Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign

by Paul Kupperberg

  “Quiet, Silvermane,” the fat man demanded. And, despite himself, Silvermane complied. “I did not ask you here to listen to you rant.”

  “Then why, amigo?” Emmanuel Cortez asked.

  The Kingpin leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands over his ample stomach. “You have, no doubt, heard of my run-in with Spider-Man yesterday, gentlemen.”

  There were nods around the table.

  “What I wish to discover is the reason for that attack.”

  Lawrence Hilderbrant’s face registered confusion. “How’re we supposed to know, Kingpin?”

  “Because the blasted Wall-crawler knew exactly where to find me. Because he attacked me, unprovoked, in public. Because he spoke as if he knew our plan.

  “Need I go on?”

  Carlo Tommasti narrowed his eyes at the Kingpin. “Are you saying one of us is in league with Spider-Man?”

  Kingpin fixed a beady-eyed glare on Silvermane, seated across the table from him. “Yes.”

  “You’re crazy, Kingpin.” Silvermane held the fat man’s stare, refusing to allow himself to be beaten down.

  “Perhaps. But I am not wrong about this. It is the only logical explanation for Spider-Man’s actions.”

  “Man, why would any of us want to screw up this deal? There’s a lot of bread to be made by ownin’ the mayor of this city.”

  “That is precisely what I wish to find out, Mr. Nassor, along with the identity and reasons behind the fake Spider-Man who has been harassing Ian Forester. Any ideas, Silvermane?”

  “Only that you’re trying to pin this on me, Kingpin,” the silver-haired crime boss said through clenched teeth.

  “Quite the contrary, my friend,” Kingpin assured the other man with a smile. “However, you do seem quick to take the offensive, don’t you?”

  Silvermane looked at the faces of the other six men seated around the long table. How many of them could he count on to back him? he wondered. But their impassive faces gave no clue to their loyalties.

  “You’re speculating, Kingpin.”

  “Am I?”

  “Dammit!” Silvermane pounded his fist on the table-top. “If you’re accusing me of something, Kingpin, you’d better just say it and quit beating around the bush.”

  The Kingpin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “It is no secret that you do not like me, Silvermane. We’ve spent far too many years fighting over territorial matters for there ever to be any love lost between the two of us. But that does not bother me.” He chuckled. “We are, after all, merely business partners, not lovers. What does bother me, however, is having a partner in a venture whom I cannot completely trust.”

  “Maybe you’d like it better if I wasn’t your partner, then.”

  New York’s most powerful criminal chief shook his head. “I prefer to have you where I can keep an eye on you, Silvermane.”

  Mr. Soo, head of the Chinatown crime organization, spoke up for the first time. “You have neglected to give us a motive for Silvermane’s alleged treachery, Kingpin.”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Soo? He thinks I want to get rid of him so I can take over his operations in the city.”

  Kingpin inclined his head in Silvermane’s direction. “As you say, Silvermane.”

  The huge man rose from the leather chair at the head of the table. “That is all, gentlemen. I merely wished to point out the difficulties we have been encountering in this endeavor and mention the fact that I am fully aware of the situation.

  “Thank you.”

  The seven crime bosses filed out of the conference room, each deep in his own thoughts. Every man at that meeting knew that, very soon, they would be called upon to make a choice between the two top criminal organizations’ masters. Not one of them knew for certain how he would vote.

  Kingpin remained behind, locking himself in the conference room and settling down with a snifter of brandy to thoughts of his future plans.

  No, that was not quite right. Rather, the master criminal’s thoughts were centered on one man, perhaps the only man among all the organized family bosses who even came close to rivaling Kingpin in criminal genius.

  Silvermane.

  He was not small-time, not like the others: Nassor, Tommasti, Soo, even Hilderbrant, the playboy-crook. Each had carved his individual little kingdom out of the highly profitable New York territories, and each was content with what little he had. But not Silvermane; he was greedy and, worse, smart—smart enough to know the Kingpin had to be gotten rid of before he could lay claim to the whole damned city, and probably half the suburbs, as well.

  All Kingpin country.

  No longer was Silvermane merely a potential threat to the Kingpin and the future of the operation. He had demonstrated his willingness to destroy all of the Kingpin’s carefully wrought plans by interfering with the Ian Forester campaign. No doubt he somehow led Spider-Man to the restaurant to plague him, as well. He was an accident waiting to happen. The big man was convinced of that now. He had seen Silvermane’s hatred for him overshadow his desire to be at least part-owner of the biggest city in the nation.

  The Kingpin sighed. He had hoped he would not have to deviate from his set plans so early in the campaign, but circumstances undeniably warranted it, whether the crime boss wished it or not. If Silvermane was allowed to continue, any hope of getting Forester elected as their puppet-mayor would vanish. The Kingpin could not allow that, not with so much of his life dependent on the outcome. Yes, Silvermane would have to be removed from the picture far sooner than Kingpin had originally anticipated.

  And the Kingpin knew of only one method for disposing of troublesome people.

  Silvermane did not know it yet, but he was a dead man.

  A sparkling, silver 1936 Rolls-Royce White Phantom glided smoothly onto the Long Island Expressway, its chauffeur maneuvering expertly through the relatively light afternoon traffic. The other cars gave this mint-condition classic automobile ample room, most drivers preferring to stay back aways and just admire the lustrous beauty of its sleek chassis. It gleamed like real silver.

  In point of fact, it was genuine silver, for its owner would settle for no less. Silvermane was eccentric that way.

  The crime boss sat nestled in the plush, silvery cushions of the back seat, lost in deep contemplation. It was obvious the Kingpin knew. Maybe not the hows or the whats, but certainly the whys! Of course, Silvermane had expected Kingpin would catch on eventually. After all, they both knew none of the others would have the nerve to make such attempts on the Kingpin’s throne.

  Silvermane would have to move very carefully from now on. A single slip-up, and he would be lost instead of the Kingpin. But there would be no slip-ups. Everything was perfect.

  And before it was over, the Kingpin would be no more.

  Fifteen

  Ian Forester wearily said good night to the uniformed police officer outside the door to his Central Park West apartment. Since the second attack the day before, his personal force of bodyguards had almost doubled in strength. He had refused, on orders from the Kingpin, to cease, or at least limit, his numerous public appearances, but the police feared to let him go to the corner newsstand without a phalanx of guards. In fact, they much preferred to send an officer out for the paper.

  But even had the Kingpin not instructed him to go on as he had been doing, Ian Forester would still have been out campaigning just as vigorously. He didn’t particularly care to be mayor, but with the life of his darling Amy at stake, he would fight like a madman for the job!

  His wife Rochelle came from upstairs at the sound of the door closing. Forester thought she looked very pretty, almost girlish, dressed in blue jeans and a faded workshirt. And, for a few seconds at least, he forgot his worries and fears and kissed the woman who had been his wife for almost thirty years.

  “How’d it go today, honey?” Her eyes were outlined in red, a result, Forester knew, coming back to reality with a jolt, of many sleepless nights and crying.

  “Fine
,” he breathed. “At least nobody took a swing at me, if that’s what you mean.” He forced a smile. “Don’t let anybody fool you, kid. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. I think I’ve talked with more reporters in the last week and a half than I have in over thirty years’ worth of broadcasters’ conventions. Some of them reporter fellers can get pretty hostile, too.”

  “They’re just jealous.”

  Forester pulled away from his wife’s embrace, laughing bitterly. “Of what, Rochelle?”

  “Oh.” Rochelle Forester turned her back to Forester, her hand flying to her mouth. “I-I almost forgot for a second, Ian,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “I thought we . . . we were still a normal family. I forgot all about Amy’s . . .” Her voice cracked and the tears flowed down her cheeks.

  Forester gathered her tenderly in his arms. “Lord, Shelly, honey! I’m sorry, love. It’s just that . . . that everything’s going so fast and I’m working so hard,” he said quickly, soothingly. “Sometimes it just seems so hopeless. I’m so powerless in this situation that I just . . .”

  “Don’t say that, Ian,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I could be strong if you weren’t.”

  They held each other for long minutes, each gathering strength from the presence of the other.

  “Are the kids home?” he asked at length.

  She shook her head, composing herself. “Liza’s staying at a friend’s and Johnny’s at the library, studying. Both of them wanted to get away from the reporters for a while.”

  “Can’t say I blame them. I wish I had a library to hide in.”

  Rochelle walked over to the bar, which had been replaced, courtesy of the Kingpin, the day after his demonstration, and began fixing her husband a drink. “Ian?”

  “Liza asked me about Amy this morning,” she said, not looking up from her work. “She wondered why we haven’t gotten a postcard or something from her in so long. She was writing pretty regularly before she . . . before.”

  Forester ran a hand through his hair. “That girl’s too smart for her own good.”

  “She’s a woman, Ian, a college graduate. She’s worried about her kid sister. And that’s not an answer, either.”

  “I don’t know, honey!” He sighed, feeling a lot older than he should. “We both agreed not to tell the kids what’s going on. After it’s all over, fine, but not now, for crying out loud! Isn’t it enough with the two of us worrying ourselves sick? Do the kids have to worry, as well?”

  “Amy’s their sister, Ian.”

  “And you’re their mother, Rochelle. Maybe there’s nothing you can do for Amy right now, but you can make it easy on Liza and John.”

  It was a familiar argument by now, and Rochelle Forester did not feel like going through it again. “Yes,” she agreed. “You’re right, Ian.”

  “Of course I am, honey. You’ll see, in a while, this will all be over and Amy will be back with us.”

  “But it won’t be over, Ian, even when they let us have Amy back. You’ll still be forced to work for that monster, Kingpin. I-I feel like he’ll be in our lives forever.”

  Forester set his jaw, his steel-gray eyes glinting with sudden, renewed vigor. “No, he won’t,” he announced in a firm voice.

  “What do you mean, Ian?”

  “Just what I say, Rochelle.”

  “But how do you . . . ?”

  “Look, honey,” he said, touching her arm, “don’t ask me any questions, please!”

  Rochelle looked worriedly at her husband.

  “Please, honey, promise me you’ll trust me in this.”

  “All right,” she agreed at last, reluctantly. Now, she had the life of her husband to worry about, as well as that of her daughter.

  It was just as well she did not know his plans included double-crossing the man who controlled the fate of their youngest daughter.

  Sixteen

  J. Jonah Jameson sat behind his desk at the Jameson-for-Mayor headquarters in the Daily Bugle Building, staring in disgust at the sheet of paper in his hand, the results of the latest poll. Three lines were drawn on a graph, showing the up-to-the-minute status of each of the three primary hopefuls in the upcoming election: Ian Forester was in the lead with a healthy forty-eight percent of the people polled, followed by the incumbent with thirty percent and Jameson with barely nine percent.

  “Robertson!” The Bugle publisher bellowed across the large floor to his city editor, who was currently checking over campaign posters in his capacity as assistant campaign manager.

  Joe Robertson walked across the desk-lined room, two posters under his arms. “Yes, Jonah?”

  Jameson flipped the single sheet of paper across his desk to Robbie. “Do you call this thing a poll, Robertson?” he demanded.

  Robbie had seen the figures earlier in the day and knew his boss would react just as he was now. “The numbers don’t lie, Jonah.”

  “No, but maybe that blasted pollster we hired does!”

  “P.E. Levitz and Associates is the best there is, Jonah. They’ve predicted nine out of the last ten elections in New York to within one percent of the actual vote.”

  Jameson clamped his teeth around a cigar, scowling. “Hmmm. What’ve you got there?”

  “The art department just sent these up,” he said as he propped up both posters before Jameson’s desk for the candidate’s consideration. Both bore the slogan, “It Shouldn’t Cost an Arm and a Leg to live in the City That Heads the Nation. Vote Jameson for Mayor.” One showed a close-up shot of Jameson, smiling his toothy, shark-faced smile into the camera. The other, a more realistic view of the man, bore a photograph of him staring out of the poster with his usual sour-faced scowl. “I think we’d better get these out on the streets as soon as possible. Which one do you like, Jonah?”

  Jameson pushed the cigar around his mouth for several seconds as he stared at the posters. Finally, he pointed to the one bearing his smiling face. “That’s the one, Robbie,” he declared. “I think it shows a man concerned with the business of running a city, but not so much that he ignores the voters. The suckers will eat it up!”

  “You’re the boss, Jonah.” Robbie knew Jameson’s chances of winning were nonexistent, especially against a man of Ian Forester’s caliber. All the Bugle’s city editor could do was make sure his boss did not suffer too greatly in defeat. After all, win or lose, they still had a newspaper to put out.

  Peter Parker, looking refreshed after a solid night’s sleep, stepped off the elevator arm in arm with Cindy Sayers. Despite some stiffness and a dull throbbing, his shoulder felt better than it had yesterday. He wore no sling, preferring to take his chances with his arm rather than risk anybody questioning him about the similarity between his injury and that of Spider-Man.

  “Forty-third floor,” he announced. “Women’s lingerie, pots and pans, and politicians.”

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Peter,” she said, “do you intend to vote for Uncle Jonah?”

  “Are you kidding, lady? I’ve got to live in this city! How about you?”

  She made a face. “We were never a very close family.”

  They maneuvered through the busy campaign workers scurrying about the floor and made their way to Jameson’s desk. He sat studying his posters through a thick cloud of pungent, blue smoke, as Robbie ordered the one chosen by him from the printers over the phone.

  “Greetings, gents,” Peter called.

  “What’re you so happy about, Parker?” the Bugle’s publisher asked without taking his eyes off his own face. “Somebody finally tell you you’re supposed to take the lens cap off before you take a picture?”

  “It’s just a wonderful day to be alive, Mr. Jameson.” He smiled. After yesterday, any day’s a wonderful day to be alive!

  “Prove it, kid.”

  “Is that any way to win my vote?”

  “I’d rather lose then be beholden to a constituency made up of the likes of you, Parker,” the older man growled.

  Cindy waggled h
er fingers in Jameson’s direction. “Hi-ya, Unk.”

  Jameson looked up from his posters, a look of anger on his face. “Who the hell are . . . ? Oh.” He stood quickly, pointing over his shoulder at an empty office across the room. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Over here,” he ordered, then started across the room without bothering to see if she followed.

  Peter gave her a quizzical look. Cindy shrugged and hurried after Jameson, who waited impatiently, puffing smoke, by the office door. The door closed firmly behind them.

  Peter perched at the edge of a desk and waited for Robbie to finish on the phone. Strange. Those two are less like uncle and niece than any uncles and nieces I’ve ever seen. Still, considering Jameson’s part of the relationship, I guess it’s not so strange, at that.

  Robbie hung up the phone and smiled at the young photographer. “Hello, Peter.”

  “How’s the political biz going, Robbie?”

  “Awful!” He handed the results of the latest poll to Peter.

  Peter whistled under his breath. “Jeez. ‘Undecided,’ whoever he is, has a better chance of winning than Jameson.”

  “It’s not funny, son. Jonah’s going to take an awful beating come election day. Forester’s bound to pick up most of the undecideds, along with a goodly hunk of the mayor’s supporters, by then.”

  “It’s a good thing Jonah’s got the paper to fall back on.”

  Robbie nodded. “True, but he’s going to take this pretty hard, nonetheless.”

  “Maybe having his loving family around will help soften the blow some. His niece, Cindy, has a knack for that kind of thing.”

  “Niece?” Joe Robertson looked at Peter, confused.

  Peter laughed. “Uh-huh, niece. It’s not a foreign word, Robbie. It means . . .”

  “I know what it means, Peter. I just never knew Jonah had one. In fact, I would’ve thought it was impossible.”

  “Don’t be so hard on the man. I know he doesn’t exactly look or act like a person, but even I assumed he had a family somewhere.” He shook his head. “Though darned if I ever thought I could like anyone with a Jameson family background.”