by David Liss
“I’ve just started at the Bugle,” she said. “As a features writer. It wouldn’t be wise to do anything other than what I’m told.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Maya agreed. “Reporters who do that sort of thing find their careers taking unfortunate turns.” Then she smiled brightly. “Good luck, Miss Watson.”
Maya left the office, a frown coming to her face. For some reason, this reporter hadn’t seemed troubled by the implied threat. Perhaps she wasn’t smart enough to understand it. Or she was more dangerous than she appeared.
That gave her a thought…
* * *
MAYA had wanted to meet at a coffee shop, the way normal people did when conducting business outside of the office. But no, he insisted on meeting at a hot-dog vendor’s cart two blocks from Fisk Tower. She sent a text.
Do you think it’s too dangerous to meet indoors?
He’d responded immediately.
HOTDOGS
they have the best damn hotdogs in the city if I’m going to be near there, i want one
She arrived a few minutes early, but he was already sitting on a bench near the metal cart. He was about halfway through one dog and had another resting on his briefcase.
“Get a dog,” he told her. “You won’t regret it. Don’t forget the relish. Even if you think you don’t like relish, get it. This guy’s relish is incredible. He makes it himself.”
She sat down next to him. “I’m not here for hot dogs.”
“You don’t have to be here for hot dogs to enjoy a hot dog,” he told her. “Life is full of misery and hardship, so grab your pleasures where you can.”
Maya didn’t like eating while on the street. It distracted her, and city streets were chaotic places. It was best not to be distracted. Plus, she wasn’t about to eat processed meat and buns made of refined flour. She trained hard and was fanatical about what she consumed. No hot dogs for her.
A few people who passed by glanced in their direction. The man she was meeting wasn’t exactly a celebrity, but New York was a media-driven town. It didn’t help that his flat-topped brown hair with its graying wings, his stubby mustache, and massive eyebrows all gave him a distinctive look.
“Let me be clear that I appreciate what you’re offering,” J. Jonah Jameson began. “The Bugle didn’t have the guts to let me continue telling the truth. That’s why I got the boot. I want to be able to tell the people what’s really going on in this city, especially when it comes to that menace Spider-Man.”
“And we want to help you,” she said.
“I’m sure you do, but I’m a little suspicious about your anonymous benefactor’s motives.”
“I represent an organization in which people at the highest levels appreciate your work,” she said. “It’s that simple.”
Even simpler. Maya wanted to make Spider-Man’s life miserable. If she couldn’t do it physically, she would do it psychologically. She would wear him down, so that when it came to direct confrontation—and she had no doubt that it would—he would be that much weaker.
“It’s really not,” Jameson said. “Simple, that is. I didn’t get to run a paper like the Bugle by being an idiot. I came up the hard way, as a reporter, so I know that your people at the ‘highest levels’—which translates to a bunch of greedy fat cats—aren’t going to throw money at me unless they think there’s something in it for them.”
Maya did her best not to appear concerned. “The people I represent want to do business in a city that isn’t plagued by the sort of chaos you’ve spent your career condemning.”
“That’s it, huh?” He looked dubious, and took another big bite, chewing theatrically. It made it difficult for her to tell what he was saying.
He was playing the gruff newsman. Maya knew he was posturing, but people postured all the time. She was doing it herself.
“Mr. Jameson, we believe the city is poorer since your voice has been silenced, and we are prepared to give you an even bigger megaphone than the one you had with the Bugle. A radio broadcast of the sort we envision would put you everywhere in the city—in homes, in stores, in taxicabs, in offices. Would you refuse such an offer because you don’t like the idea of anonymous backers?”
“Maybe,” he told her. “Understand up front that no one tells me what to say or what to do. You get me, you get pure Jameson. Straight—no water, no ice. If anyone starts whispering in my ear that I need to say this or not say that, I walk away. If that’s not in the contract, then the contract doesn’t get signed.”
“I will pass that along to the lawyers and get you the contracts by the morning.”
Jameson finished his hot dog and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. Then he reached out to shake Maya’s hand.
“Then it looks like you’ve got a deal,” he replied. “When can I start making Spider-Man’s life miserable?”
“As soon as possible,” Maya said, accepting the handshake. “Start to organize a staff and plan out your schedule.” With that she stood and walked away, pulling a little bottle of hand sanitizer out of her purse.
As she walked back to the office, she couldn’t help but feel pleased with herself. Mr. Fisk would be furious if he found out, but only because he’d told her to stay away from all things Spider-Man. In his anger, he might not see how good this plan really was. No one was better than J. Jonah Jameson at whipping up the public to turn against Spider-Man.
She’d been encouraged to explore her own projects, and it wasn’t hard to find a slot for Jameson on one of the most high-profile talk radio stations. All they had to do was wind him up and let him go. Jameson’s hot air would take care of the rest.
SHE couldn’t tell what Fisk’s secretary was doing in there. There was a lot of scraping and some thumping, and what sounded like growling.
MJ was glad she’d turned down that cup of coffee, yet she also regretted it. It would have helped to settle her nerves, but she didn’t need caffeine jitters when she was interviewing Fisk.
Her phone buzzed, and she considered ignoring it. Her instincts told her not to be on the phone when the secretary came out for her, but then she reconsidered. It would make her look like a busy reporter, and could only help to give the impression of someone who needed to be in touch with others at all times.
Besides, it was Peter.
She hated how she’d left things with him last night. “There are some things we really need to talk about.” Not a good note on which to end a conversation. It wasn’t her fault, of course, and Peter could take it, but even so… It was something important, and something he wouldn’t want to hear, but if they were going to survive together, they needed to have this conversation.
Until that happened, she didn’t want him to worry too much. So she hit “accept.”
“Hi,” she said when she answered. “I can’t talk long. I’m about to go into an interview.”
“You report, girl,” he said. So this was just a chatty check-in, not an I-have-to-go-to-Iceland-to-fight-robot-assassins conversation. “Who are you interviewing?”
“You promise not to freak out?”
“Of course.”
“Wilson Fisk.”
A brief silence.
“I’m freaking out.”
“Peter…” MJ groaned.
“Reporters who try to expose him vanish,” he said. “You know that.”
“I’m just doing an interview—getting to know him.”
“So you can expose him later,” he snapped. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong.” His tone irritated the hell out of her.
“And don’t tell me how to do the right thing,” she said. “I don’t tell you.”
“You tell me plenty,” he countered.
“No, I offer you advice, and you’re welcome to do that, in return—but that’s not what this is. You’re setting limits.”
“I’m not setting limits,” he said. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
The door to Fisk’s office opened.
“I’ve got to go.”
/> “Wait!” Peter said. “If you get a chance, ask him where he keeps the evidence of his crimes—”
MJ disconnected, slipped the phone into her purse, and stood up.
“Mr. Fisk will see you now,” the secretary said.
* * *
HE was big.
Everyone knew Wilson Fisk was a large man, but nothing MJ had read, none of the news clips she’d seen on television, none of Peter’s stories about trying to dodge his massive fists, prepared her for the real thing.
It was like she was standing next to a creature out of folklore, or from another world. He was tall, yes, but broad and built on a more massive scale than anyone she’d ever seen. When they shook hands, she had a memory of her father playing with her when she was a little girl pretending to shake a troll’s hand. The difference in proportion wasn’t simply notable—it was absurd.
For all that, he had a kind of charm that surprised her. He dressed well in suits that were—of course—bespoke, and his manner was relaxed. He projected a kind of aura that suggested there was nothing he would rather be doing than this interview with—literally—the Daily Bugle’s most junior reporter.
MJ had no illusions that he’d researched her employment history. He would know what she’d written, and when she’d been hired. She and Peter had been careful to make sure there was no public record of the two of them being involved. Peter had been closely associated with Spider-Man when working as a freelance photographer, but it wouldn’t surprise her if Fisk knew about their relationship, too.
If he hadn’t bothered to dig deeper yet, she thought, he would later on—before she was done with him. But not today. Today was going to be pleasant. Today would be about paving the way.
“So, tell me about your story,” Fisk said. “How can I help you?”
MJ had prepared what she wanted to say, and let it come out with the air of spontaneity. She was new at the Bugle, she said—he would know this already, and the fact that she wasn’t trying to conceal it might encourage him to let his guard down—and writing stories about working people who stood to benefit from what Fisk was promising in his new apartment projects.
“Not just promises,” he told her. “Mixed-income projects like these have been tried before, but they always fail because of the greed of everyone involved. If you can give ten units to the working poor, they suppose, then why not five and pocket the extra money? If there’s a profit to be had, why not more? During my time of… exile, I realized I was as guilty as anyone of this sort of avarice. Maybe more than most. No amount of wealth would ever be enough, I thought, so I never stopped thinking of ways to make more money.”
“But that changed?” MJ prompted. “Because of the trial?”
“The trial, my time in Japan, where I dedicated myself to meditation and reflection. I’m not quite ready to give up my material wealth, of course, but now I strive for balance. I want to make money, but I’m willing to find an amount that’s enough. I don’t need five yachts, or fifty sports cars. No one does. Admittedly I’m enough of an egotist to seek a certain kind of grandeur, so rather than indulging my worst impulses I’m channeling them into something more productive. Rather than simply growing richer, I want to be a force that helps the city grow its own riches.”
“And you want to be celebrated for that?”
He smiled. “I am, by nature, an ambitious man, and because I cannot change my nature, I can change the manner in which I express that ambition. Already other developers are modifying their practices to make them more like mine. Building affordable units for working people. Offering higher wages for workers. Better benefits. That’s all happening because I have changed the standard. Other people are stepping up their game. Without my example, I doubt we’d see anything like Martin Li’s F.E.A.S.T. operation, which is revamping how we help the homeless.”
“Doesn’t F.E.A.S.T. predate your return to New York?” MJ asked. Maybe it was a mistake to contradict him, but if she didn’t push back a little, he’d either think she was a worthless sycophant or suspect she was after a bigger story.
“It may have existed,” he said, “but if you check the timeline, you’ll find that he significantly increased his funding, and the scope of his operation, after I began my programs and launched the Fisk Foundation.”
MJ wasn’t sure this was true, but she wrote it down. She’d do the research later and decide how to handle the claim.
“This is how change occurs,” Fisk continued. “This is what people who are fortunate can do for the city. In the end, history will judge businessmen like me much more kindly than, say, the costumed vigilantes. Even if some of them try to do the right thing, they end up sowing chaos more often than they help anyone.”
MJ wrote this down, all the while keeping her expression neutral.
“You disagree with me,” Fisk said. “I can see it on your face.”
She flashed him her most disarming smile. “We’re here for me to listen to your opinions, Mr. Fisk.”
“But I want to hear yours, as well.” He moved his massive hand back and forth between them. “If there is to be any kind of relationship between us, and a relationship is necessary if you are to be a successful journalist, I must know something of you. So tell me what you think of Spider-Man and the others of his ilk.”
She nodded. “It’s well-known that you have particular reason to dislike costumed crimefighters, but I’m not convinced we can live without them. There are bad people with incredible powers and abilities as well, and we need someone who can push back against them.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but I believe they seek each other out. The so-called good ones fight the so-called bad ones. It’s a public gladiatorial spectacle. They have their fun, and the rest of us clean up their mess. My belief is that if we stop encouraging them, they will go away.”
I’ll remember that next time Electro takes down the power grid, MJ thought, but she said nothing.
“My fundamental concern is that the way this city is run can’t be arranged for those with special abilities, or any persons who are identified as extraordinary,” he pressed. “The city must be made a place where ordinary people can live.”
“Do you consider yourself extraordinary?”
He laughed—a bass rumble that MJ felt in her bones. “I suppose I set myself up for that question. In some ways, yes. I made my fortune, which was nearly ripped away from me by an overzealous and misused justice system. I managed not only to move past that difficulty, but to grow. I have become a better person through adversity.”
Suddenly MJ felt as if she was the one who had been set up. That answer felt polished. As she considered this, he looked at the clock on his computer monitor.
“I’m afraid that’s all the time I have for you, Miss Watson,” Fisk said. “However, I appreciate your coverage of this subject.”
“My pleasure.” MJ stood up. He did, as well, and once again engulfed her hand in his.
“I like you,” he told her. “You don’t hesitate to ask the questions or express your opinions, but you don’t seem to be looking for kill shots. Far too many reporters walk through that door seeking to trip me up, to set a trap that—in their minds—will end with me admitting I’m some kind of criminal mastermind.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” MJ said. “I’m very ambitious.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, “but there are many paths that lead to the top. Crossing Wilson Fisk isn’t one of them. You show a great deal more wisdom.”
“Thank you,” she said with her best smile.
As she stepped out of the office, she felt like she needed to take a shower—but MJ also felt quite pleased with herself. She’d rolled the dice, and was pretty sure the gamble had paid off. Wilson Fisk would seek to manipulate her to his advantage, but she was going to be one step ahead of him. She’d be the one manipulating Fisk.
HE was in the lab when his phone buzzed. It was MJ, proposing that they try again to have that “talk.”
“H
ow about the sandwich place,” he said. “For the sake of consistency?”
“You don’t fool me,” she said. “You just like their pastrami.”
“Guilty. How’d the interview go?”
“Really well.” The excitement was obvious in her voice. “I think he likes me.”
This is one of those times, he told himself, when I need to take a moment to consider what I’m going to say. Then he started talking without doing any more considering.
“MJ, you’re playing with fire,” he said. “There are only two ways to push up against a guy like him. You’re either co-opted, or you’re destroyed.”
“Or you beat him,” she said. “Aren’t you trying for door number three?”
“I have certain advantages.”
“So do I,” she said. “Peter—” She cut herself off. “You know what, let’s save this for later. I don’t want to fight with you right now.”
“I don’t want to fight either,” he said, “but I can’t just sit here and let you put yourself in danger.”
“You don’t let me do anything,” she said sharply. “I don’t need your permission, Peter.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he replied. He couldn’t win. “I feel like you’re twisting my words to score points, rather than hearing me. But you’re right—we won’t talk about it now. We’ll discuss it later, without arguing.”
“We won’t argue if you don’t say dumb things,” she said, and they set a time. “See you then.”
* * *
HAVING a crush at work, especially on an older guy, was a bad idea. Having a crush on an older guy with a girlfriend was a worse idea. Anika decided that she wouldn’t have a crush on Peter anymore. That was her decision, and she was sticking to it.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t be friends with him. There was nothing that said you couldn’t be friends with an older, smart, funny, impossibly cute guy you worked with. In fact, it would be an effort for them not to be friends. Clearly they were on the same wavelength, had a similar sense of humor, many of the same interests. They got along great. It wasn’t her fault that he already had a girlfriend who obviously didn’t get him or appreciate him or want to be supportive when he needed it.
