Marvel Novel Series 01 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Mayhem In Manhattan Page 4

  “You’d probably have been better off going on strike,” Peter snapped back.

  Jameson slapped his forehead in disgust. “What did I ever do to deserve this kind of treatment, you teenaged Don Rickies?”

  “Do you really want a list?”

  “All I want from you, Parker, is an answer. Will you work with my niece, or won’t you? Do keep in mind that, if your answer is no, I’ll see to it that you never work on another newspaper in this town for the rest of your misbegotten life. Work, hell—you’ll never be able to buy another roll of film!”

  Jameson whipped out a cigar, chomped off the end to prove some questionable point, and lit it slowly, awaiting an answer. Peter opened his mouth to speak even as the office door flew open. Joe Robertson strode urgently into the room.

  “Jonah, I have to speak with you—” He glanced over at Mary Jane and the pensive Parker. “—alone.” He smiled sheepishly at them both. “Nothing personal, Pete.” Then he and Jameson moved to the far corner of the room, and Robbie’s voice became a hushed whisper.

  I’ve never seen Robbie so agitated. Wonder what’s up? Peter strained to overhear them as Mary Jane slipped her hand into his.

  “Guess I owe you an apology, tiger. You really don’t know this Cindy Sayers. Though I shouldn’t ever have worried. After all, how many gals can compete with ol’ M.J.?” When Peter didn’t smile, Mary Jane frowned.

  “Hey, brown-eyes, that was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh, comprende?”

  “Huh?” Parker shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, Mary Jane. Guess my mind was elsewhere.” Look at Jonah. He seems furious. Something big is going on, but what?

  Jameson stopped in mid-sentence and turned impatiently toward Parker. “You still here?”

  “Not by choice, mister. I just want to get this Cindy Sayers mess cleaned up—now.”

  Abruptly, Jameson pushed his way past. Parker, Joe Robertson following closely behind. “Sorry, Parker, haven’t got the time. Later, maybe. Or tomorrow. Or next year. In fact, don’t call me, I’ll call you.

  “Robbie, c’mon!”

  “Blast it, Jonah, that won’t do! I want this Sayers chick off my back or—” Parker had followed Jameson out into the hall, and he now stood before the elevator with him. Unobtrusively, Parker slipped his hand into his pocket, his fingers dipping into a hidden lining from which he removed a small circular device.

  The elevator door opened. As Robbie Robertson entered, Jonah turned to Parker, exasperated. “I told you, Parker, I don’t have time to argue now. Cindy Sayers is working with you, and that’s final.”

  “Before I’d let anyone, let alone her, dog my steps, Jonah, I swear to you I’d quit.”

  “It’s your funeral, Parker. Send me a postcard from the unemployment line, okay?”

  “Y-you’d really let me go?”

  “In a second. Now, get lost, kid. I’m a busy man.”

  As Jameson stepped into the elevator, Peter reached out as if to grab his arm, but he snagged the side of Jonah’s jacket instead. Jameson brushed it off as one would brush off a fly, and the elevator doors hushed shut behind him.

  Parker smiled a slight, wry smile. Wherever Jameson was heading now, Peter would be able to follow him through the spider-tracer he had secreted in Jonah’s pocket This was a small circular device that his unique spider-sense could home in on like radar. Though why he would want to follow the man who had just fired him so casually, he did not know.

  Impatiently, Mary Jane took Peter by the arm. “Cmon, tiger, let’s head over to the ‘Coffee Bean’. You look like you could use a good stiff espresso. And considering your current state of unemployment, it’s my treat.”

  Reluctantly, Peter shook his head, his thoughts more on the mysterious conversation between Robbie and Jameson than on his own predicament. He had to get away, had to find out what had rattled Jonah so. “I’d love to go, pretty lady, but I can’t. I—I think I’d just like to be alone for a while, try to sort things out. Let’s make it tomorrow, okay?”

  Mary Jane pouted a moment before she answered. “Sure, tiger, whatever you say. I understand, really. I just feel so responsible for all this.

  “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, and I mean anything, you just let me know, okay?”

  Mary Jane smiled as seductively as she could, which was considerably. The smile was not wasted on Peter, who seriously considered abandoning his plans, if only for a moment.

  “Call me. Okay, tiger?”

  Peter grinned sheepishly, then turned and walked away, his spider-sense tingling like a broken alarm clock.

  And some way, somehow, he was going to stop it.

  Five

  The grimy yellow cab squealed around the corner of Fifty-seventh and Park, heading west, and promptly found itself ensnarled in yet another of New York’s legendary traffic jams. Ahead, on the right, a carelessly parked delivery van blocked two lanes. Over on the left, a Con Edison stanchion cluttered the fourth lane, leaving only a narrow passageway. Four impatient lanes of traffic had to merge slowly into one.

  Within the cab, a furious J. Jonah Jameson crushed his cigar butt into an overstuffed ashtray, while Joe Robertson studied his hastily compiled notes.

  “Okay, Jonah, here’s how it shapes up: two hours ago, a meeting of this nation’s eight top oil magnates was hastily called at the Emerson Building across town. The press releases indicate nothing more than ‘routine economic discussions’, but we don’t believe that for an instant. Reporters are not usually barred from ‘routine discussions’ by heavily-armed gorillas like the ones they’ve stationed at all of the Emerson Building’s entrances.”

  Jonah cleared his throat, plucked a new cigar from its silver holder, lit it up, then puffed impatiently until its tip glowed crimson. “Robbie, I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit.

  “I don’t trust any situation where eight of the world’s most powerful men gather together in secret, whether it’s to discuss economic considerations, the state of the union, or Farrah Fawcett-Majors’ porcelain grin. This stinks of coverup, Robbie, and I want to know precisely what they’re trying to keep covered.”

  “I’ve got one possibility, Jonah. There was a meeting of the various OPEC countries last month. No official statement was issued, but rumor has it there’s going to be a major oil price increase over the next several months. A cost to the consumer of over fifteen cents a gallon. That’s big news.

  “Here, take a look at this report from our Iraqi correspondent.”

  Jameson scanned the report casually, then tossed it back to Robertson. “It’s possible, Robbie, but I don’t think that’s what’s behind all this. Call it a hunch, but something just feels wrong.

  “A price increase would have been announced immediately, with the oil companies shifting the blame for it to the government like everyone else does. Rising prices are a public relations problem; it wouldn’t involve the corporate heads. Besides, with Congress currently investigating conglomerate price fixings a meeting like this would stink of collusion.”

  Jameson shook his head. “No, whatever this meeting is about, it isn’t about fifteen-cent price increases.”

  Pausing, Jonah glanced out the window and noticed the cab pulling past Fifth Avenue, heading straight for another traffic snarl. Jameson glanced at his watch and muttered impatiently under his breath. “Swell. We’re really getting nowhere fast. Will you get a move on, driver? I’m in a hurry.”

  From the driver’s seat came a silent shrug of shoulders and the sound of gnashing teeth.

  As usual, Jameson was mad, but his anger cooled as he watched Joe Robertson reviewing a memorandum. He got along with Robbie, better than he got along with just about anyone else. Robbie refused to kowtow to Jameson. He spoke his own mind, had his own ideas, and would fight vigorously for what he believed. And, more importantly, he could accomplish his ends without throwing his weight around. Robbie was a gentleman, and Jameson liked that.

  Joe Robertson was al
so the best damned city editor in the business, and he could have been the best damned executive editor as well, if he would only have accepted the job Jonah had offered him so often. But Robbie preferred the clutter and chaos and complete lack of romance afforded him by the city room. He wasn’t interested in supervising fashion and food pages, or worrying about whether removing Doonesbury from Friday’s paper would lead to rebellion in the streets. Joe Robertson was born in this city and, next to his family, it was what mattered to him most. Robbie was a good editor, a good husband, and a good father. Simply put, Joe Robertson was a good man.

  And J. Jonah Jameson knew it.

  Robbie smiled as Jameson turned a withering glance back to the silent cabdriver. Joe knew what was going to happen next, and he might just as well try to enjoy it. J. Jonah Jameson was about to turn on the charm.

  “You deaf or something, driver? I said, get a move on. And, mister, that means now! I’m paying good money for this miserable service, money I earned with the sweat of my brow and the skin off my back, and I expect to get something out of it. Do you hear me, mister?”

  The cabbie coughed twice, blew his nose, then goosed the accelerator slightly, edging the taxi slowly forward and narrowly avoiding the bumper of the Volkswagen just ahead. A good fight was something Jameson enjoyed. But silence? In sheer frustration, Jonah turned to the smiling Robertson.

  “In pity’s name, Robertson, what have I done to deserve treatment like this? I employ hundreds of people, pay their salaries, make their petty little lives seem important. I’ve dined with presidents, counseled prime ministers. Why should I be subjected to such inhuman treatment by this . . . this overstuffed excuse for a human being?”

  Archie Morehouse turned from the steering wheel, his cap pulled low over his tired brown eyes, an unlit cigarette dangling from his slack lower lip. “Listen, buddy, you don’t like the way I drive, why don’t you walk? You still remember how to walk, don’t you? You know, putting one foot in front of the other and like that?”

  “I—I don’t have to sit here and listen to this,” Jameson stammered.

  “Nah, you could always stand. Now if you got any complaints, buddy, you take ’em to City Hall. Me, I got a job to do, and I don’t gotta listen to you or anyone else while I do it.” And even as Jameson started to bluster a reply, Morehouse slammed shut the glass partition separating passenger from driver, then purposely stalled out the cab.

  The Emerson Building was a once-white tower standing proudly at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Tenth Avenue. A neatly trimmed garden surrounded the fountain that fronted its main entrance, but now that garden was being trampled by the throng of reporters anxiously pressing toward the large double doors. Directly inside those doors stood two massive private guards, who could have passed for quarterbacks, provided King Kong had organized their football team. It was into this impatient crowd that J. Jonah Jameson and Joe Robertson came striding.

  “All right, out of the way. Come on, this is official business. Will you let us through, please?” Jameson elbowed his way through the parting crowd, Robbie following close behind and smiling apologetically to those who glared at him. In a moment, they had passed to the forefront of the tangle of various media reporters. By the giant doors, Jameson waited a moment for the guards to notice him. Then, as carefully and diplomatically as he could, he explained why he wanted to enter.

  From the rooftop of a tall cooperative across the wide avenue, Spider-Man watched the frantic scene below with mild amusement. For several seconds, Jameson stood stock still; then suddenly his hands became active, pumping up and down with agitated fury, flailing about like the blades of a windmill. At last, in an obvious huff, Jameson spun on his heel and stalked away from the Emerson Building, his hand clamping his hat tightly to his head. Behind him came Joe Robertson, desperately trying to calm his boss down.

  In moments Jameson was gone, but Spider-Man’s curiosity lingered and grew stronger. What was happening inside that building? Why were there all those reporters gathered around? And why were there guards posted at every entrance? Spider-Man didn’t have any answers. At least, not yet.

  Crouched on the rooftop, he quickly calculated the distance to the Emerson Building’s roof. His fingers curled inward, triggering his web-shooters, and then a red-and-blue blur arced high over Tenth Avenue.

  Fingers splayed, Spider-Man grasped the side of the building with instant adhesion. Pressing his feet against the concrete, the Wall-crawler flattened himself against the wall, craning his neck so that he could easily see the crowd below. Any of you shutterbugs look straight up right now, and you’d probably have the story of the day. Think of the headlines: SPIDER-MAN INVADES SECRET MEETING. If that wouldn’t boost circulation, nothing would.

  But, fortunately, no reporter noticed the Web-slinger carefully scrambling up the building’s exterior to the roof, and then to a large airduct. I’ll have to forget the stairs. They’re bound to be guarded by more of those armed Cro-Magnons. I’ll go in through this airduct. I only hope I don’t have to sneeze. The echo in one of these tubes can get me into terminally big trouble.

  With incredible grace and precision, Spider-Man slithered down through the airduct, pausing for a moment at each passing floor to determine if there were any more guards, or any sign of the meeting Jameson wanted so desperately to crash. There were signs of neither.

  Not until the fifty-fourth floor of the seventy-six-story structure did the Wall-crawler suddenly hear the shuffle of heavy feet echoing along a corridor. Cautiously, Spider-Man peered through the steel-mesh grating that separated the duct from the corridor. He saw two burly, green-garbed men armed with automatic pistols coming his way. Behind them, a third heavyset guard held a silver-plated Magnum in his hand, glancing at it from time to time to make certain it was still there. He, Spider-Man knew, was a man who loved his gun.

  At the end of the corridor stood two thick mahogany doors, tightly shut. The biggest guard of all stood motionless before them. In the center of the hall, elevator doors suddenly hushed open, and a frail, elderly man in a wheelchair, his chest and legs covered by an afghan, was wheeled toward the closed double doors by a tall chauffeur. The guards parted, and the silent giant standing by the double doors opened them to allow the old man to enter. “They’re ready to begin now, Mr. Bell,” he said. Bell said nothing.

  Somehow, Spider-Man realized, he had to make his way past those guards and into that room. He also knew that no direct route was possible. To simply burst out of the airduct and into the hallway would be suicide. Spider-Man was stronger and faster than any ordinary man, but a properly-placed bullet would still kill him just like anyone else.

  Silently, he backtracked through the airduct to a tributary tunnel he had noticed less than fifty feet away. This has got to be the way. Every room has an airvent, and I’m betting this tunnel leads to the vent in that room.

  Two hundred feet down the tunnel it branched off in two directions. Swell. Now I have to pick one. And with my luck, one tunnel will lead to the bowels of Newark, while the other will take me to a garret somewhere in the south of France. Sure wish I had a coin to flip. And with that, he made his choice.

  The first tunnel led to an empty office where, it seemed, the building’s maintenance staff held private parties. Cookie crumbs and torn plastic wrap littered the floor, while a whiskey bottle was stuffed carelessly into a wastebasket. Spider-Man doubled back.

  The second tunnel branched off into two more tunnels, but this time, remarkably, the Web-slinger made the right decision first time out. He soon found himself looking through a vent into a large conference room, where eight decidedly different men sat around a huge polished oaken desk. Set into one wall of the immense room was a large viewscreen such as one might find in a small theater.

  Cripes, what have you gotten yourself into this time, Webhead? Judging by the way those eight men are squirming in their seats, they’re not exactly pleased to be here. And if that’s the case, then why—? Before the W
eb-slinger could complete his thought, the room grew dark. With an electronic whisper, the viewscreen grew bright, and a strangely blurred image appeared on it. It seemed to be the image of a man, but the focus remained distorted, insuring the speaker’s anonymity. With the viewscreen’s light the room took on an eerie glow, washing bizarre shadows across the uneasy features of those gathered here.

  John Daniels, president of Argon Oil, glanced at the others seated around him. All of them foppish fools, he thought, sitting here like grade school children, obediently waiting for the one who’s called them here to speak. Well, John Daniels waits for no man.

  “We’ve been sitting here for ten blasted minutes, mister. Are you going to talk, or aren’t you? Either way, I haven’t got much more time to waste.”

  Andrew Cobb stretched leisurely, then yawned. “Easy, my friend. Just take it a mite easier. You’ll live longer, know what I mean? I figger our mysterious host’ll tell us what this here get-together is all about when he has a mind to, not before.” Cobb smiled as he scratched his head, wishing all the while he was back in Oklahoma. “Do wish he would get on with it, though. I don’t care much for these here big cities. Kinda prefer more open spaces. Thafs why Conch Oil started right in my own backyard, and that’s why it’s gonna stay there.”

  James J. Knotts, president of Agate Petroleum, suddenly clenched his fist in anger. “Will both of you just please shut up? I didn’t come here to listen to you blabbering. Somebody is blackmailing all of us, and I, for one, want to know why.” Knotts, a scrawny, balding man, snorted, then fell silent, but his fingers kept drumming nervously on the tabletop before him.

  Abruptly, the image on the viewscreen shifted, and an eerie, electronically distorted voice began a most deliberate dissertation.

  Behind the airvent, Spider-Man listened, his curiosity growing with every word. Blackmail? How could anyone blackmail America’s eight largest oil companies? Think I’ll stick around and try to find out. Besides, I might be able to take a few photos I can sell to Jameson’s competition. And wouldn’t that freak him out? Big-time publisher gets turned back at the door, but pure-hearted Parker manages to get inside the most secret meeting of them all—for a different newspaper. Behind his mask, Spider-Man chuckled softly to himself.