It was a slow Monday in the comic shop. One of my coworkers, Will, was busying himself making a list of the gamebooks we needed to reorder, and I was flipping through the Diamond catalog trying to figure out what new comic series were worth ordering. The bell on the front door jingled, and I looked up to see not one of our usual clientele, but two rather severe-looking men in suits. They removed their sunglasses, and one of them looked directly at me. He began to cross the shop while his partner waited near the entrance.
My imagination runs away from me at the worst of times, but I had a feeling this guy wasn’t going to walk up to me and ask for the latest issue of Cerebus. He strode up and without preliminaries said, “Good morning. Are you [Murphy]?”
“That depends on who’s asking.” I meant it as a joke. I realized it was a pretty stupid thing to say after I’d said it.
He pulled out a badge and identified himself as an agent of the Secret Service. I immediately panicked and tried to think of anything nasty I’d said about the administration on USENET recently. Will, wide-eyed, dropped the notebook and came over to watch what was going on.
“Yes, sir, I’m [Murphy]. Can I help you?” I said, stammering a bit and trying not to freak out.
The agent eyed me for a moment, and then he gave me a name and asked me if I recognized it. I didn’t, and neither did Will. “He’s not one of your regulars?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “I don’t know everyone’s name that shops here, but I don’t have a pull list for him. That’s, uh, our subscription system, when the books come in every Thursday—”
He held up a hand. “I get it.” He apparently decided to have mercy on me, so he explained. “We’re investigating a counterfeiting case. We think he’s been passing fake bills in the area. Can I show you a lineup and see if you recognize anyone?”
“Oh, sure!” I was relieved to be off the hook. He opened his case and pulled out a folder, and inside there was an array of six pictures of men, some young, some old. He laid it on the counter in front of me and I scanned it, wracking my brain. Apologetically, I said, “I don’t really recognize any of them.”
Will walked over and glanced, then shook his head. Then he paused, and pointed at the one in the bottom right. “Hey, didn’t that guy play Spider-Man on TV?”
“That man threatened the president,” the agent responded. After a beat he added, “I don’t know whether or not he ever played Spider-Man on TV.”
He grinned.
We finished up, he thanked us for our time, and we apologized for not being more help. He and his partner went out and headed for the shop next door. We laughed about it and returned to business as usual.
A couple of hours later one of the other guys showed up for his shift. Will jokingly called out, “Man, you missed it, Murph got questioned by the Secret Service. He nearly had a heart attack.”
“Oh yeah,” Mike said. “They came by last week and asked me some questions. I told them they might want to check with the manager, and he’d be back on Monday. Did I forget to mention that?”
I nearly leapt across the counter at him.