Four
“Camera three, give me a close-up.”
The director was speaking softly in the hushed darkness of “The Forester A.M. Report” control booth, relaying his instructions to the trio of large color cameras in the well-lit studio beyond the soundproof glass window.
Over one channel of his headset, the director heard the various voices of crewmen and technicians chattering among themselves and him on the mechanics of the show. On the other, the well-known voice of Ian Forester came in loud and clear.
“Crime,” the newsman was saying. “Crime is the number one problem and fear of New Yorkers. As the film clip of the sporting goods store robbery so clearly illustrates, the people of this city are no longer safe anywhere. It is time this deplorable situation be brought to an end!”
The broadcast monitor, the central monitor that showed the scene being beamed across the nation, held the picture of Ian Forester seated behind his desk, hands folded before him.
“Whether last night’s robbery was the work of ordinary criminals, or, as some police experts have speculated, the masked vigilante called Spider-Man, is irrelevant. The point is this: rampant crime on the streets must end. I hope I will be the man who is able to help this city reach that goal.”
“Five seconds to credits,” the director said.
“So, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your years of faithful viewing. I hope to be with you still in the years to come.” He smiled knowingly into the lens. “Good morning and good luck.”
“Roll credits.”
Camera two kept its red eye on Forester in a long shot as he shuffled papers meaninglessly on his desk. It wasn’t until he heard the director’s voice in his earplug saying, “That’s a wrap, people,” and the light on the camera winked out, that he stood. He knew that by the time he reached his dressing room/office two floors above the studio in the WNYC Building, reporters would be gathering from all the major networks, newspapers, and wire services to interview him. He was, after all, big news.
A lighting technician walked up to Forester and shook the anchorman’s hand. “Hey, good luck there, Mr. Forester. We’re all going to miss working on your program.”
Forester slapped the man’s back and smiled. “Thanks, Artie. I just hope the crew I get to work on my campaign is half as good as the one I had here.” The older man’s eyes twinkled in the bright studio lights, leaving no doubt in Artie’s mind as to the sincerity of Forester’s words. After all the years he had spent before the television cameras, Ian Forester knew the power of those steel-gray eyes. They projected honesty and warmth. He was everybody’s father.
He shook hands and exchanged small talk with several members of the crew as he strolled casually from the set. The longer he took to reach his office, the longer the newsmen from the nearby stations and newspapers would have to gather in force. News of his resignation from T.V. to seek elected office was of national importance because more people tuned in to watch him all across the country than any other man on the tube.
Even before he had graduated high school in the late 1930s, Ian Forester was an experienced journalist, working nights and weekends as a stringer, a freelance reporter, for the New York Tribune. At seventeen, he was the first reporter to break the story of scandal and corruption in the city’s sanitation department. By the time he was twenty, just prior to the United States’ entry into World War II, he was hired by United Press International and assigned to their rather dilapidated Pacific office in Oahu, just three miles from the ill-fated U.S. Naval base, Pearl Harbor. Two months after his arrival, on a routine story on a sunny December Sunday in 1941, Ian Forester proved to the world he was already a veteran newsman.
As the first Japanese bombers swept in over the base, Forester grabbed a tape recorder and started talking. He reported vividly on the attack that led to U.S. involvement in the war in Europe and was the first man to reach the torpedoed battleship Utah as it foundered. His dispatches from the “front” that day brought him to national prominence, which both gladdened and saddened his superiors at U.P.I. They were happy to have a star working for them. They weren’t too thrilled when they discovered WNYC radio was trying to steal him away from them.
For three weeks he wavered between a phenomenal job at U.P.I. and a mediocre post as London correspondent for WNYC. But it was a pretty, young secretary named Rochelle Marcus at the radio station who finally enabled Forester to make his decision. “Sure, it isn’t such a great job at WNYC,” she told him, “but that’s now.” It would, she assured him, lead to bigger and better things than the wire service could ever hope to offer. Forester decided to trust this girl’s instincts. He also decided he was falling in love with her. And, on the eve of his move to war-torn London to report on the aftermath of the Nazi blitz, they were married.
It’s commonly agreed in broadcast circles that if it hadn’t been for Edward R. Murrow, Ian Forester would have been the best thing to come out of World War II this side of Betty Grable’s legs. His heart-stirring broadcasts from the blazing streets of Piccadilly Circus as the bombs fell about him are still pointed out in broadcasting classes as being exemplars of their kind.
He left England in 1944 to follow Russian troops through heavy fire, and then, ultimately, into the devastated city of Berlin with the occupying Allied troops. His over-the-air descriptions of the taking of that city were said to have brought tears to the eyes of President Truman, grateful for an end to the war on at least one front.
There was no doubt about it. Ian Forester was star material.
After the war, he returned to the States and to New York, a hero to most of its citizens. It was he who had kept them informed throughout that long, difficult war so many thousands of miles away across the seas. They were grateful. But, more than that, they were loyal, and it was that loyalty to Forester that convinced WNYC that an audience existed for this man, so they set him up with a nightly news-and-commentary radio program. “The Forester Report” rose almost immediately to the top of the ratings.
When television was introduced in the late 1940s, Forester made the transition from radio with consummate ease and skill. His youthful, trusting face was soon a fixture in two out of every three households. His ratings never flagged in all the years since. Indeed, throughout his more than two decades on national T.V., he managed to accumulate more Emmy Awards than any other single person in the medium’s history. He was the most respected man in broadcasting. His reputation was beyond reproach, or, as one rival programming executive, looking for a way to beat the unbeatable in the ratings war, put it, “The only thing we’ve been able to pin on Forester so far is sainthood!”
Forester grinned broadly at his reflection in the elevator doors. He was, he had long ago decided, the perfect candidate for anything. He hoped the voters of New York agreed.
He stepped from the elevator down the corridor from his office. A crush of reporters and television cameramen were waiting impatiently for his arrival from the studio, harassing his already harried secretary with questions.
Ian Forester squared his broad shoulders and pasted his most sincere smile on his face. “Gentlemen,” he called out to them.
Instantly, mini-cams and blazing lights were pointed in his direction and anxious reporters rushed to him with pens and microphones poised.
He was on.
Five
The studio-owned limousine took Ian Forester to his Central Park West condominium and waited at the curb until the newsman was safely inside the lavish lobby. The uniformed doorman smiled, tipping his hat. “Caught your show this morning, Mr. Forester. You got my vote, that’s for sure.”
Forester grinned tiredly. “Thanks, Hank. I can use all I can get.” An elevator was waiting in the lobby and, waving good night to the doorman, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the penthouse.
He was exhausted. His day began each morning at 4:30, when he awoke to meet the limo that took him to his 8:00 A.M. appointment with “The Forester A.M. Report.” Then,
as his program’s news editor, he worked through the day before his afternoon nap and preparation for his 7:00 P.M. network news program. But this day, even though he did not have to work on his evening newscast, had been longer than most, punctuated by impromptu press conferences and numerous calls from the media and his superiors at WNYC-T.V. A lengthy meeting with the network’s top executives ran through his scheduled nap time (his announcement, coming as a surprise in the middle of his contract-renewal talks, was not well met by them), and by the time he managed to leave the studio, it was past midnight.
All that was on his mind now was a quick shower and sleep.
The elevator opened on the penthouse floor and Forester let himself into the apartment. He didn’t bother switching on the lights as he negotiated the spacious living room in the dark. But before he could reach the stairs that led to the upper floor of the duplex apartment, Forester stopped short, the small hairs on his neck bristling.
There was someone else in the apartment!
Forester heard the low, steady breathing in the middle of the room and pivoted. He swung around to face . . . whoever. He knew it was not his wife, she would have heard him enter and spoken up, and none of the kids was home. Who . . . ?
“Good evening, Mr. Forester.” A deep, resonant voice pierced the darkness of the room. But Forester relaxed almost instantly. He recognized that voice.
“I should’ve figured,” he said to the massive shape seated comfortably on the sofa. The tinge of fear was still in his voice and he realized he had to clasp his hands tightly together to stop their trembling.
The large figure shifted on the sofa. “Monroe,” he said, “I trust even you are capable of turning on a light without detailed instructions, hmmm?”
A second, much smaller man, unnoticed by Forester until now, stood behind the door. He turned on the overhead lights. Forester glanced at him for only a second. It was the other man he was interested in.
The man was enormous. He stood well over six feet tall and weighed better than five hundred pounds. His completely bald head rose like a flesh-covered mound from his massive shoulders. His features seemed almost tiny in his fleshy face. The huge figure was splendidly decked out in a custom-made white jacket, a white scarf at his throat, held there by a large diamond stickpin. His trousers were dark, pin-striped.
“What do you want, Kingpin?” Forester asked.
The man was indeed the Kingpin, leader of New York’s most powerful and feared organized-crime gang. He smiled at the newsman, pleased. “I merely wished to congratulate you on your splendid performance this morning, Mr. Forester. We were all most gratified to see you followed your instructions so faithfully.”
Ian Forester started to speak, but held his tongue, fearing that his anger might not stay contained within him. He turned instead to the well-stocked bar set against the wall. As he poured himself a drink, he heard the sofa springs groan as Kingpin’s ponderous weight was lifted.
“I should like a glass of white wine, my friend.”
Forester whirled angrily, no longer able to conceal his anger. “I am not your friend, Kingpin,” he spat. “And I don’t like you coming into my home, either. Maybe I have to work with you, but I sure as hell don’t have to socialize with you. That wasn’t part of the bargain.”
Kingpin stepped calmly up to the bar and took his time choosing an appropriate wine from the selection on the bar. “Perhaps you do not yet completely understand, Mr. Forester.” He poured half a glass of wine into a brandy snifter, sniffed its delicate bouquet, and turned to look into his host’s face. “To begin, we made no bargain. I merely tell you what I expect from you, and you make certain it gets done. You do not have any say in any part of what happens, hmmm?”
Forester swallowed hard, unable to hold the fat man’s steely gaze. Kingpin chuckled deep in his throat and sampled the wine, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Delightful,” he said.
“Now, Mr. Forester, do we understand each other better?”
Forester nodded slowly.
“Excellent, my friend,” the crime boss said. “Then I may allow you to speak to your daughter tonight. That would please you, I am sure.” Kingpin glanced with a tight smile as the veteran newsman started at his words.
“A-Amy?”
“Indeed, Mr. Forester.” He snapped his fingers at the man by the door. “Monroe!”
The silent man stepped forward and lifted the phone. He dialed a number and listened for several seconds before handing the receiver to Forester, who grasped it with trembling hands.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, baby, it’s me. How are you, darling?” Forester asked, his voice tight with pent-up emotion. “Are they treating you well, Amy?”
The frightened voice of Forester’s sixteen-year-old daughter said, “Yes, Daddy. When can I come home, Daddy?”
Forester squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the telephone so hard his knuckles turned white. It took him several seconds before he could trust his voice to reply to his daughter’s plea. “S-soon, baby, I swear to you.”
The phone went dead.
Monroe took the receiver from Forester’s hand and returned, unsmiling, to his corner like a dutiful puppy.
For long moments Ian Forester stared with flashing, hate-filled eyes at the Kingpin. “You . . . animal!” he spat. “She’s just a baby!”
Kingpin laughed. “Nonsense, Mr. Forester. Your daughter is sixteen years old, certainly old enough for you to have allowed her to travel unescorted through Europe and, regardless of her age, old enough to be a useful pawn.”
Forester ran a hand across his damp forehead. “Europe!” He laughed without humor. “Lord, why’d I ever consent to that damned trip?”
Kingpin shrugged and dismissed the subject with a wave of his massive hand. “Again, nonsense, my friend. True, her taking the grand tour of the Continent provides a convenient excuse for your daughter’s absence, but I assure you, sir, my people would have been able to abduct her regardless of where she was.
“But there is no need for concern, Mr. Forester. All you need do to ensure her continued well-being and her eventual return home to the loving bosom of her family is cooperate. If not, I need but utter a single word and . . .” Kingpin’s voice trailed off ominously, leaving no doubt of his sinister intentions. “It is that simple.”
Ian Forester’s fist clenched and unclenched spasmodically at his sides as he glared at the fat man—this man who had stolen his child from him . . . who had stolen his dignity, his self-respect. “How,” he said through clenched teeth, the hate fairly choking him, “how in God’s name can such scum like you exist?”
Kingpin’s piggish eyes narrowed. He rose slowly from his seat and walked over to where Forester stood next to the bar.
“Watch closely, Forester,” the fat man said in a voice so low that the newsman had to strain to hear. “I shall do this only once.”
Kingpin faced the solid oak bar, a tight smile on his thick lips. He clenched a single massive fist and raised it over his head. Then, with lightning-fast speed, he brought it down on the polished wood with a thundering crash. Before Ian Forester’s eyes, the bar gave way beneath the fat man’s fist and splintered into a thousand shards.
Suavely shooting his cuffs, Kingpin turned back to Forester. “Do not be deceived by my appearance, Forester.” All pretense of friendliness was gone from his voice and the newsman stepped back before the verbal onslaught. “And do not think that because I have thus far chosen to deal with you on a Platonic level that I would be adverse to switching to more physical, albeit painful, methods of persuasion. I assure you I would not.” Kingpin returned to the sofa, smiling to himself. His little display of temper and strength had effectively quieted Forester.
“But if it is necessary for me to remind you of what you are to do, then I shall.” Forester was beyond any sort of reply, his will sapped by the fat man’s threats. Kingpin continued: “Forester, for the first time in this city’s history, the various heads of the orga
nized-crime families have gathered together with myself as their leader. I do not lie when I say the negotiations leading to this alliance were long and difficult for me and were made at great personal sacrifice to myself and my wife.
“And what, Mr. Forester, do you think is the object of this rather unholy alliance?” He leaned forward. “It is to get you, Ian Forester, elected to the office of mayor of the city of New York!”
Kingpin’s eyes shone brightly as he sipped his wine. “It is a brilliant plan,” he said warmly. “Brilliant in its sheer simplicity! Imagine, we choose a winning candidate—a man such as yourself, who cannot lose the election—and we get him into a position of responsibility over the city’s coffers. By the time your first four-year term is up we will be in complete control over New York, having established a political machine to put the Tammany crowd to shame.
“And imagine the money, Mr. Forester! Imagine the amounts that could be siphoned from the city’s treasury, the theft hidden in ledger books to go undiscovered for a decade, at which time my colleagues and myself shall be long gone.”
Forester stood stock-still by the shattered bar, his head bowed.
“Come, come, Forester, you have cause for celebration, not sorrow. You are, after all, going to be the next mayor of New York, hmmm?”
“You mean puppet, don’t you?”
The crime king chuckled. “If you insist, yes. But you have little choice while your daughter is in my hands. Still, if your behavior is satisfactory and all goes well in November, your daughter will be returned to you.”
The newsman’s head snapped up. “Don’t taunt me, Kingpin,” he said. “You know as well as I that you lose your hold over me when I have Amy back here. There’d be nothing to stop me from going to the authorities with what I know.”
“Ah, but there would be. You see, when you win the election, you and your family will spend the next four years living in the gunsights of trained killers. Were you to step out of line but once, a member of your family would die in a tragic assassination attempt obviously aimed at you. A second wrong step, and the rest of your family, yourself included, would die.” Kingpin smiled. “But I trust your excellent judgment, my friend.
Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 4
