“What would Uncle Jonah want with pictures of the seat of his pants?”
“Hey, kid! You’ve got definite possibilities. I’ll explain in the darkroom.”
“Turn on the lights, Cindy.”
Peter moved the exposed photos around in the tray of fixer solution in the Bugle’s darkroom. Slowly, gray patches formed on the exposed paper, darkening with each moment until the black-and-white images were clear. Peter picked the wet print out of the soup with a pair of tongs and spread it to dry on a paper towel alongside the others.
“Voilà!”
He arranged the pictures in sequence on the workbench, with Cindy leaning over his shoulder, watching. “It’s a good thing I . . .” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Enter!”
It was Robbie. “You about ready, Peter? I’ve got exactly ten minutes to put this edition to bed.”
“Just finished,” he said, pointing to the pictures. “Like I was saying, it’s a good thing I had an automatic winder on the camera, so I got about two shots a second of the attack.” He pointed to the first picture. “See? This guy came running into the ballroom . . .”—Peter’s finger followed the sequence of events—“. . . and then, instead of just leaping up onto the dais like the real Spider-Man would’ve, he has to schlep himself up. Clue number one.” His finger moved along to a close-up of the fake Spider-Man holding Forester by the lapels. “Clue number two, here! Look real closely at this Spider-Man’s costume, Robbie. Notice anything?”
Robbie leaned forward and scrutinized the still-wet photograph. He followed Peter’s finger, squinting at the costumed figure. The boy was right! There was something amiss with the familiar costume and mask. It seemed rather loose on the figure, and the white eyes on the mask were definitely the wrong shape.
“Yes,” the city editor agreed. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
Nodding, Peter pulled an old photo from a shelf and handed it to Robbie. It was a shot of Spider-Man facing the camera in a dark, littered alley. “I took this picture of Spidey a couple of months ago. This is the real one. Compare the two and tell me if you don’t see the difference.”
Silently, the editor compared, squinting first at one picture and then the other. He nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Peter. After all, you are the Bugle’s resident Spider-Man expert.”
“Well, I have been known to get shots of him in action from time to time. But it’s been often enough that I think I can tell the man’s moves well enough to know him when I see him. And that,” he said, stabbing a finger at the fake Spider-Man, “ain’t the genuine article.”
Robbie selected half a dozen of the best photographs and headed for the door. “Okay, Peter. It’ll take some fancy talking, but I think I can persuade Jonah to go with this.”
Cindy was smiling, silently applauding, when Peter turned to her. “Quite a performance!” she said. “Not only is he cute, but the whiz-kid takes a mean photograph and can play Ellery Queen, as well.”
“ ’Twas nothing, ma’am,” he said, bowing from the waist.
“How do you do it, anyway? I mean, get all those photos of Spider-Man?”
“Did Houdini tell his secrets?”
“I thought you were going to teach me everything you knew about news photography. I never realized you planned to keep things from me.”
“Only this, m’lady.” He picked up his camera and said, “Now, if you’ll just fetch your Brownie camera, I think it’s time we got started teaching you some of the finer points of taking pictures.”
“That’s what I’m here for. What’s first?”
“Always make sure there’s film in the camera before trying to take pictures.”
“Makes sense. What else?”
“Don’t forget to take off the lens cap.”
“You’re just a fount of information, aren’t you?”
“Are you kidding? Ansel Adams never made a move without giving me a call first!”
“But, seriously, folks . . . !”
“Okay. We hit the streets and keep our eyes open for something to take pictures of.”
“Sounds tremendously exciting.” She yawned.
“You’d be amazed at what you can run into on the sidewalks of New York, cutie.” . . . like maybe a fake Spider-Man! I’d sure love to get my gloves on him before he does any permanent damage to my otherwise sparkling reputation. ’Course, if and when I do catch up with him, I’m going to make sure my fists are inside my gloves!
And you can take that to the bank, Red Ryder!
Nine
The Kingpin was tired.
For long minutes after the seven crime bosses had departed, he sat in the soft, comfortable darkness of his study. He reclined in a large easy chair, trying to shut off his thoughts. But it was hard. There was so much riding on this . . . so much more than the other participants in the operation could possibly conceive.
Except, perhaps, Silvermane.
He could be a problem. No, he was a problem. Silvermane had a suspicious mind and he was a brilliant criminal. If there was any one cog that could bring the vast machinery Kingpin had set into motion to a grinding halt, it was Silvermane.
And the Kingpin did not like to take chances.
Indeed, he could not afford to. Not this time.
Perhaps . . . ?
“Are you awake, my dear?”
Kingpin’s eyes snapped open as he sat up. “No, Vanessa. I was merely resting my eyes a moment. I did not know you were here.”
“Yes.”
She was a tall woman. When she was younger there was no doubt she was a beautiful girl, and the years had been more than kind to her, for she had matured into a striking woman, almost regal in carriage and bearing. There was just the slightest hint of an Asiatic cast to her eyes, which were framed by high, delicate cheekbones. Her hair was long and jet-black, save for the streak of white that started at her forehead.
She was the Kingpin’s wife.
She walked across the room and switched on the desk lamp. When she turned to her husband, her delicate forehead was furrowed in thought.
“Is something troubling you, my love?”
“There is, husband.” She nodded.
Kingpin stood and went over to his wife. He smiled affectionately and cupped her face in his monstrous hand. “Then tell me, my love,” he said softly. “There can be no secrets between us, hmmm? There never have been.”
“That is what I had thought. Perhaps . . . perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps we both were.”
Frowning, he drew back. “Talk sense, Vanessa.”
She looked at him, her eyes hard and blazing with cold blue fire. “I have been here for the past hour, husband. I was here while you were conferring with your . . . partners.”
“Merely business, my dear.” He shrugged. But his heart felt suddenly cold in his chest.
“Business,” she repeated. “I-I overheard your business.”
“Did you?” His voice was calm as he pursed his lips in thought and sat himself on the edge of his desk. He folded his arms across his barrel chest. He wished this was not happening.
“Then I shall not lie to you, Vanessa.”
“Th-then, it is true? You have gone back to that . . . that cesspool?”
He nodded slowly, holding her steely gaze.
“But why? Have you not had enough of that existence? Or have you forgotten what it is like? The running, the uncertainty, the fear that any face in the crowd could be the one that holds the weapon that will end your life! My God!”
“This time it shan’t be like that.”
“It is always like that!” she shouted. “Don’t you think those men in there would like nothing better than to see you dead? They are vultures, all alike. They do not want to play second fiddle to any man. They are dangerous men with big egos. You scare them and that makes them your enemies!”
The Kingpin said nothing.
Vanessa laughed bitterly and shook her head. “No,” she said. “You, too, are a danger
ous man, husband, and you, too, have an ego. I cannot scare you into backing away from this.”
“No.”
“But I can call on your honor.”
He smiled. He dearly loved this woman, who knew him so well. Why must he make her life so painful?
“You swore it would end,” she said. “And I swore that if it did not, our marriage would end, instead.”
“I remember.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
Kingpin wrapped his thick arms around her and drew the woman to him, holding her tenderly. “It is not that simple,” he replied softly and kissed her fragrant hair. “My withdrawal must be gradual, love. And it must be total and clean. I cannot risk our lives by leaving loose ends hanging about that may one day return to entangle us. Do you understand?”
“But . . .”
He held her tighter against his chest. “Please,” he breathed, “you must allow me my time, my love. I . . .” He stopped.
Vanessa turned her eyes to him.
“I . . . I could not live without you,” he whispered. “I would not want to.”
“Then you may have your time, husband. But, please, do it!”
They stood in each other’s arms for a long time. Yes, he would end it, he thought. He would complete this operation, and when it was done, he would be free to leave this life behind.
But before that happened, Silvermane had to die!
Ten
“That’s the ticket, kiddo. Just hold it like that and shoot.”
She shook her head, doing as he instructed. “This is really dumb,” she said. “How am I going to get anything this way?”
“Trust me! It’s the way all the big pros do it.”
“But . . .”
“Just do it! Results are guaranteed or your money back.”
Cindy Sayers held her Nikon camera over the heads of the taller photographers and newsmen standing before her and snapped the shutter in the general direction if Ian Forester. The candidate, flanked by a trio of attentive plainclothes policemen, smiled broadly and waved to the throng of supporters who had come to see and hear him speak at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. Hundreds of midtown workers who had decided to skip lunch that day for an opportunity to catch a glimpse of America’s premier broadcaster stood three deep at the railing overlooking the sunken rink, their cheers and applause for the man below filling the afternoon air. Scores more jammed the sunken rink itself, now empty of ice in the late spring. And, scattered throughout the crowds, attempting to appear inconspicuous, were alert security men from both city and private agencies, scanning the area for the slightest hint of danger.
Peter Parker eyed the crowd. “Will you just look around you? Forester’s got more cops than supporters here. Half the crowd must be security men!”
“They took Spider-Man’s threat seriously, I guess.”
Peter wagged a finger at Cindy. “Ah-ah!”
“They took the fake Spider-Man’s threat seriously, then,” she said. “What are you, anyway, Peter? Spider-Man’s press agent?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I think they’re overdoing it a bit.”
Peter glanced around him, searching through the sea of faces gathered in the rink. “As well they might, m’dear. Still, nobody’s seen neither hide nor webbing of him since the attack last week. Could’ve been a one-shot deal,” he said thoughtfully.
Cindy gestured at the line of uniformed police flanking the makeshift grandstand in the center of the rink. “They don’t think so.”
“Heck, they get paid to be paranoid, Cindy.”
“And I do it for free!” she said. “Look, Peter, I’ve just got bad vibes about this whole setup.”
So do I, truth to tell! Somebody’s out to force Forester out of the race and discredit Spidey in the process. Whoever was under that mask went through too much hassle and risk for a hoax, and I’m betting my bottom cartridge of web-fluid that he’ll be back.
Only this time, I’ll be waiting for him!
The candidate mounted the steps to the speaker’s platform, his clenched fist thrust high over his head in a sign of victory to the people. He strode confidently across the platform, pausing only momentarily to shake hands with the local city politicians seated there before stepping up to the microphone.
The crowd continued its roar of approval for several minutes more before it was quiet enough for Forester to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen of New York,” Ian Forester began, his amplified voice booming across the skating rink, “in just a few short weeks, you will be going to the polls to vote in this year’s mayoral primary for the candidate of your choice. Now, I could make you a lot of promises here today”—he smiled warmly into the television cameras—“but I won’t. I think you all know me and I think you all know that in my over twenty years as a broadcaster in this great city, its problems and the problems of its people have been of the utmost concern to me. As your mayor, I can finally be in a position where I won’t just tell you the news, but help to make it, instead!”
Forester paused as the crowd voiced its approval.
“He’s really got the common folk in the palm of his hand,” Peter shouted, trying to make himself heard over the applause and cheers.
Cindy nodded as she focused her camera, snapping several shots of a confident Ian Forester on the speaker’s platform. “It’s your basic charisma,” she shouted back.
Peter began to answer, but before he could speak, his head was split with the dull, throbbing pain of his spider-sense blaring its warning of impending danger. Peter started, his hand going to his forehead to massage his throbbing temples. Uh-oh! It’s a sure thing my spider-sense isn’t trying to tell me the Good Humor man just shortchanged a customer over a popsicle . . .
Cindy Sayers glanced over at Peter. “Hey! What’s the matter, kimo sabe?” she asked worriedly. “All of a sudden, you look like yesterday’s oatmeal! You feeling all right?”
“Just . . . a headache,” he replied, starting to move away from her through the thick crowd around them. “All this noise, y’know. Listen, cutie, you keep on taking pictures and I’ll go look for an aspirin, okay?”
“Sure.” Cindy’s forehead was creased in thought as she watched Peter disappear, swallowed into the masses. Now, what, she thought, was all that about?
Were she to only follow the young photographer as he pushed his way into the concourse underneath Rockefeller Center, the answer would have been all too clear. For Peter made a bee-line for a deserted corridor around the corner from the entrance to the skating rink, pulling at the buttons of his shirt as he ran.
“YOU WERE WARNED, FORESTER!”
Ian Forester whirled suddenly on the platform, his smile changing quickly to an open-mouthed expression of horror as he faced the speaker of those words. The costumed figure was running toward the rear of the platform, the blank orbs of his eyes flashing in the noon sun as they fixed on the candidate.
“SPIDER-MAN!?”
The blue-and-red-clad figure clubbed a surprised police officer out of his path, tossing the limp, unconscious man at a group of onrushing security men. They caught the thrown body, the impact sending several thudding against the ground as they tried to support the man’s dead weight. Then, without breaking stride, the phony Spider-Man leaped onto the speaker’s platform before Forester, clutching at red, white, and blue bunting for support.
“That’s right, old man!” the masked figure growled. “I told you I’d be back if you didn’t drop out of this race!”
Forester took a step back, but the phony Spider-Man’s gloved hand streaked out, grasping the candidate by his tie and yanking the frightened man sharply toward him, nearly choking him in the process. “And this time, Forester,” he hissed, “you’re going to die!”
Several hundred feet beyond and above the now chaotic rink, the real Spider-Man watched the scene from his perch on the face of the Associated Press Building. Give the
little spider-sense a big cee-gar! He pulled his hand away from the building’s façade and aimed his web-shooter at the building behind Forester and his own evil doppelganger.
Twip!
In seconds, the Web-slinger was arcing through the air, high over the heads of the stunned, silent crowd. Nobody took any notice of him, though. They all thought Spider-Man was already there!
Plainclothesman Bill Martin, his revolver in his hand, edged his way cautiously around the platform, moving ever so slowly to the masked intruder’s blind side. Then he raised his gun, sighting in on the silhouette of a spider on the costumed man’s back. If only he could get off one shot . . .
The gun flew out of his hand even as his finger tightened on the trigger, traveling straight up into the air rather than falling to the ground. Martin looked up, but all he saw was a dark blue and red streak flying through the air above his head, toward the speaker’s platform.
“What the . . . ?”
Spider-Man eyed the revolver trailing behind him on a thin strand of webbing with disgust. Damned fool could’ve killed Forester a lot faster with that thing than my fake friend could with his hands! How come the cops in this town all think with their guns?
With a muffled thud, the Web-slinger landed behind his double, who still clutched the struggling Forester in his hands, slowly twisting the very life from his throat.
“ ’Scuse me, handsome,” Spidey said. “I hate to cut in on your dance like this, but I just had to find out who makes those smashing threads for you.”
The other man turned, dropping Forester. “Who . . . ?”
“ME!”
Spider-Man lunged forward, grasping a handful of spider-web-patterned costume in his fist as he swung his double around, lifting the man off the floor. The crowd gasped and flashbulbs began bursting all around them, but Spider-Man’s attention was on the squirming man he held suspended in the air.
“Truth to tell, partner,” Spidey said through clenched teeth, “you’re not much of a Spider-Man. But—and I can’t emphasize this too strongly—if you don’t say the right things to me when I start asking questions, you’re going to be even less of one! Dig?”
Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 7
