“Which the Colbys certainly are. So, Captain Chambers... should I talk to Chris Peters or do you want to do it?”
Half a smirk settled in a cheek. “To see what Chris knows about those two suspicious deaths somehow tied to our boy Vincent? I can handle that and get back to you. You don’t even have to remind me that I work for you, civic-minded tax-payer that you are.”
The sky looked as cold and gray as the towers of commerce crowding it, my breath smoking like I hadn’t given up Luckies all those years ago. Winter really seemed to be getting ahead of itself and if snow started in, before the leaves were off the trees in Central Park, I was going to be pissed. I had the trenchcoat lining in and a wool suit on, the porkpie squatting on my head keeping my head warm but not the sun out, because there wasn’t any. I couldn’t quite bring myself to putting on gloves, but you can bet my hands were in my topcoat pockets.
At his newsstand on the corner of Lexington and 44th, Billy Batson was bundled up, too, in his striped red-and-black stocking cap, green plaid woolen scarf, padded quilt jacket, gray flannel trousers, and high-top sneakers. But his cotton gloves had the fingertips cut off so he could handle with ease change and paper money, too.
Like Pat had said, Billy was a midget, but as little people went, this one was on the tall side, and the next time you see The Wizard of Oz, see if you can’t spot Billy looming above the rest of the Munchkins — no joke, he’s there. He’d been one of the famous Singer Midgets before plowing his showbiz dough into this newsstand half a lifetime ago.
Billy’s last name wasn’t actually Batson, of course — though I had no idea what it really was. Back in the fifties, he’d had the finest newsstand display of comic books on any Manhattan street corner, and still did, though Spider-Man and The X-Men had long-since banished Blue Beetle and Black Cat. So it was no surprise that Billy’s nickname was Captain Marvel’s secret identity, since that’s who newsboy Billy Batson in those funny books would turn into after crying out, “Shazam!”
But the Superman people had sued Captain Marvel out of existence in the early fifties, breaking the real-life Billy Batson’s heart. Then, not long ago, the company that killed the character revived him themselves, and boy, was Billy proud. He gave those new comic books prime display space and those who knew the significance (sometimes out-of-town comic book collectors who had heard of the real-life Billy Batson) would come by to have him autograph the latest issue of what was now called Shazam!
Billy was a wizened little guy these days, even more so than years before, his mug a swirl of wrinkles swallowing up his features; but his eyes were bright and his dentures white, and not much got past him.
“Got the new Guns & Ammo and Ring for ya, Mike,” he said, reaching under his counter for the “pull” mags. “Playboy, too. Little lefty for you these days, ain’t it?”
“Do I look like I buy it for the articles?”
Those dentures flashed. “Then should I maybe put Cavalier back on the list?”
“Naw, it’s got a little raunchy for my taste. Anyway, I got better at home.”
The bright eyes twinkled. “I’ll say ya do! How is Velda?”
The modest-sized man had a giant-sized crush on Velda.
“Big and beautiful and mine, Billy,” I told him, accepting the magazines and paying him for them. “Don’t you get any ideas.”
He got my change for me, the bills from his cash register, the coins from the changer at his waist. “You can’t stop a guy from havin’ ideas, Mike! Say, we got somethin’ in common.”
“Besides being in love with my secretary?”
“Yeah! I read in the News you was a witness to that hit-and-run a few weeks back! Some rich Wall Street guy, huh? Hurt bad, was he?”
I shook my head. “No, he’s fine. But that’s why I’m here. The cops from the Accident Investigation Squad talked to you?”
His eyes got big. “Yeah. I damn near got hit myself, y’know!”
“I didn’t know.”
He sold a Times to a customer, then resumed his tale, gesturing melodramatically. “I was packin’ up for the night when that buggy came screamin’ around the corner, up and over the curb, sending me divin’ for cover, and takin’ a piece of my stand with it. Mags knocked all over hell!”
“Show me.”
He walked me over. The left side of his stand, just below the display counter, had some rough grooves in it and a chunk of ancient wood was gone, revealing a lighter shade, a fresh wound in its aged hull.
I asked, “Did they hit the headlight, or more like scrape the side of the car?”
“Front right headlight, Mike. And I heard the glass shatter. I told the cops that, but neither one wrote it down. Maybe they got good memories.”
“What did they do?”
“Took some paint samples,” Billy said, then smirked and shook his head dismissively. “But they was half-ass all the way.”
“Yeah?”
He sold a Sports Illustrated to a guy, then held his hands out, palms up. “I tried to tell ’em! They wouldn’t listen. You know, I’m short, not stupid! That was a special Ferrari, Mike, I told ’em it was! But they just made me for some old kook.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not my opinion, Billy. What was special about it? There’s no shortage of red Ferraris in this town, I’m told.”
He was shaking his head before I even finished. “That wasn’t just any Ferrari, Mike.” He waggled a forefinger at me. “I’m into sports cars, you know.”
That put some wild funny images in my brain, but I didn’t let my grin get out of hand. “Really.”
“Really.”
The little guy sold a New York magazine and some Certs to a pretty young woman.
“Yeah,” Billy said, rather grandly, “I read damn near all the periodicals. News, sports, People, Variety, you name it. I’m my own best customer! I just never buy anything. I never miss Car and Driver, Motor Trend, hell, even Hot Rod. I told those dumb cops I was a expert! They just laughed and said, ‘Sure you are, Pop.’”
Billy had me sold — both that those cops were dumb and that he wasn’t, not about cars anyway.
So I asked, “A specific Ferrari how, Billy?”
He wagged a forefinger at me. “That was a F40. Built to satisfy Enzo Ferrari’s dyin’ wish — ol’ Enzo said he wanted to create the best car on planet earth! He took his cue from the 288 GTO — know it? That F40’s one fast, powerful ride, my friend. Did you notice the spoiler on the back of that baby, when that guy got clipped?”
“I did,” I said, nodding. “Takes away from the sleek look of it. But I could learn to live with that, if somebody gave me one for Christmas.”
“Well, without that spoiler, Mike, in a ride with a top cruisin’ speed pushing 200 miles per hour like that? It wouldn’t be a bullet took Mike Hammer out, but metal and fire and asphalt. It’s simple aerodynamics, y’know. No spoiler and you could take off like a rocket — goin’ straight up! And what goes up, goes you-know-where.”
He sold another Times.
I put a hand on his shoulder again. “All the years I’ve known you, Billy, and I never picked up on you being a car buff. What do you drive, anyway?”