“You see, my friend, your first mistake was thinking I was merely another fat man.” Kingpin’s left hand was a blur as it slapped back and forth across the man’s face a dozen times. The muscle-bound man was unconscious long before Kingpin let him drop to the floor.
“Your second mistake was verbalizing that thought.”
Kingpin did not wait for another attack. Rather, he took the initiative and sprang into the center of the cluster of strongmen. Without any apparent attempt at aiming his blows, the crime king flailed his mighty fists about, striking at random.
“It was people like you who ridiculed me when I was a boy!” A muscleman went sailing limply through the air. “I was nothing more than a fat boy then, a disgusting, obese specimen of America’s youth.” Kingpin’s fist ended another thug’s participation in the fight. “ ‘Fatso,’ they called me. ‘Look at Fatso waddle!’ Oh, I suffered those taunts, for there was nothing I could do against my bigger, stronger tormentors.” An explosion of air from startled lungs announced the finish of a third man.
“But that was then! As I grew, I began to realize my true potential, and I trained both mind and body to strike back against cruel society. For long hours each day, I drove my body to the limits of endurance, watching as, slowly but surely, that endurance increased!” A casual backhanded sweep of his hamhock fist drove two men back, “And I endured! But still I was looked upon as a freak, a man out of place in normal society. So, I decided that if I was not wanted by them, I would join the company of other outcasts, the criminal element so prevalent in any big city.” Another man cried out as Kingpin’s elbow crushed his nose. “But I was stronger, smarter than any of them, and soon I rose to the top of the criminal syndicate, never fearing to use either brain or brawn against any who stood in my way!”
But there was none left to hear those final words, for all were lying unconscious or too engrossed in their own pains to pay heed. The Kingpin of crime stood among his victims, his tiny eyes gleaming with pleasure.
“Excellent, my friends!” he roared, clasping his hands together. “That was a most invigorating workout. You may pick up your payment from my man Monroe on your way out.”
He turned, starting to leave the carnage he had wrought. Chuckling to himself, he glanced over his shoulder. “That is, when you have all regained consciousness.”
Without warning, a sudden weight landed squarely on the fat man’s broad back. It upset his balance, and even as he righted himself, his hand reached back, groping. Thick, powerful fingers struggled to find a hold under Kingpin’s fleshy chin. The crime lord grunted and stepped back abruptly, shifting his great weight to his other leg and flipping the weight on his back over his shoulder. The master criminal’s attacker was a Japanese sumo wrestler, a yellow giant almost rivaling the Kingpin in size and strength. He thudded to the floor, a pained grunt the only sound he made.
Kingpin’s face brightened at the sight of this new challenger. The sumo scrambled to his feet and crouched low in the traditional style of his ancient craft, stalking his victim in short, sliding steps. Kingpin feinted right, faking out his opponent and charging in under the Japanese’s outstretched arms. His balled fists slammed hard into the other’s muscular stomach just before he brought his elbow down on the Oriental’s exposed neck.
This time, however, he did not allow the sumo to recover as he moved in immediately for the kill. He grasped the Oriental’s arm just above the elbow and yanked it sharply toward him as he brought his foot down on the back of the fallen’s neck. A sharp, brittle crack accompanied the breaking of the sumo’s right arm. The Japanese was mercifully unconscious.
Smiling smugly, Kingpin straightened. He sauntered through the tangle of bodies strewn about the cold floor and casually wiped the perspiration from his shining face as he left the room.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting, Kingpin!”
The speaker was a tall, slim man with a hawk-like face topped by a full head of wavy, silver hair. He sat facing the big man over steepled fingertips at the far end of a long conference table. Kingpin, fully dressed now, pulled out his own seat at the opposite end of the table in the oaken-paneled room and silently regarded the silver-haired man across from him, one of seven men seated around the table.
He was Silvermane, head of the second most powerful criminal organization in New York. For years, his gang had fought bitterly against that of the Kingpin for control of the city’s illegal activities, ranging from twenty-five-cent bets on the numbers to the multi-billion-dollar drug trade. Both organizations had established strong footholds in various areas and had only recently come to an uneasy peace.
To Silvermane’s left sat Carlo “The Tomato” Tommasti, chief of Brooklyn’s notorious murder-for-hire gang. He was a short, dapperly dressed man whose dull black eyes served to effectively mask the cold, calculating animal intelligence that had helped him climb to his current high rank in the city’s criminal elite.
Next to him, Milo Milkerstein from Queens sat brooding at the blank notepad on the table before him. Unlike the others who sat at the table, the eighty-seven-year-old Milkerstein was seated in a wheelchair. Since 1928, when he had inherited his territory from the then Godfather Vito Rossi, he had gained control of virtually all criminal activity in his home borough.
Beside the aged Milkerstein sat Alim Nassor, recent conqueror of the very valuable South Bronx drug trade. Nassor, formerly Alan Bettes, was a tall, bearded black man who favored the costume native to the Islamic country from which he had taken his name.
Across from Nassor sat the black man’s counterpart for the rest of the Bronx territory, Lawrence Hilderbrant III. To readers of newspaper gossip columns, the Hilderbrant name was instantly recognizable as that of the country’s richest, if most irresponsible, millionaire playboy. But to his fellow members of the underworld community, he was known as one of the most cunning businessmen and ruthless of human beings.
To Hilderbrant’s right sat the small, slim master of the Chinatown criminal district, Mr. Soo. Since the Fifties he had held the valuable lower Manhattan territory despite constant opposition from the area’s many youth gangs. A vast majority of the gambling dens and houses specializing in the more popular Oriental opiates made many millions of dollars a year for this comparatively small criminal empire.
And, finally, Emmanuel Cortez sat in the sixth seat along the table’s sides. Cortez was the newest member of this criminal combine, having only the month before assumed control of a large stretch of lucrative New York territory by assassinating the area’s former boss. The large Spanish man felt he deserved his spot on the board. He had personally killed the old boss on Park Avenue at the height of the noon lunch rush.
Silvermane straightened in his seat. “I said, Kingpin, I do not like to be kept waiting. This meeting was scheduled to begin half an hour ago!”
“I was detained.” The Kingpin explained to no man.
“We’re all busy men,” Silvermane said evenly. “We don’t have the time to waste sitting around waiting . . .”
“He is here, Silvermane,” Milo Milkerstein said. “And the purpose of this meeting isn’t to discuss our colleague’s punctuality.”
Alim Nassor nodded in agreement. “Yeah, man. If you don’t like it, buy the man a gold watch for his birthday. Otherwise, let’s get on with it.”
Silvermane sat back and glared across the long table at the Kingpin. His time would come.
Kingpin merely smiled thinly at Silvermane. “It has been exactly one week since Mr. Forester announced his intentions to seek his party’s nomination. From all reports I have received, everything is proceeding smoothly and as per plans.”
“What about Jameson?” Carlo Tommasti said.
Kingpin dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Granted, we had not expected J. Jonah Jameson’s entrance into the race, but I do not foresee this posing any difficulties. His organization is weak, at best, and the early polls show he is running behind both Forester and the incumbent.”
>
Lawrence Hilderbrant III shook his head. “I don’t know about that, Kingpin. As you know, I spend a good deal of time with most of the city’s more affluent residents, and, frankly, many of them are slowly becoming interested in Jameson’s tax-cut proposals.” The playboy criminal grinned. “Hell, if I didn’t stand to make so much loot off Forester winning, I’d almost be convinced myself. His ideas could save a lot of money for a lot of rich folks.”
“Yeah, but there’s a whole lot more poor than rich in this city, man,” Alim Nassor said. “I know. I been there.”
Hilderbrant nodded vigorously. “Sure. But they’ll . . .”
“Gentlemen, please,” Kingpin interrupted. “As I recall, when we first embarked upon this endeavor, we were unanimously agreed that Ian Forester was the perfect, unbeatable candidate. Merely because a man we could not have foreseen has entered the race does not change that, hmmm?”
Silvermane said, “You talk a lot about how you’ve planned this operation down to the smallest detail, how nothing can possibly go wrong.” The hawk-faced man did not bother to disguise his hatred for the Kingpin. “And we’ve accepted your word, Kingpin—on everything! We’ve put up three million dollars apiece to get in on this . . . and all on your word alone!
“Now, maybe this will work, Kingpin, and maybe we all stand to make a hell of a lot more than three million. But, dammit, man, when are you going to let the rest of us in on this brilliant scheme of yours? As equal partners, I think we deserve to be told everything!”
Kingpin leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the polished tabletop. “Silvermane,” he said, “you agreed long ago, with the rest of these gentlemen, that should we go forth with my plan, I was to be in control. Total control. And all I ask from you in return for being made a part of this is your money and cooperation. If you do not intend to give me both, I shall gladly return your stake money to you and you will be free to leave.” Kingpin spoke softly, but none of the men seated around the table missed the harsh, menacing tone in the fat man’s voice.
Silvermane stood and leaned his tightly clenched fists on the table. “Damn you, Kingpin!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re the only high-caliber criminal in the city? You forget, I, too, have had to fight Spider-Man to retain my territory!”
“And lost.”
Silvermane’s clenched fist rose and slammed onto the table. “What about you? I don’t recall ever hearing of a Kingpin victory in any of your many battles with the blasted Wall-crawler.”
The fat man started to rise to his feet, his eyes on Silvermane.
But before either man could say anything further, Mr. Soo spoke up. “Gentlemen,” he said.
The small Chinaman rose and looked quickly to either end of the table. “Gentlemen,” he repeated softly, “we accomplish nothing by bickering amongst ourselves. Please, take your seats and let us reason together like friends.” Mr. Soo remained standing until the two rival criminal bosses sat. Then, taking his own seat, he continued, turning first to Silvermane. “As Kingpin says, Silvermane, you agreed to his terms long ago, as have we all. The operation is already in progress, and matters proceed smoothly and according to plan.”
Turning to the other end of the table, Soo said, “And I am sure, my friend, that they shall continue to run as they have. I have great faith in your ability, Kingpin.”
Kingpin nodded his head in Soo’s direction, but his beady eyes remained fixed on the man seated across from him. “Thank you, Mr. Soo,” he said. “Now, if there is nothing else . . . ?”
Silvermane’s chair scraped noisily across the floor as he pushed it back and stood.
“Just this one thing, Kingpin—if this doesn’t work, you can be sure you’re finished in this city!” The tall man strode to the door, stopping as he reached for the knob. “Finished for good, Kingpin!”
He yanked open the door and disappeared down the hall.
Kingpin’s eyes narrowed at the retreating man’s back. “I shall not fail.”
Shall I?
Eight
“Stay just as you are, Spider-Man! Don’t move! Don’t even breathe hard!”
As he stared down into the barrel of Patrolman Nat Raucher’s revolver, the Web-slinger felt no compulsion to disobey that order. He stood stock-still under the Americana’s awning and slowly raised his hands above his head. “Okay, friend. Let’s not get carried away with that pop-gun, now.”
Raucher kept his aim steady as he slowly stepped toward Spider-Man. Behind him he could hear his partner radioing for assistance. That was fine with him. Purse-snatchers and flashers he could handle. He wasn’t so sure about super-powered criminals, nor was he particularly anxious to find out.
“Everything’ll be cool if you just keep your hands right where they are,” Raucher said, trying to keep his voice sounding official.
Spider-Man shrugged. “That’s where they belong,” he said, “right there at the ends of my arms.”
Well, so long, phony Spidey! But then, considering I’m standing here with a nervous cop pointing a gun in my direction, that’s probably the least of my worries!
“Hey,” Spider-Man asked him, “is this gonna take long? I’ve got an appointment at . . .”
Officer Raucher’s gun wavered slightly. Jeez, he thought, I wish the back-up unit would get here! Spider-Man’s large, staring eyes made the patrolman nervous. Those white orbs seemed to look right through him, reading his very thoughts. Nor did he like the Web-slinger’s light, snappy tone. Hell, the guy wasn’t bulletproof, was he? Why didn’t a loaded gun, in the hands of a trained professional, intimidate him?
That’s the ticket, Joe Bolton! Keep your eyes on my face! Spidey could hear the sounds of approaching police cars as he curled the middle fingers of both hands to surreptitiously touch the hidden buttons in his palms. The nervous cop did not hear the webbing shoot from Spidey’s wrists and adhere to the underside of the awning.
“Well, I hate to break this up, pal, but . . . !”
Raucher was confused. “Huh?”
Spider-Man was smiling under his mask as he leaped straight up to cling to the metal frame of the awning. He shot another strand of webbing at the policeman’s gun, enveloping both hand and pistol in an unbreakable cocoon. Before Raucher could call to his partner, the Web-slinger tore a hole through the canvas awning and pulled himself through the large rend in the fabric. Then, using the canvas as a trampoline, Spidey bounced once, twice, and leaped for the hotel’s façade.
Pii-ting!
A ricocheting bullet sprayed chips of concrete into the Wall-crawler’s face. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw Raucher’s partner standing in the middle of the gutter, realigning his gun for a second shot. I don’t remember signing on as a target for the N.Y.P.D.
Spider-Man stopped on a ledge and turned to fire twin streams of webbing at the second cop. Then, chuckling, the Web-slinger continued up the side of the wall, swiftly vanishing through an open window.
That cop’ll think twice before shooting at me again. Let’s see how he likes being webbed to the white line in the middle of Seventh Avenue!
Joe Robertson handed a sheaf of freshly edited copy to a passing copyboy, never bothering to look up from his desk in the Daily Bugle’s city room. The presses had been set to roll with the early edition of the Bugle half an hour earlier, but that was before an irate J. Jonah Jameson called his city editor with the story of Spider-Man’s attack at the Americana. A trio of rewrite men, looking forward to a leisurely lunch after a particularly heavy morning of work, were set before typewriters to churn out copy for the restructured front page, working from notes phoned in by Jameson.
“And if you see that blasted Parker . . .” the publisher growled when he talked to Robbie.
“Does he have photos?” Robbie said, working against a deadline that had already passed.
“How the blazes should I know? The little twerp just took off on me! When you see him, kill him for me.
I’ll owe you one.”
But Robbie had no time for homicide when a breathless Peter Parker rushed up to his desk, a roll of film clutched in his hand.
“Robbie,” the young photographer said, “have I got a sto—”
“Sorry, Peter, I can’t talk now. I’m in the middle of putting together the Spider-Man story.”
Peter smiled and dropped the roll of exposed 35mm film onto the city editor’s desk. “Then maybe I could interest you in some pix of the aforementioned phony felon?”
Robbie frowned at the film and then at Peter. “Phony?”
“You got it, friend. And the proof is in the pictures!”
Robbie touched the small metal canister and his frown deepened. “Jonah isn’t going to like this, son. If I’m going to run this, you’d better be able to back up what you’re claiming.”
“Believe me, that guy at the Americana was a phony.” Either that, or I’ve gone totally schizo!
Robbie leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful for several minutes as he chewed on a pencil eraser. “Okay,” he said at last. “Develop them and show me your proof, Peter. If it’s good, I’ll go with it.”
Peter snatched the film from the desk. “They’re as good as developed, oh, wise and wonderful city editor. I’ll be right back!”
As Peter hurried across the vast city room, he saw Cindy Sayers rushing toward him, several cameras slung over her shoulders and around her neck.
“Good Lord, Cindy! You look like a walking pawn shop!”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Yeah? Then maybe I’ve got your watch somewhere in this mess, Parker. You were supposed to meet me here an hour ago for my first lesson in the wonderful world of picture-taking.”
“Oh, boy!” Peter slapped his forehead. “I forgot,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Your uncle, Mr. Warmth, requested the pleasure of my company at a press conference. I’m the only photog in town who remembers to shoot his best side.”
Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 6
