“Well.” Kingpin clapped his meaty hands together. “I thank you for your generous hospitality, Mr. Forester, but I really must be going. The hour is quite late and I know you must begin your day early, so good night. Monroe!”
Kingpin lifted his massive bulk from the sofa with remarkable ease, his almost dancer-like grace belying his great size and weight. Monroe opened the door for his boss and Kingpin left the veteran newsman to his own, dark thoughts.
Suddenly, Ian Forester felt like a very old man.
Six
J. Jonah Jameson paced across his spacious office, leaving a blue trail of smoke in his wake. The editor/publisher of New York’s second largest daily newspaper was mad, his teeth clamped around the ragged stump of his cigar as he swore under his breath.
“It’s a blamed conspiracy, Robbie!” he raged.
Joe Robertson glanced up from the editing of a campaign speech. “It’s no such thing, Jonah.”
Jameson pointed an accusing finger at the television set on a desk in the Jameson-for-Mayor headquarters on the forty-sixth floor of the Bugle Building. “How can you say that?” he practically howled. “Look how that man keeps doing . . . that!”
He was pointing at the video-taped image of Ian Forester, already campaigning vigorously across the five boroughs a week after his surprise announcement. He was shown entering the Board of Elections waving a handful of signed nominating petitions that his busy and eager campaign volunteers had quickly gathered to place his name on the primary ballot.
“That’s a damned efficient organization Forester’s been able to get together so quickly,” Robbie said.
“Don’t I know that, blast it! What I don’t know—and would just love to find out—is: How come I don’t have one just like it?” Jameson thundered. “There’re only three days left to file to make the ballot, and mine aren’t even signed yet.”
“It’s demographics, Jonah. You know that. Forester is attracting the college kids and young career people to his campaign, the ones who’ll work their tails off for their man. You know how the kids latch on to political super-stars, like the Kennedys, McGovern, Carter. And, face it, there’s nobody better known in this country with the exception of maybe the President and Muhammad Ali, and I wouldn’t want to take bets on that. In this country, everyone under the age of thirty grew up watching Ian Forester three hundred sixty-five days a year. They’ve probably seen more of him than their own fathers.”
Jameson spat out the remains of his El Ropo Special and lighted another almost immediately as he reached for the telephone on a cluttered desk nearby. “MacWalters!” he barked into the receiver. “I want your butt up here, pronto!” He slammed down the receiver and turned back to Robbie.
“I don’t care who Forester is, Robertson,” he growled. “All I care about is how I’m going to beat him in this blamed primary.”
“Money,” the city editor said thoughtfully. “We need money for a media blitz.”
“Bah! Everybody in this city’s too tight with their money.”
“Not with Forester. His campaign’s been bringing in a lot of the high-powered moneymen.”
Jameson glowered at Robbie. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Yours, Jonah,” he chuckled.
“Well, then sound like it, blast it!”
Peter Parker stepped off the elevator into the hustle and bustle of the Jameson-for-Mayor campaign headquarters. Harried-looking men and women, most of them in their forties and fifties, it seemed, hurried every which way across the large room, their arms loaded with reports and paperwork that seemed to the tired volunteers to actually grow and multiply in the dark of their desk drawers. Across the desk-lined room, other volunteers were manning banks of telephones, dialing numbers of registered voters from long computer lists to gain support for their man.
It was painfully obvious to Peter that Jameson was severely understaffed.
He spotted the candidate at a desk in the center of the room. As Jameson talked to Robbie, he sent up smoke signals from his cigar. Peter figured it was an S.O.S.
“What this campaign needs, Robbie,” Jameson was saying as Peter approached, “is something big! Something really spectacular that’ll grab the voters!”
“Say no more, Mr. Mayor,” Peter said. “I have arrived.”
An expression of distaste crossed Jameson’s face. “You I don’t need right now, Parker. Get lost!”
“Hey, Mr. J.! That’s no way to make friends and influence voters.” He grinned. “What you’ve got to do is put on that big, beautiful smile of yours . . . y’know, the one that shows off your dimples . . . and stick out your hand and say, ‘Hi, my na—’ ”
“Parker!”
“Just trying to be helpful.”
“Then leave.”
“Campaign going a little slow, huh?” Peter tried to sound sympathetic.
“Not half as slow as your pea-brain, kid!”
“Maybe you ought to get yourself a new campaign manager.”
Jameson plucked the soggy cigar from his mouth and glared at Peter. “I am the campaign manager,” he said.
“Oh.”
Before Jameson could reply, Bob MacWalters, a young copyboy for the Bugle, trotted up to the desk. “You wanted to see me, chief?”
“How many times do I have to tell you, MacWalters, don’t call me . . .”
“Sorry, Mr. Jameson.”
“That’s better! Now, what’s the story on my petitions? I gave them to you a week ago to get the necessary signatures.”
“Er . . . I’m working on it, Mr. Jameson.”
Jameson narrowed his eyes at the fidgety young man. “Define ‘working on it,’ MacWalters!”
“Well, er . . . I’ve got, um . . . most of the signatures, sir. They ought to be ready any day now.”
“Try tomorrow, MacWalters.”
“Sir?”
“I said, I want those petitions—signed, sealed, and delivered—on my desk by tomorrow, kid, by three o’clock so I can make the six o’clock news. Is that clear, or do I have to draw pictures for you?”
“I just love watching a dedicated public servant in action,” Peter mumbled.
MacWalters gulped nervously and hurried away from his boss’s desk. “Can’t get good help these days,” Jameson called after him.
“And speaking of lousy help, what’d you want, Parker—besides a chance to annoy me, that is?”
Peter pointed to the camera slung over his shoulder. “Wanted to know if you wanted me to get some shots of Forester at his press conference.”
“Press conference?”
“Yes, Your Honor. He’s holding a biggie at his headquarters in the Americana Hotel in . . .” Peter checked his watch—“. . . fifteen minutes. Now, don’t say no, Mr. Jameson. After all, you can always stick the pictures on the obit page. I ain’t picky as long as I get paid.”
But Jameson was no longer listening. He was on his feet, hurriedly pulling on his jacket and straightening his tie. “Then don’t just stand there, blast your eyes!” he said. “We’ve got to get over to the Americana!”
Peter was confused. “We? You want to take pictures, too?”
“No, stupid,” Jameson growled as he grabbed Peter’s arm and dragged him to the door. “You don’t think I’m going to let Forester grab all the time on tonight’s news, do you? C’mon!”
Peter was helpless. He shrugged at Robbie as he was pulled roughly into the elevator. As the doors closed, he called, “If I’m not back in a week, tell my Aunt May I went down fighting!”
“My former colleagues of the press”—Ian Forester smiled down at the assemblage of newsmen and women seated before him in the Americana’s grand ballroom—“I think we can begin.”
Immediately, several dozen hands shot up, vying for the candidate’s attention. “Mr. Grodin,” he said, pointing to the heavyset columnist from the Daily News.
“Nice choice, Ian,” Grodin said, a smile spread across his cherubic face. “We were all betting yo
ur first question would come from a T.V. reporter.”
Forester laughed easily with the rest of the room and leaned comfortably on the podium. “No longer, Bob,” he chuckled. “Now that I’m a candidate instead of a newsman, all my T.V. chauvinism has mysteriously disappeared. These days, I love all reporters.”
The assembled reporters were still laughing as J. Jonah Jameson pushed his way through the crowd, a hapless Peter Parker still in tow. “Listen to these clowns,” Jameson muttered. “This is supposed to be a press conference, not ‘The Gong Show’! What’re they laughing at?”
“It’s called a sense of humor, Mr. Jameson,” Peter said.
Jameson threw the young photographer a sharp glance. “You just take pictures, Parker. From now on, leave your mouth at home.”
“That’s the main issue,” Forester was saying in reply to a question. “I don’t think the people of New York are going to put up with police inefficiency any longer. And, frankly, I don’t think they should have to.”
“Will you listen to that blowhard?” Jameson muttered as he pushed through the crowd of network cameramen around the foot of the dais before Forester. Finally, only the man from ABC News stood in his way, and, pushing him roughly aside, Jameson pulled himself up onto the stage.
“Mr. Forester,” he thundered.
Ian Forester turned, a frown creasing his forehead. But years of live television reporting had taught him to immediately compensate for any on-camera surprises and to proceed as if they were the most natural thing in the world. Even if the surprise was unpleasant.
Like J. Jonah Jameson.
“If it isn’t my distinguished opponent, Mr. Jameson,” he said pleasantly. It’s an honor to have you sit in on . . .”
“You can can the phony Mr. Nice Guy routine, Forester,” Jameson said as he strode up to the microphones. “I’m here to talk issues.”
“So am I!”
The voice thundered from the rear of the ballroom, causing every head to turn as one, searching for the speaker. And what they saw made them all gape in shock.
For, streaking down the aisle toward the dais was the familiar dark blue-and-red-clad figure of Spider-Man!
And, before anyone could make a move to intercept him, Spider-Man was clambering onto the dais, his gloved hands outstretched to grab a startled Ian Forester by the lapels of his jacket.
“I’m only going to warn you this one time, Forester,” the masked man hissed menacingly. “I don’t like you trying to pin that sporting goods store holdup last week on me, and I especially don’t like your running for mayor of my town!” He tossed the startled man aside. “Get out of the race, Forester, or next time you’ll get hurt bad . . . terminally bad!”
“Curse you, Spider-Man!” Jameson yelled as he rushed toward the masked man’s side. “What’re you trying to do to me!?”
With scarcely a glance at the Bugle’s publisher, Spider-Man shoved Jameson aside and leaped down from the podium. He ran for the exit through the throng of reporters, all of whom were either too startled or frightened of the Web-slinger to do anything but snap photographs and roll their mini-cams to record the attack.
But nobody was more startled or concerned than the Daily Bugle’s ace shutterbug, Peter Parker, who stared in shock through the viewfinder of his Nikon as the Wall-crawler raced past him.
Whew! Talk about your basic split personalities!
Seven
Even as the ersatz Spider-Man disappeared through the exit, the horrified throng of newspeople was surging forward onto the podium to help the dazed candidate, who lay in a crumpled pile on the floor.
All, that is, except Peter Parker.
He stood where he was for long, agonizing moments, reflexively taking pictures of the chaos before him, while allowing the crowd to push its way past him. Then, turning suddenly, he sprinted for the same exit the fake Spider-Man had taken.
Somebody’s obviously trying to set me up for some kind of trouble . . . and help like that I can live without!
Peter ran out into a deserted corridor. He looked around quickly, searching for his evil double.
Bingo!
To Peter’s right were a pair of double doors that led to a long service corridor running the length of the hotel. They were swinging slightly. Looks like someone took off in an awful hurry through there . . . maybe someone like a phony Spider-Man?
He pushed through the doors, coming face to face with a busboy carefully balancing a tray of clean glasses on his shoulder. Peter glanced down the corridor.
“Did you see anybody come through here just now?”
The busboy nodded.
“A guy in a red and blue costume?”
“A red and . . . blue costume?”
“Yeah, Spider . . . forget it! If he was here, you’d’ve noticed him. Believe me!”
Peter turned and raced back into the corridor outside the ballroom. That means my phony friend must’ve taken the scenic route through the lobby—scenic for the public, that is! He probably wants the whole world to know that Spidey’s been on the prowl doing a lot of nasties this morning.
Without pausing, he grabbed the knob of a utility closet door and ducked inside. Assuming I can still catch up with him, it wouldn’t look too good to have Peter Parker tackling a fake Spider-Man in the hotel lobby! He pulled off his shirt, revealing the spiderweb pattern of his costume underneath. In moments, his streetclothes webbed to his back in a makeshift knapsack, Spider-Man stepped out into the corridor.
What? No brass band?
Several yards down from the utility closet, the corridor branched off, leading past the newsstand and florist shop to the lobby. It was that route the Web-slinger took, running at full speed past hotel guests to the large, double glass doors that faced out onto Seventh Avenue.
A Texas oilman from Austin gaped in undisguised awe at the retreating figure. “Gawddarn!” he whooped happily to his wife. “New York’s mah kind o’ town, Mother! World Trade Center’s got itself two towers, an’ this here hotel’s got two Spider-Men!”
Which, I guess, is Tex’s way of telling me he went that-a-way!
Spider-Man leaped over a cart loaded down with luggage and pushed through the front doors without slowing.
A guy in a Spider-Man suit couldn’t have gotten far without being spotted by someone, even in New York! I mean, look how much attention I’m getting, and I’m the real thing!
But before Spidey could clear the front steps under the awning of the hotel, a blue and white police car, its siren blaring, screeched to a halt at the curb. Before the car came to a full stop, a cop was jumping from the opened door, his revolver in his hand, aimed straight at the Web-slinger’s heart.
“Hi, boys,” said Spider-Man. “Which one of you brought the ice cream?”
It was pitch-black.
Seven men, each with the over-developed physique of professional weight-lifters, cautiously entered the darkened warehouse in single file.
All were identically clad in black sweatpants and tanktops.
All were identically armed with long steel knives.
They glided silently across the cold concrete floor in their bare feet, knives clutched in the manner of professionals.
Shuk!
As one, they stopped dead in their tracks, their ears straining in the darkness for the source of that almost inaudible noise. There was nothing . . . Wait! A slight disturbance in the air, as if someone moved ever so stealthily through the darkness. The brown-haired man in the lead squinted as his searching eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. He never saw the massive sledgehammer fist that sent him flying into the black pit of unconsciousness.
But the others did, and, their prey now located, they swiftly encircled him, with their blades held at the ready. They moved on the balls of their feet, feinting with their knives held out before them, drawing closer to the figure at their center, ready to slice him to—
There was nobody there.
In surprise, the burly men scattered,
no longer bothering to mask their movements in silence. Their eyes had adjusted to the dimness now, and vague, dark shapes were discernible about them in the large room, shapes made deceptive in the inky blackness.
And then the lights went on.
They squeezed their eyes shut against the sudden-brilliant glare, but still they stood ready, their ears compensating for what they could not see. The real battle was about to begin.
“Gentlemen.”
The strongmen were scattered about the perimeter of the warehouse and they whirled quickly to face the center of the room and the massive mountain who stood there—the Kingpin.
The master criminal stood like a statue of flesh, a wry smile spread across his lips as he glanced at each man in turn. He wore a pair of sweatpants, his naked barrel of a torso gleaming in the light, his feet bare and his thick, powerful arms swinging loosely by his sides. He was unarmed. He moved like a ballet dancer on his toes, yet his seemingly fleshy body was solid, giving but a hint of the well-developed sinews beneath his pale skin.
He chuckled deep in his chest. “Too bad, gentlemen. Your clever move, alas, failed to catch me by surprise.”
Several of the burly men, smiles on their cruel lips, advanced on Kingpin with blades held high. Kingpin watched with apparent boredom as they formed a semicircle in front of him, the overhead lights glinting off the flashing knives.
Kingpin was almost a blur as he stepped forward and reached for the first man’s throat with his fleshy fists. He grabbed the man by neck and crotch, lifting him over his head like a child’s rag doll. The man’s knife dropped from limp fingers as the huge man heaved him at the onrushing musclemen. He plowed like so much dead weight into three of his companions, sending them sprawling.
“Awright, fat boy,” one of them growled. “You’ve had it now!”
“Have I?”
Kingpin leaped forward, pivoting on his left leg as he drove his right foot in a perfectly executed savate kick to the speaker’s chest. Before the man could topple to the ground, Kingpin’s right hand snaked out and gathered his T-shirt, yanking the thug upright.
Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 5
