Slim’s eyes were looking far away. “At the end of the week,” he said. “We’ve got enough money in the bank to pay all our bills. We’ve got a couple thousand in the safe, and we’ll take in three or four more. Tomorrow’s Friday. The next day will be Saturday and we should handle four thousand cars. We blow Saturday night. We’ll go to the coast.”

“Will I have time to get a haircut?” I asked hopefully.

“No. Get your hair cut in L.A. ” He went on dreamily, “We should have five thousand. We can start up again, and this time we’ll start off right, so we can run indefinitely without anybody catching on. We’ve got some capital to work with now.”

Friday was a good day. Slim only chuckled when I told him there was a man sitting across the street with a pad of paper and a pencil, tallying the cars that came in and those that went out.

“We’re good for tomorrow,” said Slim, “then they can have it. I’ve got plane reservations for two a.m. ”

He didn’t say so, but I think he was getting as tight inside as I was. We were close⁠—thirty hours from five thousand dollars⁠—enough to go through college in good shape.

Saturday was a bell-ringer. By six o’clock in the evening we had parked over four thousand cars, and they were still coming. The safe was full of tens and twenties, all nicely wrapped and labeled, and our two suitcases were beside it. Still the money was pouring in. Nine cars a minute. One every seven seconds. Two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. It was better than a mint. The basement floor was beginning to fill up.

At six thirty Slim was bringing a car back to full size and saying to me, “Watch this one. This is the building inspector’s car; he’s trying to get a clue.”