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.