by Peter David
Great. I show up and get “He’s busy. You can’t go in.” This other guy shows up and he’s told to hurry right in. Nice to see that our Miss Brant plays favorites. Got to remember that.
The door flew open and a young, intense-looking guy entered. He was holding a manila envelope in his hand.
“Parker, you’re late,” snapped Jameson, and Brock immediately realized that this was Peter Parker, his main competition. Brock smiled widely, knowing that Parker had already lost this round before he’d even entered the game. “Maybe too late,” continued Jameson, confirming Brock’s suspicion. “Bruckner here brought me a pretty good photo.”
Eddie rolled his eyes and was about to correct Jameson as to his name for what seemed the tenth time when Peter extracted a picture from the envelope and said, “I got you this.”
Peering at the photo, Brock couldn’t believe it. An aerial shot of Spider-Man spinning the web that protected the crowd?! “How’d you get that shot?” he demanded. “I didn’t see you there. How’d you get that high?”
“I climbed. Nearly fell off the flagpole.”
“Flagpole?” Brock had an excellent memory for scenes—his cameraman’s eye gave him a photographic memory. He didn’t remember a flagpole there. Was it possible he missed it? He didn’t think so. But how else… ?
“Which picture do we use?” asked Robertson.
Brock tensed. His was the better composed, with that intense human drama of Spider-Man saving the girl. But Parker’s had a broader sweep.
Jameson, however, didn’t hesitate. “I like Bernstein’s.”
Brock exhaled in relief. Who gave a damn whether Jameson could remember his name, so long as it was correct in the photo credit and on the check.
Robertson, holding both photos, nodded once in confirming Jameson’s decision. “It’s better,” he acknowledged, and Brock was sure that he was looking sympathetically at Peter. So Robertson also played favorites. Well, that was going to have to change.
“Cheaper too,” Jameson announced. “Congratulations, Brooks.” (Brock, you idiot, Brock! Eddie thought.) “We’re gonna go with your photo. Fifty bucks.”
Eddie nearly choked. That wasn’t even enough to cover expenses. He’d underestimated Jameson—$50 was maybe a quarter of what the picture was worth. He considered telling Jameson to shove it, but Parker’s presence took that option off the table. The competition was in the room, and Eddie wasn’t about to torpedo his long-term chances for the short-term satisfaction of telling off J. Jonah Jameson. Instead he swallowed his irritation and gave a genuine fake smile. “All right, JJ, then I’m your man.” He leaned over the desk to extend a handshake to Jameson. Jameson stared at the hand as if wondering why Brock was pointing this thing in his direction. Brock quickly turned the open hand into a fist as if he’d always meant to and thumped it firmly on the desktop for emphasis. “I know more about what makes a good picture than any photographer in town. Photography is not about, no offense”—he nodded to Parker—”flagpoles. It’s about lighting, composition, drama.”
Eddie saw that Jameson was nodding, looking interested. Although Eddie was taking a huge risk, he decided that now was the time to get aggressive. “I want a staff job. I have a girl that I intend to marry. And I have this kind of stupid little dream of working for one of the greatest newspaper editors of our time: J. Jonah Jameson.”
Jameson was soaking it up like a sponge. “We do have an opening. Johnson quit. Remember?” he said to Robertson.
“You fired him,” Robertson reminded him.
“Whatever.”
Peter Parker, however, was clearly not about to roll over. “Wait a minute,” he protested. “I know what makes a good picture. And I’ve been here a long time. If there’s a staff job, Mr. Jameson, I think I deserve it.”
Robertson, that great player of favorites, said, “He’s right, Jonah. Peter’s been with us for years. He does great work.”
Looking from one to the other, Jameson growled, “You want a staff job, and you want a staff job. Anyone care about what I want?”
Hoffman, displaying the resilience of a Whac-A-Mole, stuck his head in and said, “I do.”
“Shut up! Get out!” Jameson snapped, and Hoffman immediately did so. Jameson turned his attention back to the two photographers. He shoved an unlit cigar in his mouth and rolled it from one side to the other a few times. “I want the public to see Spider-Man for the two-bit criminal he really is,” he finally said. “He’s a fake. He’s full of stickem. Catch him in the act. Spider-Man with his hand in the cookie jar.” He paused for dramatic effect, then concluded, “Whoever brings me that photo gets the job.” When neither Brock nor Parker initially moved, Jameson snapped, “What are you waiting for? Go go go!”
“I’m on it, boss!” Brock announced, and headed for the door.
As Eddie went, Peter Parker was one step behind him, which was just how Brock liked it. But he was surprised when Parker said in an unusually intense voice, “You’ll never get that picture.”
“Oh, we’ll see.” Brock fired a smug grin at Parker as if it were a done deal, eyes blazing with determination. “We’ll see.”
* * *
Chapter Nine
UNEASY HOMECOMINGS
Peter Parker walked through Times Square, frustrated by the situation in which he now found himself.
There was only one way that he could give J. Jonah Jameson what he wanted: by setting up some sort of false picture and criminalizing his alter ego. He couldn’t see himself doing it. No way.
Peter was skirting the line of ethics as it was, taking photographs of himself in action and selling those to the Daily Bugle. He always told himself that it wasn’t really fraud. He wasn’t setting up the situations that Spider-Man got himself into—he was simply providing photographic documentation of events. He didn’t see it as being morally any different from writing an autobiography and being paid for it. But faking a photo of Spider-Man doing something corrupt? That crossed the line. No job was worth it. Besides, if he did transform Spider-Man into a criminal by making it look as if Spider-Man had done something illegal, wouldn’t that impede his other identity’s effectiveness? Things were turning the corner in public perception; why roll matters back to suspicion and apprehension? Bottom line, the citizens of New York had no reason to fear Spider-Man; giving them one would be criminal in and of itself.
If Peter required any further proof of that, it came as he stopped and looked up at the news scrolling across the JumboTron screen high above. There was footage of Spider-Man swinging away from the site of the crane incident, with people waving excitedly at his departure, and the words: spider-man to receive key to the city.
This was wishful thinking on the part of city administrators. No one had contacted him about such a thing since, naturally, they had no means of doing so. Instead he’d heard and read about the intended ceremony in the local news. The mayor said that they were going to make this presentation, and their hope was that Spider-Man would see fit to join them. If he didn’t, the key would be donated to the Museum of New York and be put on permanent display.
Peter hadn’t bothered to call and say he’d come; the chances were that every crank in the city was doing exactly that already, no doubt hoping some sort of monetary reward came with the honor. In fact, he’d more or less decided that he would not show up. As Peter Parker, he was seeking ways to bring in regular income. But being Spider-Man wasn’t about chasing wealth and fame.
Still, with Jameson’s latest mad-on about Spider-Man and being so anxious to prove the web slinger a menace, Peter couldn’t resist the thought of Spider-Man being lionized by the very public to which Jameson wanted to criminalize him.
Peter continued to go back and forth about it as he headed over toward the hospital where Harry Osborn was preparing to check out. By the time he arrived, he hadn’t yet made a decision. He gave it no further thought as he went to Harry’s room and found his friend dressed and ready to go.
Harry still loo
ked a little unsteady; even weak, but the hospital had pronounced him fit to travel and decreed that bed rest in his own home was the best thing for him.
Hospital policy insisted that Harry be brought to the hospital doors in a wheelchair, and Peter was only too happy to oblige. “Good thing I survived, huh, Pete?” said Harry with an amused snort. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have Harry Osborn to push around anymore.”
Peter laughed at that. It felt good to be relaxing with his old friend. The more time that passed, the more Harry acted like his old self, the more it convinced Peter that maybe the worst really was past them.
Harry’s limo driver was waiting for them, and the ride over to the town house was amazingly carefree. They reminisced about their time in high school, and how Peter had bailed Harry out when it came to science. When talk turned, as it invariably did, toward Norman Osborn, Harry was fairly restrained. Peter supposed that was natural—the poor guy was trying to cope with so many losses at once.
Once they arrived, Peter helped Harry through the main foyer and into the small elevator that would carry them to the penthouse floor. Harry inserted the key that would bring them up there, and the elevator shuddered slightly before it wheezed to life and hauled them to the top floor. Bernard, Harry’s butler, was waiting for them, and he opened the ornate gate that blocked access to the penthouse itself. Harry and Peter stepped off the elevator, Peter hovering near Harry’s elbow just in case his friend was seized with momentary weakness.
“Welcome home, Harry,” Bernard said as he stepped aside. “Thank God you’re all right.”
Harry nodded slightly in acknowledgment while Bernard relieved Harry of his small suitcase. “Thank you, Bernard.”
The penthouse was split-level, and Bernard headed upstairs where he would unpack Harry’s suitcase for him. Peter shrugged off his backpack and removed from it a large, round, crudely gift-wrapped object. Harry didn’t notice it at first since he was gazing around the penthouse as if seeing it for the first time. Peter figured that, in a way, he was. Harry had lived here all his life, but it had always been his father’s house and Harry was just in residence. Now Harry needed to reacquaint himself with the fact that it was his home, not Norman’s. That alone was going to require some adjustment. “Brought you a homecoming gift,” Peter said, hoping to take Harry’s thoughts away from that morbid direction.
Harry took it from him and opened it, but the smile on his face indicated that he knew what it was before he even unwrapped it. “It’s your old ball,” he said, and sure enough, it was. A battered, slightly underinflated basketball with the name parker scrawled on it. “Thanks, buddy.” He dribbled it a few times, then tossed it to Peter in a reasonably good pass. “We were pretty good in the backyard.”
“C’mon. We were terrible,” Peter good-naturedly reminded him, and threw the ball back. “Whatever made us try out for the varsity team?”
“Cheerleaders.”
Peter nodded, recalling. “They were cute.”
Looking thoughtful, Harry asked, “Do I have any girlfriends?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?” Harry raised his voice and called out, “Bernard! Do I have any girlfriends?”
“Not that I know of, sir,” Bernard’s crisp tone replied from upstairs.
Harry passed the ball back to Peter. They moved through the giant front hallway, ricocheting the ball back and forth between them, dribbling and acting as if they were on a basketball court. The steady bouncing sound of the basketball echoed through the vast hall. “Hey, this is a cool pad,” Harry decided, clearly liking the idea that he could play basketball indoors without fear of remonstration.
“Sure beats my place.”
“And”—Harry bounded the ball to Peter once more—“it looks like I’m not hurting for money, right?”
“Harry, you’re loaded!” Peter said with a laugh.
Harry considered this and then grinned. “I think I can turn this ‘no girlfriend’ thing around.”
Their impromptu basketball game carried them into the main salon, and Harry froze. Peter followed his gaze to see what Harry was staring at and shouldn’t have been surprised.
There, hanging on the wall, was a large, formal portrait painting of Norman Osborn. The eyes appeared to be fixed on Harry. Peter wondered if Norman’s gaze followed you around no matter where you stood in the room.
Harry stared back as if expecting the real Norman to peel himself off the painting. “He always appreciated how you got me through high school,” he said, his voice subdued, as if they were at a museum… or a wake. “I wish I could remember more about him.”
No, you don’t, Peter thought. Flipping the ball from one hand to the other, Peter said uncomfortably, “He loved you. That’s the main thing.”
He bounced the ball back toward Harry then, hoping to distract him. He failed utterly as the ball bounced past Harry and smacked into a pedestal supporting an antique vase that looked to be from the Ming dynasty. Peter was horrified as he saw the pedestal tilt from the impact and the vase begin to fall. He was too far away to do anything about it short of leaping all the way across the room or else firing some weblines to intercept it.
Harry, however, moved quickly… far more quickly than he should have been able to. Instantly he grabbed the ball to prevent it from bouncing around and hitting other breakables while, at the same time, snagging the falling vase out of midair with the other hand.
Amazed at his prowess, Harry stared at both the ball and the vase, and then at Peter. “Wow! Didya see that?”
Oh, yes, Peter most definitely had and was extremely uneasy over having done so. The last thing he needed was Harry wondering why he could move faster, and with greater strength, than ever before. Quickly Peter did the best he could to hide his growing anxiety as he said cheerfully, “Guess you still got the moves.”
“I guess so!” Carefully Harry placed the vase on the pedestal, then flipped the ball back to Peter. “Varsity, here we come!”
“Little late for varsity. How about the NBA?”
“Damn straight! And if I can’t get on in tryouts, I’ll just buy a team and put myself in the starting rotation.”
“If that doesn’t get the girls, nothing will,” Peter agreed, allowing relief to flood through him. The two friends continued passing the ball back and forth as they headed out of the room.
Curiously, when Peter passed a full-length mirror, he felt a twinge of warning from his spider-sense. He had no idea why. Perhaps it was because he saw the portrait of Norman Osborn reflected in it. That had to be it. The thing would be enough to give anyone the creeps.
Mary Jane Watson had come to think of the Broadhurst Theater as her home away from home. Considering the amount of time MJ spent there, she should have been paying rent. And the cast… the wonderful cast had become her extended family.
That business with Peter earlier today had been difficult. She’d finally forced herself to realize that maybe Peter couldn’t understand simply because he wasn’t an actor. Acting was a profession like none other, and seeking solace from Peter might well have been the wrong move because it was beyond his ability to comprehend. As she had told him, when he went out into the public eye, at least he had anonymity. For Mary Jane, stepping out on the stage and singing was the equivalent of stripping naked, standing in a store display window, and inviting passersby to take their best shot. She could explain that to Peter, and he could comprehend it intellectually. But he couldn’t really sympathize the way that her castmates would.
Looking forward to much understanding and empathy from her extended family, Mary Jane walked into the theater foyer in the hopes that the day was going to take a much better turn.
She was understandably confused, then, when she saw another actress standing center stage, singing “Falling in Love.”
At first MJ thought it was her understudy getting some rehearsal in, but then the rest of the cast came in on cue, moving to their marks. Both the producer and the di
rector were seated in the center of the theater, and the director was clapping his hands briskly together as a way of bringing everything to a halt. The cast obediently stopped, as did the music. “Stop on the fifth step, Helen! Then hold it for a beat, then hit it!” Next to him the producer nodded in agreement.
Helen nodded and the music—provided for rehearsal by a pianist—started up again. Helen opened her mouth to start singing, but then stopped as she spotted Mary Jane standing in the back of the theater. The director and producer turned to see where Helen was looking, and the director looked visibly startled when he saw Mary Jane there. So did the rest of the cast. “What’s she doing here?” he whispered to the producer, his voice carrying despite the low tones. “Didn’t anybody call her?”
The cast was huddling together now as if expecting a storm to come rolling in. Mary Jane moved to the top of the aisle and simply gaped, like an orphan watching a Thanksgiving feast through a window while snow fell upon her. There were her “dear friends,” Linda Curtis, Solomon Abrams, the rest of them, all staring back as if she had no right to be there. You can’t go home again.
Clearly feeling he had to take charge of the situation, the director walked toward her, an apologetic look on his face. “We tried to reach you…” he began.
The reality of what Mary Jane was seeing finally began to sink in. They’re cutting me. Cutting me because of one critic. “One critic?” she said aloud.
The producer had now come up and said, “All the papers.” Realizing how harsh that sounded, and having no desire to make Mary Jane feel worse than she did, he added sympathetically, “If you’d like, we can say you became ill.”
That wasn’t going to be simply a cover story—it was everything Mary Jane could do not to vomit right there in the middle of the theater. She wondered if her legs were visibly trembling, because it sure felt as if they were.
“Sit down, Mary Jane,” the director urged her. “Let us explain.”
