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?”

I figured it would be bad taste to ask him if he had to use blocks for his feet to reach the pedals.

Billy Batson batted the air, made a face, which with that mug was saying something.