“Don’t forget the American way.”

“Do I need to remind you what your rich client hired you to do?”

“No.”

But he did anyway: “You’re looking to find out who was driving that red speed buggy, and bring him in.”

“That’s the job.”

Pat leaned forward. “In other words, Vance Colby has hired you to do what the entire New York Police Department and its considerable resources aren’t capable of?”

“Why, how do you think they’re doing?”

He lifted a forefinger and waggled it at me. “I’m guessing you think that accident was no accident. That it wasn’t a hit-and-run, but a hit period…one that didn’t take.”

“I’m looking at that, yeah.”

He raised two open hands, as if he were holding them out to catch somebody but didn’t care if it worked. “A hit for what reason? I know a lot of people who would like to kill their brokers, but I doubt very many go through with it.”

Now I leaned in. “I’m not looking into that side of it, Pat. The old man has specialists in high finance on that score. I’m strictly digging into young Colby’s personal life.”

Pat shrugged. “Well, I told you—Vincent Colby’s clean. I think there may have been some youthful indiscretions, but if so, they’ve been expunged. That happens under certain circumstances even if you aren’t wealthy.”

“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.