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

by Paul Kupperberg

  Silvermane was once again seated in his sterling-silver chair, surrounded by what must have been millions of dollars’ worth of the metal. He pursed his lips, nodding slightly to himself in approval of the man’s style. Monroe could appreciate that in a man, especially a highly placed crime boss. Of course, the Kingpin had style, as well, but nowhere near as much as Silvermane, it seemed to Monroe as he looked about him.

  “So, you’re one of Kingpin’s men.”

  Monroe nodded. “Yessir,” he said. “At least I was, sir.” Respect cost Monroe nothing, but, he had discovered, potential employers loved to see it in a man.

  “Was? I was under the impression the Kingpin isn’t the type of man who allows his people to up and quit on him.”

  “He don’t know I’m not working for him no more, sir.”

  Silvermane raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve just decided it was time for a change of scenery? Not very reliable, wouldn’t you say so, Monroe?”

  “I’m looking out for myself, sir. Besides, Kingpin’s been treating me more like dirt than anything else lately. I decided I was better off coming to see you. Besides, Kingpin’s planning something with this Forester thing.” He leaned forward, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “I think he’s planning to screw all the rest of you guys . . . gentlemen . . . out of your shares.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And how does he plan on doing that?”

  Monroe shrugged. “Beats me, sir. Kingpin ain’t let me in on anything he’s done for a long time now. He just uses me to drive his car or to bodyguard his wife.”

  Silvermane chuckled as he shook his head in disbelief. “Really, Monroe! How stupid do you think I am, hmmm?”

  “I don’t know what . . .”

  “Come, now! You come waltzing in here with some story about what a poor, mistreated soul you are, how all you want is to join my organization for protection from the Kingpin, and you expect me to believe it?” He laughed. “Go back and tell your boss it doesn’t wash, Monroe. If he wants to get a man inside my gang, he’ll have to come up with a better way. Much better!”

  “Honest, Silvermane, sir,” Monroe assured him, “this ain’t part of Kingpin’s plans. Hell, if he even thought I was here, he’d kill me for sure. I’m telling you the truth, sir. It’s just that when Kingpin pulls his double-cross, I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it. I don’t know what Kingpin plans to do afterward, but I’m still going to be around this business.”

  Through cold, veiled eyes, Silvermane studied the hoodlum for several long moments. “How can I be sure you’re not lying to me?”

  Monroe smiled the smile of a man who knows he has the proverbial ace in the hole. “Because I can tell you where he’s got the Forester chick stashed . . . sir,” he added hurriedly.

  “She’s in the city.” Silvermane made this statement as a fact.

  Monroe was startled. “Uh . . . yeah . . . yessir.”

  “If I knew that, why do I need you?”

  This was turning out to be a lot harder than Monroe had expected. Still, the very fact that Silvermane was already aware of what was supposed to be a secret confirmed his view that he had made the right decision in coming to see the rival gang leader.

  “I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself, sir. I mean, I showed you I’m willing. Now you got to decide if I’m able.”

  “Does he still have the girl at his hideout?” Silvermane did not know for certain this was where Amy Forester was being held, but if he had kidnapped her for something as vital as this operation, he’d want to keep her nearby in case of sudden trouble. He figured the Kingpin would take similar precautions.

  “Yessir. He’s got her in a cell in the basement with round-the-clock security.”

  “Very well, Monroe.” Silvermane smiled warmly at the man. “Welcome to the organization.”

  At that moment, many miles to the south of Silvermane’s Westchester mansion, Spider-Man swung through the late afternoon sky over the city. He had been at it for hours now, swinging aimlessly about on his indestructible webbing in what was rapidly shaping up to be a waste of time. His intentions for these wanderings was to clear his thoughts and perhaps come up with answers to even a few of the many questions plaguing him.

  So far, he had succeeded in doing neither.

  The Web-slinger landed nimbly on the cornice of a building on Second Avenue, his deep sigh lost in the wind that blew past him. She loves me, she loves me not. She’s spying on me, she’s spying on me not. Lord, I wish I could make up my mind. But if she is in love with me like I think—’cause God knows this little Wall-crawler’s fallen for her like a ton of bricks—then why’d she lie about being Jameson’s niece?

  He leaped from the cornice, firing twin strands of webbing at a building up the street. Then, again, maybe jolly Jonah’s an old friend of her family’s and the “Uncle” bit’s just an honorary title of endearment. It’s possible. He shook his head.

  Then why am I so sure she’s been lying?

  Reaching the apex of his swing, Spider-Man let go of the webbing in his hand and aimed his falling body at a flagpole jutting from the tenth-floor window of a nearby building. He grabbed it, swinging himself around, and landing on the ledge just beneath it. He winced in pain at this maneuver, rubbing at his still-sore shoulder. And what about all those questions she’s been asking about yours truly? Are those the questions of an innocent girl, or does she know something about me she shouldn’t?

  Like my secret identity, maybe.

  Heck, I don’t know. Maybe after all these years, Jameson finally figured out that the only way to get all the pictures of Spidey I manage to bring in is for me to be Spider-Man. After all, the man’s not stupid, just obnoxious!

  Spider-Man squatted down on the narrow ledge and rested his masked chin in his hands. So what’re you going to do about it, smiley? I can’t risk asking her point-blank, not if she already suspects. That would be the old straw that crippled the camel!

  And as if that weren’t enough, there’s always the extra added attraction of ol’ skin and bones himself—the Kingpin—and his handy, dandy friendly neighborhood Spider-Man Instant Framer, sure to get them warrants for arrest issued fast, faster, fastest! For some reason, Tubs has taken a big disliking to Forester, and whatever fatso hates, fatso gets rid of! So why not incriminate me in the process? It doesn’t cost him any extra, and it’s a good bet I’d’ve been too busy dodging cops to chase after him if Robbie, God bless his blue pencil, hadn’t been able to talk “Uncle” J.J.J. into running the truth in the Bugle.

  A startled gasp from a nearby window interrupted Spider-Man’s reverie. He turned to see a small, nervous-looking certified-accountant-type staring in wonder, his hand frozen in midair in the middle of tossing bread crumbs to pigeons roosting on the ledge.

  “ ’Scuse me, fella,” Spidey said, rising. “I thought this was where you catch the M105 bus.” With that, he leaped out into the air, waving over his shoulder at the little man as, with his other hand, he shot a strand of webbing to the opposite side of the street. He twisted in mid-swing, smoothly turning the corner of Forty-first Street and heading west across town.

  In short order, he came to the corner of Forty-first Street and Lexington Avenue and stopped to catch his breath as he clung to the side of a building.

  His spider-sense didn’t give him a chance.

  Suddenly, his head exploded in a burst of throbbing pain, so intense for a short moment that he knew danger must be breathing down his neck. Or vice versa. Quickly, he scanned the streets below. Nada . . . wait! His eyes focused on the Lexington Avenue entrance to Grand Central Station and the figure clad in skintight, dark blue and red that stood poised before it. Oh thank you for the early Christmas present, Santa! The Web-slinger did not even have to wonder long at the fortuitous circumstances that had brought the phony Spider-Man here, for, from his perch high above the street, Spider-Man could see the entourage of Ian Forester making its way toward
the station. Forester, two deep in worried-looking bodyguards, was making slow progress up the block as he shook hands with each and every person who passed near enough to him.

  Take your time, Ian, old boy. I’ve got to sweep some of the garbage off the streets before you get here.

  Swiftly, Spider-Man shot a line of webbing to the roof of the building directly across from him on Lexington Avenue. He swung himself over to it and scampered across the rooftops toward Forty-third Street. Kingpin’s got Spidey Junior rigged up with too many fancy gadgets, especially that nerve-gas, which I ain’t too thrilled about getting hit with again, so I’d better not give him the chance to use it!

  He climbed down the façade of the building directly over the head of his unsuspecting double. It’s a good thing a spider-sense doesn’t come with the costume! He dropped the last dozen feet to the sidewalk behind the other’s back, his booted feet making no sound that could be heard over the noise of the heavy midtown traffic.

  Silently, Spider-Man raised his fist. Then, abruptly, he lowered it again. Aw, I just can’t bring myself to hit a guy when he’s not looking!

  “Don’t you think you’re a little too old and a lot too early in the year for trick-or-treating, handsome?”

  The fake Spider-Man whirled and the Wall-crawler was sure his mouth was hanging open under his mask. “Y-you!” he gasped.

  “Nope! Guess again!”

  Spidey lunged, immediately pinning his double’s arms to his sides with a bone-bending bear hug. The other struggled in Spider-Man’s steely grip, but the Web-slinger wasn’t weakened by nerve gas now, and the advantage was most certainly his.

  “Okay, friend, we’re going to play ‘Tell Spidey Everything’ now. I think you can figure out the rules for yourself.”

  The fake Spider-Man twisted suddenly to his right, yanking hard on the real Web-slinger’s damaged shoulder. Spider-Man’s grip loosened a little and the other man pressed his advantage by driving a heel backward into his captor’s shin. Then the fake tore himself free and, while Spider-Man was still making sure nothing had been broken in his aching shin, disappeared into Grand Central Station.

  Spider-Man followed his double through the revolving doors and through the light, pre-rush-hour traffic of commuters and subway riders.

  Grand Central used to be a source of real pride for New Yorkers in the days of the passenger trains. It was a masterpiece of architecture, the so-called Crossroads of the World. But these days, in the era of the supersonic transport, the old station was little more than another stop on the subway map and a stopping place for several nearly bankrupt commuter railroad lines. Some in the city even wanted to tear down the street-level portion of this monument and build a luxury hotel atop it, but this proposal was met with resistance and its continued existence became one of the year’s cause célèbre. For the time being, at least, Grand Central would stand.

  Up ahead, the fake Spider-Man leaped over a turnstile, bringing an angry shout from a Transit Authority policeman who started after him. Spider-Man was right behind them both as he vaulted the same turnstile. Spidey raised his hand to fire his webbing, but a sudden flow of passengers disembarking from a nearby train blocked his way.

  “Out of the way!” he shouted, dodging and weaving through the crowd like a running back carrying the ball toward his goal. But this was New York and the residents of this metropolis tended to ignore such shouts, especially in places like Grand Central Station, where, as everybody knew, half the weirdos in the world hung out.

  Spider-Man stopped dead in his tracks and, flexing his powerful leg muscles, he sprang straight up into the air, his fingertips adhering to the ceiling of the tunnel. Then, hanging upside down, he began crawling as fast as he could after his prey. Even the most jaded of New Yorkers could not help but be amazed by that.

  The tunnel terminated in the enormous, high-dome-ceilinged central core of the station. Spider-Man dropped to the mottled marble floor right behind his fleeing double and the persistent T.A. policeman. There were few other cops about the station, but those stopped what they were doing to gape at the pair of costumed Spider-Men running by them.

  Spidey got a clear path ahead of him and shot his webbing at the red-booted feet of the phony. The man stumbled and fell to the littered floor with the heel of one boot webbed securely to it. He cursed loudly as he yanked his foot free of the trapped boot, but before he could rise again, Spider-Man was standing over him.

  “This is getting to be a really boring habit, friend,” the Web-slinger said seriously. “What say we end it right here and now?”

  The fake cursed again and sprayed a cloud of gas at Spider-Man’s face from the nozzle at his wrist. Spidey ducked under the noxious fumes and grasped the other man’s arm. He yanked the fake roughly to his feet and then tossed him over his hip, sending him flying through the air and slamming him again to the floor. Dazed, the man in the Spider-Man suit shook his head spastically and groped for something in his belt.

  He threw another of the miniature, box-shaped explosives at the spot where Spider-Man had stood just seconds ago. But the Web-slinger was already moving as he enveloped the bomb in a compact ball of chemical webbing that smothered the small blast even before it could hit the floor. While he did this, the other scrambled to his feet and started running across the huge, domed area, toward the giant clock faces set in the center of the terminal.

  Spider-Man sighed. “You’re not going to make this any easier on either of us, handsome.” He shot a strand of webbing to the ceiling and swung himself after the costumed man.

  When the fake looked over his shoulder, all he saw was a blur of red and blue arching through the air toward him. He stopped suddenly and, at the last instant before the swinging blur’s feet could strike him squarely in the chest, he threw himself to the floor, rolling back onto his feet and running with all the speed he could muster toward an escalator leading to the balcony that surrounded the station. Spidey released his hold on the webbing and dropped to the floor. He spun and fired his webbing at the balcony’s railing, then pulled himself up to it.

  The Transit Authority policeman who had pursued the fake through the turnstiles stood in the center of the station, his head tilted back to watch the action on the balcony. He wasn’t sure about what was going on up there, for all he could see was two identically garbed men grappling with one another at the balcony’s edge. They traded blows for long seconds that seemed like minutes, neither man seeming to hold the upper hand. Then, with a teeth-jarring blow that echoed through the high-vaulted room, one of them fell to the floor of the balcony, apparently unconscious.

  He could see neither man for several minutes as the victor knelt on the floor beside the other man. Then, the winner of this odd battle stood and ran down the escalator, disappearing through one of the many tunnels leading to the station.

  Twenty

  A warm spring breeze blew off New York Harbor that night, gently scattering the remains of the day’s litter left behind on the Manhattan side of the waterfront and rippling the otherwise calm surface of the water. A lone man stood outside the entrance to a seemingly abandoned warehouse, standing well back in the shadows that all but hid him from view, save for the glowing red tip of his cigarette. He leaned comfortably against the wall as he smoked, the fingers of his right hand never straying far from the pistol strapped to his waist. Seldom, if ever, did the armed man have to move from his post for reasons other than working the cramps out of his leg muscles. Hardly anybody, other than the drunks and the derelicts who slept in the shelter of the surrounding warehouses, ever came to the docks after dark, anyway, but each night, the man was sent to stand watch over the heavily padlocked door. It wasn’t necessary, he thought, but that’s the way his boss wanted it.

  And he knew better than to argue with the Kingpin.

  But he was bored, dammit. Night after night in the darkness looking out for . . . what? Nothing, that’s what! The Kingpin was the big fish in New York, and there wasn’t anyone who wa
s stupid enough to dare launch an attack on his stronghold.

  The armed man flicked the cigarette butt across the dark, deserted pier and looked at his watch.

  Two-forty-seven.

  It was still more than four hours until another man would relieve him of this chore, but already he was tired. He sure hated night work, he thought, yawning. Maybe if he just rested his eyes for a few seconds he’d be okay. That’s why he never saw the crimson-gloved fist that sent him slumping, unconscious, to the hard ground.

  The man in the Spider-Man suit stepped from the shadows next to the unconscious figure, tenderly rubbing his knuckles. Wasting no time, he dropped to his knee beside the man and quickly rummaged through the armed man’s clothes. In his hip pocket he found two keys, both, obviously, for the heavy locks on the warehouse door. As an afterthought, the costumed man picked up the guard’s pistol and heaved it across the dock, into the still waters of the bay.

  The colorfully garbed figure stepped quietly to the door, trying not to rattle the thick padlocks against their metal hooks as he opened first one and then the other. He set them both down on the ground and then carefully and slowly pulled open the door.

  There was a single, glaring bulb burning in the partitioned-off vestibule just inside the entrance. The costumed man peeked through the narrow crack between the door and the frame and saw a husky man seated behind a desk, his attention focused on the early edition of the Daily Bugle. His gun was in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

  Making as little noise as possible, the costumed man pushed open the door and charged like a raging bull at the seated thug. The man started suddenly when the door flew open, dropping his newspaper in surprise. But his astonishment was short-lived and, with a growl, his hand reached swiftly for his gun. He wasn’t swift enough, however, and the masked intruder had vaulted over the desk and slammed into him before his fingers could close around the pistol’s grip. The seat skidded backward across the floor several feet before one of its legs snagged in a hole in the linoleum and the chair crashed to the floor. The masked man rolled away from the toppled office chair and sprang back to his feet, prepared to face the gunman. But the gunman was no longer a threat now, not after hitting his head against the hard floor.