…when you get right down to it just about any old opportunity beats hell out of no opportunity at all…
Monroe D. Underwood
The next morning was clear and bright blue.
It would have been a great day for a ball game.
I parked up the block from Edna Willock’s house at eleven o’clock.
At eleven-thirty a guy pulled out of her driveway.
He was driving a ’75 brown Lincoln Continental with a busted taillight.
Four blocks south he turned west on Irving Park Road.
Wrigley Field was to the east.
So was New York.
Right away I knew he didn’t have baseball on his mind.
At four-thirty I broke contact.
I headed for Wallace’s tavern.
Wallace sat on a stool behind the bar.
He was glowering at Old Dad Underwood.
Wallace waddled to the tap and drew a beer for me.
He said I am going to sell this joint and move to Utah where I will grow carrots.
Old Dad Underwood said oncet I knowed a feller what made a fortune growing carrots.
He said this feller growed carrots twelve feet long.
He said it took three men to carry one.
He said they sliced them up with band saws.
He said they was a bitch to get out of the ground.
He said I think they was hybrids or something.
I said I don’t believe they grow a lot of carrots in Utah.
Wallace smiled slyly.
He said so there you are.
He said already I don’t got no competition.
He said a man got to be on the alert for chances like this.
During my second beer I called Edna Willock.
I said kiddo you better sit down.
I said your old man is sure some kind of operator.
I said he made ten stops.
I said a couple of them took only fifteen minutes.
I said what’s more he is still at it.
I said he ought to be in the Olympics.
I said if he keeps this up he won’t be alive when the Cubs get back.
I said does that ring your bell?
Edna Willock whistled.
She said what kind of car is he driving?
I said a ’75 brown Lincoln Continental.
I said with a busted taillight.
Edna Willock wheezed like a Union Pacific four-six-two steam locomotive.
She said I want my money back.
She said you have been following our insurance man.