. We do the parking upstairs.”

“What do you do down here?” The inspector stared at the reducing stall.