“Jocko . . . ?”
“Yeah man, it’s cool! I got it, I got it!”
Not for long if I’ve got any say in the matter, sweetums!
Spidey took off after the whispers. His uncanny spider-sense helped him avoid obstacles in the dark office as he followed silently behind the noisily retreating crooks. They were headed for the stairway to the roof.
The Web-slinger raised his hand, intending to ensnare the fleeing thieves in a sticky web. Whoa, there, m’boy. Not so fast! I may as well make a couple of bucks out of this burglary even if the burglars won’t! I’ll let ’em get to the roof where I can get a couple of good shots of yours truly capturing the alleged perpetrators. I can always sell whatever I get to Jolly Jonah Jameson for the Daily Bugle.
And even if he doesn’t want to print them, they still make dandy dart boards.
Spidey chuckled to himself as he ran. No wonder you were able to get to where you are today, Mr. Parker! You use the old noggin!
Though the costumed youth could have easily caught up with, and, with little more effort, overtaken the thieves as they pounded up the narrow stairwell, he held back. He unclipped a miniature camera from his belt buckle and checked it over. Okay, film’s all loaded, shutter’s on the right setting for night . . . Okay gang, let’s get ready to roll ’em! Action!
The Web-slinger paused at the doorway and took a moment to web the small camera to the top of the frame. He pressed the automatic timer and heard the mechanism whirring, beginning to click off pictures of the burglars running across the roof.
They stopped by the edge of the roof, peering anxiously through the falling snow into the dark sky. “What’s the time, Mandez?” Jocko demanded. “Where’s the damn chopper?”
Mandez checked his wrist. “It’ll be about another minute.”
“Nope, guess again, clowns.”
Spider-Man sauntered across the roof, smiling to himself beneath his mask.
“Huh?” Mandez whirled, pulling a pistol from his jacket pocket.
“I said you’re wrong, bunky. You haven’t got a minute,” Spidey called to the trembling man as he walked evenly into the gun’s range. “Matter of fact, your time is just about up.”
“Jocko?”
“Kill ’im!” the tall man roared angrily. He tenderly clutched his throbbing hand to his stomach, gritting his teeth from the pain. The burglar was certain the exploding gun had broken several bones in addition to severely burning him.
“Do it, man! Shoot Spider-Man!”
Mandez reacted automatically and instantly to the shouted command by squeezing the trigger. His sights were set squarely on the eerie black spider emblem on the costumed crime-fighter’s chest. At this range, the dark little man couldn’t miss.
Spider-Man threw himself headlong across the mottled roof material, rolling his lithe body into a smoothly executed somersault until he stood on his hands before Mandez. His dark blue-clad legs pumped out and rammed into the short man’s stomach. Mandez gasped, doubling over in pain. Spidey bounced to his feet and grabbed the thief by the front of his jacket before he could topple over.
“No matter what the National Rifle Association tells you about guns, cutie,” he lectured patiently to the gasping, red-faced man, “don’t believe them! You’ve just had a firsthand taste of how badly a person can get hurt because of them.” He let the moaning thief slide to the ground.
Spider-Man faced Jocko and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, looks like it’s just you and me now, babe. You wanna surrender peaceably or do I have to play patty-cake on your face with my fist first?”
Jocko opened his mouth to snarl a reply, but at that moment, both men noticed a hard roar that filled the night sky, a sound that mere moments before had been a distant noise in the background.
A light shone suddenly from the sky, like a searchlight piercing a white-specked black curtain, and a helicopter, its flying lights flashing red and white against the roof, descended toward them. Spider-Man stepped back, gasping in surprise.
You should’ve guessed it, Web-head! How else would these turkeys get on and off the top of a twenty-two-story building in a hurry? Only problem now is where the heck do I get a flyswatter big enough to take care of that thing?
The copter hovered a dozen feet above the roof, its whirling blades whipping up a cloud of powdery snow. Then it began to descend as a rope ladder was lowered from the cabin.
The Web-slinger was blinded by the whirlpool of snow and all but swept off his feet by the force of the powerful downdraft stirred up by the unmarked aircraft’s thumping propellers. But he managed to stay upright and fight against the wind toward the spot where Jocko had last stood.
His hands closed on empty air.
Awwww—
The costumed youth heard the hovering chopper’s engine change pitch above him. Slowly, the brutal smash of air on Spidey’s back let up, finally disappearing, as the aircraft rose smoothly from the roof. He caught sight of Jocko’s black-clad legs being hauled into the cabin before the copter veered off and receded swiftly into the night.
—shoot!
Spider-Man stared into the snow-filled night long after the helicopter was gone from sight. He sighed, his breath steaming out in a wisp of smoke. He turned, brushing the dusty powder from his costume, and walked back across the roof to the door and his still-clicking camera. He pulled it free from its hiding place above the door and weighed it absently in his hand.
I suppose the cops would appreciate knowing about this little midnight get together—though if I had my druthers, I’d druther nobody found out how I screwed it up. Bad press is the last thing in the world I need!
He sighed again and tucked the tiny camera into his belt and started down the stairs.
Besides, if I kept these action-packed photos to myself, I wouldn’t get paid!
Three
Fifteen minutes later, Spider-Man swung lightly onto another snow-covered roof over Manhattan. He landed behind the billboard-sized logo of the Daily Bugle that hung like a beacon in a sea of snow. He hurried, shivering all the way, to the unlocked door to the stairs.
Woof! I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s getting colder. New York will probably be knee-deep in snow tomorrow, which means things like taxis and buses won’t be able to get around, which means the city will probably come to a standstill . . . unless they’ve got Spidey power to help get them from here to there!
Spidey stepped into the stairwell and quietly closed the door. A single bulb lit the small landing. He leaped up to the ceiling and clung there while he pried the cover off a nearby ventilator shaft.
Here’s hoping the Bugle doesn’t employ any over-anxious cleaning ladies who do the vent shafts to . . . ahh!
He pulled a package wrapped in old newspaper and string from the dusty shaft, replaced the cover and dropped to the floor. Then he reached up and pulled off his mask.
Peter Parker ran his hand through his tangled brown hair before tearing open the package. Inside was a set of clothing which Peter began slipping over his costume. Bless you, wash ’n wear! He removed his gloves and folded them neatly into his back pocket. Since I started leaving a set of clothes here at the Bugle I’ve had a lot fewer hassles getting around, even if a lot of folks here are beginning to think I only own one shirt!
When he finished dressing, Peter trotted down the stairs to the top floor, deserted now, far past midnight, and switched to the elevator to the forty-second floor. With any luck whatsoever, the Idi Amin of the New York publishing set won’t be here this late.
Peter stepped from the elevator into the subdued atmosphere of the Bugle’s city room. Most of the desks were deserted, their typewriters covered for the night. The cleaning crew had already been through the room, emptying wastebaskets that, during the day, overflowed with crumpled wads of Bugle copy paper and crushed Styrofoam coffee cups. A lone copyboy weaved through the deserted desks with an armload of the day’s first edition, tossing the freshly printed copies on th
e few occupied desks. The reporters manning those desks put aside their work and leaned back with their feet up to read leisurely the fruits of their day’s labors.
The great information-gathering beast was, for the moment, at rest.
Peter waved to the one or two familiar faces on the night shift as he walked through the long, brightly lit room. He could see the lights were also on in Joe Robertson’s office. Peter rapped on the door and opened it several inches.
“Anybody home?” he asked, looking inside.
The middle-aged black man seated behind the desk in the generous-sized office looked up from the papers in his hand. “Peter,” he said in surprise. “What brings you here in the dead of night?”
“I can’t help it, Robbie,” Peter grinned, stepping inside. “I got homesick for the company of the talented and lovely J. Jonah Jameson, so I thought I’d bop on by and say howdy.”
“Why do I doubt that?” the Daily Bugle’s city editor laughed. He leaned back comfortably in his chair and picked up his pipe from the desk. “However, if you’d really like to see our fearless leader . . .”
“No, no thanks, Robbie,” Peter said quickly. “It’s too soon since I last ate to risk it.”
Robbie filled his pipe from a leather pouch. “Then what, may I ask without sounding ungracious, does bring you here, Pete?”
Peter fished in his shirt pocket and came up with a small roll of film. “Ah, yes, my friend,” he said in his best, none-too-good, W.C. Fields impersonation. “It is late, but the evil perpetrators of vicious deeds of ne’er-do-well work not by the clock. Witness this, the evidence.”
“That was awful!” Robbie chuckled, lighting his pipe.
“The shtick or the photos?”
“Let me put it this way, son,” Robbie said, thoughtfully puffing on his pipe. “You don’t see us paying you for your comedy routines, do you? And speaking of that which we do pay you for, what have you got?”
Peter winked at the city editor. “Touché,” he laughed. “But seriously, folks. There was a . . .”
“Robertson!”
The door flew open and crashed into the wall as J. Jonah Jameson stormed angrily into the room, a piece of teletype copy clutched in his tightly clenched fist. “Robertson,” the grizzled, gray-haired publisher of the Daily Bugle fumed. “Do you know what this is?”
Robertson’s dark features remained passive despite his boss’s tirade. J. Jonah Jameson was not the easiest man in the world to work for, but when it came down to publishing a first-rate newspaper, there was no better man. His temper was, as far as Robbie was concerned, just another part of the job.
“Looks like something off the wire, Jonah. Is it important?”
Jameson planted himself in front of the city editor’s desk and fixed Robbie with a look that would have withered a lesser man. “Oh, no, not really,” he growled sarcastically. “It’s just that there was a break-in at a government-employed computer-processing firm not a mile and a half from here and the wires got to it before we did!”
“Then I’d better get on the stick,” Joe Robertson replied, reaching for the telephone.
“No need to waste your dime, Robbie,” Peter piped in. “I’ve already got the story for you.”
Jameson flinched at the sound of Peter’s voice and turned slowly. He took in the young photographer seated behind him and groaned. “Parker, for crying out loud! Don’t you ever go home and sleep?” He turned to Robbie. “What? Has he got a cot in the back room or something? Why the hell is he always around whenever . . .”
“Nice to see you too, Mr. J.,” Peter cut in dryly.
“What is it with this kid?” Jameson pleaded with Robbie. “How come he’s always around here, like a bill collector? I can’t even get away from him in the middle of the night.”
“Uh, Jonah.”
“What?”
Robbie calmly struck a match and relit his cold pipe. “I believe the boy has something for us on that very subject.”
“Does he really?” Jameson scowled at Peter. “Why don’t you let the rest of us in on it then?”
Peter settled comfortably in the chair and smiled. “Well, since you asked so nice. You see, there I was, walking along the street, just minding my own business, mind you, when . . .”
“Get on with it, Parker!”
“Remember your blood pressure, Mr. J.,” Peter warned. “Anyway,” he hurried on before the dour-faced publisher could reply, “I caught sight of a fracas on a roof on 72nd and rushed up there for pictures. And what did I find but your friend and mine, Spider-Man . . .”
“That name again!” Jameson groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes.
“I knew you’d be pleased. So, Spidey did a little breaking and entering on their heads but, just like the movies, a helicopter made a daring rescue and I’ll bet you’ll never guess who got pictures of the whole shebang.”
“Think you’re real clever, don’t you, kid?” Jameson asked snidely.
Peter shrugged. “Moderately so, compared to the next guy. Especially when you consider the guys I’m usually next to.”
“Then how come, smarty, you didn’t stick around long enough to get a few of the facts? Like the fact that the company robbed was engaged in work for the government, specifically NASA. Like the fact that it appears the burglars were after the newly completed programming material for NASA’s next unmanned space shot. Like the fact that they somehow got away with the loot even though the cops got three of them.” Jameson fished a cigar from his vest pocket and jammed it in his mouth as he glared at Peter.
The young photographer grinned sheepishly. “Oh, didn’t I mention? It seems, ah, that one of them got away from Spider-Man.”
Jameson’s hand, holding a lighted match halfway to his cigar, halted in midair. “Did you say Spider-Man let one of them get away?”
“He didn’t let the guy get away, he just managed to . . .”
“Forget it. Did you get pictures of Spider-Man blowing it?” He gasped as the match burned down to his fingers and dropped it to the carpet.
“Uh, yeah, but there are also some of . . .”
A smile spread sickeningly across Jameson’s face as he finally touched another match to the top of his cigar. “Did you hear that, Robbie?” he puffed contentedly.
Robbie smiled thinly. “I heard, Jonah.”
His boss’s fanatical hatred of the Web-slinger was legendary in New York. A week did not go by without the Bugle at least once sporting headlines in large type about the menace the costumed crime-fighter posed to the city. Robbie had watched as, over the years, that hatred had grown, until it was almost all-consuming. But, like Jameson’s temper tantrums, it had become so much a part of everyday routine that the city editor hardly noticed it anymore.
Jameson grinned broadly, puffing happily on an El Ropo special. Peter thought the older man’s face would crack under the unaccustomed strain of previously unexercised muscles being brought into play. Seeing Jameson smile is about as rare as a tap-dancing mud shark—though not nearly as pretty! “I might be interested in buying those pictures, kid,” Jameson said.
“I had a hunch you might, Mr. Jameson.” Peter held up the roll of film.
Jameson plucked the film from Peter’s hand. He chuckled. “You’ll be happy to hear that your photographs are going to be on page one of the next edition, Parker. A little recognition oughta make a snotty punk like you real happy.”
“In lieu of more money, it’ll do, I guess,” Peter Parker said.
“Good.” Jameson started for the door, whistling tunelessly to himself.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you,” Peter said.
“Enormously, Parker. I love it when that damned Wall-crawler falls flat on his foolish red-masked face.” The grizzled publisher allowed himself a short laugh at his nemesis’ misfortune and left.
“Get him,” Peter scoffed. “I’ll bet he’s a real laugh riot at funerals and natural disasters.”
Joe Robertson tapped a p
encil against his desk. “Oh, don’t let Jonah bug you, Pete,” he smiled. “Beneath that rough, gruff exterior . . .”
“. . . is a rough, gruff man.” Peter stood and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Believe me, Robbie. I’ve learned to live quite well with the fact that Jolly Jonah would rather see the Internal Revenue man come around to do an audit than me.” He grinned. “Heck, considering the people he likes, I like to think of his hating me as sort of a status symbol.”
Robbie stood and came around to the front of the desk. “Glad to see you’re taking it so well. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. It tastes awful, but it’s cheap.”
“No thanks,” Peter smiled. “I’ve had the coffee here before and my doctor warned me never to let it happen again. Naw, I think I’ll just mosey on home and grab some sleep. It’s already way past my bedtime.”
“Mine too, actually.”
“Yeah, what are you and Jameson doing here this late anyway?”
“The regular night man’s out sick tonight so I drew double duty. As for Jonah,” Joe Robertson inclined his head toward the Bugle publisher and editor-in-chief, bent over a teletype machine in a glass-enclosed office, reading the latest bulletin clattering over the wires. “It’s hard to say about him. He’s about as dedicated a newsman as I’ve ever met and I guess this newspaper’s about the most important thing in his life. He spends a lot of nights here.”
Peter could sense the dedication Robbie felt toward his boss. No matter what hassles Jameson put him through, his city editor remained loyal. True, there were less headaches and more money waiting for him at any number of papers across the country, but, like J. Jonah Jameson, Robbie was a dedicated newsman. And most of the action happened at the Daily Bugle.
Jameson tore a strip of yellow paper from the wire and rushed across the room. He spotted Robbie and hurried over, brandishing the paper.
Without a word, he handed the copy to Robbie.
Joe Robertson scanned the typewritten report and his forehead creased into a deep frown as he read. “Interesting,” he muttered, chewing on the stem of his pipe.
Marvel Novel Series 11 - The Hulk and Spider-Man - Murdermoon Page 3
