knuckleballer: dodge scene

I poured some coffee and went through last week's newspapers looking at obituaries. I found what I needed: a memorial service scheduled for today. From the newsprint epitaph I learned that the deceased had lead the right kind of life for my purposes.

I armed the security system and changed the passcode to one-six-one-zero, Hoyt Wilhelm's lifetime strikeout total. As I walked past my gate, into the early morning street, I popped a quarter atop one of its rails. A quick look when I returned would let me know whether someone had opened the gate. In these big estates you're far away from your neighbors. People don't really watch out for each other. I didn't even know who my neighbors were.

I hit the main street and got the bus at Fairlea heading north. At forty-seventh I got out and walked a few blocks crosstown until I came to the address I had found in the obituaries. In the driveway of an empty house matching the address in the death notice there was a gold Dodge Dart. In a few minutes I had the car up and running.