Chapter 2: Networking

With the connections he had inherited, it wasn't too difficult for Harry to find out what had been going on at OsCorp. Jonah Jameson grumbled a little at letting him look at the microfilm archive, but gave in after a little wheedling, on the condition that Harry have someone from the Bugle staff with him. Harry went through every paper from a month before Mendell Stromm's death to a month after Norman Osborn's, stopping to read not only the articles he was looking for, but anything else that struck him as remotely interesting. It took longer, but he thought the Bugle staffer hadn't noticed a pattern. Harry, on the other hand, was beginning to form a narrative.

Quest Aerospace had been the industry leader in the lucrative defense market OsCorp had been pursuing. OsCorp had entered the field from the commercial manufacturing side, but Quest had entered from the aviation side, and had some advantages there. Quest, he gathered, had taken some time to build a large stable of talented scientists, whereas Norman Osborn had depended largely on his own innovations to drive the company. While those innovations were many and exceptional, they were not enough to cover the rapid expansion Norman demanded. Harry doubted his father would back down from a project just because things were getting risky, but he also knew several of the executives on the Board of Directors, and he knew they were far more conservative. That put Norman in a precarious position.

Next, Harry spoke with the OsCorp employees he thought might know anything. His father's former secretary, Miss Simkins–she was now assisting another bigwig–knew of all the projects on which Norman had been working, and had the names of all the technicians on those projects. From them, Harry learned that there was only one glider with one suit (the suit, he discovered, served as body armor and helped control the different features of the glider–he supposed it had been wrecked when his father died, and Spider-Man had gotten rid of it), although other prototypes had been in development. That was good news, since it meant no one but Norman knew about the second suit and glider.

The technicians also told Harry that his father had argued with Mendell Stromm on several occasions about the safety of some sort of super-soldier drug. The techs were under the impression that the drug samples had been destroyed when it became clear the drug wouldn't be ready in time, and that the missing suit and glider had simply been warehoused somewhere.

In retrospect, Harry found it astonishing and a little disturbing that his father had never been investigated for Stromm's death. It all seemed very obvious to him. Norman had coerced Stromm into helping him test the drug on himself. The drug turned out to be unsafe, as Stromm had predicted, and Norman had killed him in a psychotic rage. The left side of Harry's brain found this to be the likeliest story, as it explained all the facts without stretching credulity too far in any one direction. The right side of his brain was appalled at the very idea, and thought it far more likely that Stromm had faked his own death, then framed and killed Norman. It was still working on a motive when Aunt May called and invited him to lunch.

Her new place looked a lot like her old place, but on a smaller scale. The living room was cozy and comfortable, the kitchen bright and cheerful. There were flowers everywhere–floral prints on the towels and wallpaper, and even a freshly-cut centerpiece on the table. Harry liked it. It felt more like a home and less like a museum than his townhouse. For lunch, May had prepared clam chowder, sandwiches, and tossed salad, with homemade blueberry pie for desert. She laid it all out, but asked him to wait as she nervously checked the clock.

At a quarter after, Harry asked what was going on.

May bit her lip. "Now, don't be angry, but I invited Peter, too."

"Why would I be mad? You can invite anyone you want over to your own home," Harry replied stiffly.

"I had hoped you two might have a chance to talk…" she looked down at her hands and twisted her wedding ring coquettishly. "To have you two fighting, it's such a burden to put on an old lady, dear, really…."

This hadn't occurred to Harry, who suddenly felt extremely guilty.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "If you want me to go –"

"Heavens, no. Land sakes, you do take things to heart, don't you?" May shook her head and looked at the clock again. "Well, we'd better get started if we don't want the soup to get cold."

The mood lightened as May updated Harry on her activities. She was giving piano lessons to the children in her apartment complex and enjoying getting to know her neighbors. She also planted flowers in the community garden, donated her time to the Salvation Army, and worked part-time for a local daycare to supplement the Social Security checks that were her only other source of income. And for all that, she had still found time to call Harry four times in the past week, just to check up. Every time, she had given him the impression that she had nothing more pressing to do than fuss over him.

Harry had two slices of pie and would have had a third if he hadn't already stuffed himself on the soup and sandwiches. He complimented her lavishly on it, so when she divvied up the leftovers between him and Peter, she gave Harry the extra slice. He picked a stray blueberry out of the tin and ate it, thinking.

Finally, he said, "Hey, Aunt May. When's your birthday?"

The corners of her mouth turned up. "In May, of course. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking that I never really thanked you for saving my life. I want to get you something."

"Pish posh. I was happy to help, and I'll hear no more about it," she said briskly.

"It's not just that, though. I also wanted to thank you for checking up on me. I don't have any family, so it means a lot…" he trailed off, feeling self-conscious. Aunt May had sat down in front of him and seemed to be studying him.

"What sort of a thing were you thinking of?" she asked.

Greatly relieved, he answered in a rush of breath. "Anything you want. Jewelry, furs, a house, a car…whatever, anything. What do you want?"

"I want never again to hear that you've hurt yourself. I want to know that you'll be all right. If it isn't too much to ask, I'd like you to visit sometimes. There is no trifle you could buy that would mean more to me than that."

Harry waited for the punchline. After a moment, May sighed and gave him an exasperated look.

"In other words," she said, "you aren't getting off that easily."

He had to smile. "I was just thinking the same thing."

May threw up her hands in despair. "If you really must, then go ahead…but nothing too extravagant. I won't have you thinking of me as some sort of charity case."

Harry swore that he was thinking no such thing, and May sent him out the door with a pile of food and a peck on the forehead.

Ah, he thought cheerfully, but who's to say what's too extravagant?

Peter took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to relieve the tension. These headaches were going to drive him crazy if he didn't watch out. He was so frazzled from a week of feeling bad and studying hard for his midterms that he forgot all about lunch with Aunt May and was late–again!–even though he had no good excuse. Even better, the more frustrated and annoyed he was, the worse the headaches got.

Peter was just about to go in when Harry walked out the door carrying a stack of plastic containers. He cocked his head to one side and observed, "You look like death."

"Thanks," said Peter irritably. He was in no mood for this.

"What's up?" Harry said, something new coloring the even, emotionless tones he had been using with Peter lately. Whether it was concern or just train-wreck curiosity, Peter couldn't tell.

"I've been having these headaches lately."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Guilty conscience?"

Not hardly, Peter thought, but Harry was gone before he could think of a good comeback he could actually say.

The new place was eerily similar to the old place, as though someone had taken all the unnecessary items out and shrunk the rest down. He greeted Aunt May with a kiss, and she immediately busied herself whipping up the lunch leftovers into a fresh meal.

"Did you see Harry on your way in?" she asked. At his nodded affirmation, she continued, "And did you both act like civilized adults?"

"Yeah, it was fine. Don't worry about me, Aunt May. You have enough to think about." Peter frowned, hating to think he was causing his aunt any distress. That would be a fine way to repay the years of love and support she had given him.

"I know you were raised right, it's Harry that worries me. He was just now threatening to buy me something terribly expensive for my birthday."

"What for?"

"Saving his life, as if I did anything heroic." She poured two cups of tea. "I'm sure his heart is in the right place, but he ought to learn that not everything has a price tag."

"What's he figure his life is worth?" Although he agreed with Aunt May, Peter was curious to know what Harry was offering.

"Anything," she answered, with some distaste.

Peter grinned. "Well, now you can get that stealth jet you've always wanted."

"I considered asking for a string of poloponies, but you know how serious he is…he would've taken it as an insult."

"What's a paloppony?"

Aunt May fixed him with a look of affectionate disapproval. "Whippersnapper." Her tone became thoughtful as she watched Peter eat. "I can't say I wasn't tempted, of course, but I really can't encourage that kind of thinking."

"I could use a car," Peter mumbled, mouth full of sandwich.

Aunt May's expression was all the answer he needed.

His father was waiting for Harry when he got home.

"Words are not actions, son."

Harry carried his leftovers to the fridge. "Jeez, dad," he sighed. "I was feeling okay just a minute ago."

"No, you weren't. You were feeling guilty. You won't be 'okay' until you do your duty and avenge my death."

Harry looked Norman over, trying to find any seam in the effect. He knew perfectly well it wasn't real, but the illusion was so perfect it was spooky. "I have things to do. You can stay if you don't bother me."

Norman smiled wryly. "Giving me permission to stay in my own home, how generous. It so happens that I have only one item on my 'To Do' list, and all the time in the world to get it done."

Harry ignored him and strode purposefully into Norman's study–no, my study, he reminded himself. He sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. Norman stood on the opposite side of the desk, looking down on him.

Suddenly, Norman banged his fist on the desk. In half a second, he had turned from Harry's beloved father to the snarling monster that hid under the Goblin mask. He leaned close. Harry could feel his hot breath, could even smell just a whiff of the Aramis aftershave he always wore. Very spooky. "You worthless ingrate! I gave you everything you could ever want, and this is how you repay me?"

"I can't do it. I'm not even sure I want to anymore." Harry instinctively moved back to get away from the Goblin.

Norman smoothed his features back to normal. He smiled indulgently. "Now, son, I know it's difficult for you, but sometimes you just have to do what has to be done. Do you understand?"

Harry clicked the mouse impatiently, but the computer wasn't ready to distract him yet. Norman moved closer, forcing Harry to look at him.

"When did I ever ask you for anything? Never. Now I need you to do this one thing for me, and everything will be right again. Don't you love me?"

Harry nodded miserably. "Yes, of course."

"Then kill Peter Parker and let me rest in peace." Norman's eyes held a silent plea. Harry had only once before seen his father look so vulnerable, the morning after Mendell Stromm's murder.

"No."

Instantly, all the warmth and vulnerability vanished from Norman's face. "You never were good for anything," he snapped, and then he himself vanished, right into thin air.

"Goodbye, dad," said Harry softly. He looked at the computer; still booting. Feeling very tired, he rested his head in his hands. When he raised it again, his palms were damp. He dried them on his handkerchief and cleared his mind. In a bad mood, any gift he thought of was likely to be terrible, and he wanted Aunt May's to be special.

Since her wedding was in only three weeks, he also needed to get a gift for Mary Jane, although he wasn't going quite as spectacular on that one. John Jameson was quite capable of taking care of MJ in the way she deserved–and besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that the wedding wouldn't actually come off. He flipped through the virtual catalogs of several high-class department stores, and found a dozen gold-preserved roses for MJ, but there was nothing that stood out as something Aunt May would even like, much less that conveyed what he wanted to tell her. At last, in despair, he decided to go to the Westerveldt Country Club.

Harry hated the club. It was a long drive out of the city to spend time with people around whom he felt even more awkward and out of place than he usually did. He had been there only once before, when he was sixteen and his father dragged him to some kind of cotillion or something. The major point of it was for Norman to make business contacts, although there was a secondary goal of introducing Harry to the kind of girls he was supposed to be dating. Harry had just flunked out of his fourth private school, and Norman was finally going to send him to a public school. But even if his son had to go to school with commoners, he didn't have to mingle with them.

Norman had made plenty of strategic alliances that night, but Harry hated every minute of it. Even though he had been born into this life, these circles, somehow he couldn't think of them as his people. The other kids seemed so impossibly perfect, he felt like a fraud just talking to them–Jay Gatsby hopelessly aping Tom Buchanan. In the past two years, he had learned how to make that persona work for him, but it was still a show.

As soon as he got to Westerveldt, he made a beeline for the bar. The sky was threatening rain, and only a few members were wandering around. Of them, only one had chosen the bar to light on. Harry sat down next to him.

The man was older, Harry guessed close to Aunt May's age, and aging gracefully. He had pale blue eyes that watered slightly. His hair was short and white, slicked back and parted neatly, with a matching white moustache. His three-piece suit was also white, accented with a bolero tie. Stick a pipe in his mouth, he'd be Mark Twain. Or Colonel Sanders.

Noticing Harry eyeballing him, the man chuckled. "Don't be shy, son. I've got nothing to hide." He had a smooth bass voice and a patrician Southern accent, and he spoke slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Oh, I didn't–I wasn't–" Harry began, flustered. Then he noticed the amusement on the man's face and calmed down. The guy seemed nice enough. "I'm Harry Osborn," he said, extending his hand.

The man shook it firmly. "Beau Hollingsworth. What're you drinking?"

"Bourbon."

"Man after my own heart," Beau grinned. He waggled a finger at the bartender, who poured them both a fresh round.

Shifting into Gatsby mode, Harry asked, "What brings you to New York, Beau? Business or pleasure?"

"Little of both, actually. I'm of a mind to set up shop and take me a wife."

Harry held up his glass. "I'll drink to that." They clinked glasses and drank deeply. "Next round's on me."

Beau nodded his appreciation. "And how about you, son? Couldn't have come on account of the weather." He looked out the window, where fat rain droplets were splashing lazily on the ground. It was still fairly bright out. "Devil's beating his wife with a frying pan," he commented, as if that made any sense at all.

"I was hoping to find someone who could give me some advice about gift giving."

"Reckon you come to the right place, then. What do you want to know?"

Harry explained, with minimal detail, who the gift was for and why. Beau sipped his drink thoughtfully. "If this lady's not like to take a handout that looks like a handout, reckon she won't take one with a bow tied on top. No, sir, that dog won't hunt."

"It's not a handout, it's a gift. Why can't I give a nice gift to a friend without everyone acting like I'm the Salvation Army or something?" Harry finished his drink and slammed the glass on the bar. He was immediately embarrassed at his own lack of control, but Beau seemed unruffled.

"Some folks don't like to be reminded of what they haven't got," Beau shrugged. "Maybe you ought to be thinking smaller. Now, women ain't so difficult. Every woman on God's green earth wants to be young and beautiful. It's up to you to find her something that'll make her feel young and beautiful–without seeming like you think she ain't young and beautiful enough."

Harry snorted. "Just that simple, huh?"

"Can't go wrong with perfume or jewels. You can mix it up some, but watch yourself." Beau took off one of his gold cufflinks and rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a triangular red mark. "This here is a battle scar," he explained. "Lady friend took the iron to me."

"What did you get her?" Harry asked, eyeing the scar.

"Boob job."

Harry looked up to see if he was joking, but he seemed perfectly serious.

"Yep," Beau continued wistfully, "She was some lady, but she was flatter'n a flitter." He sipped his drink. After a moment, he continued, "The only thing women like more than beauty is history. Things with sentimental value, understand? For instance, I gave my first wife a ring that was handed down in my mother's family back to the Civil War. And sure as I'm sitting here, she was happier about that little chip than any of my other wives were about any Cartier rock."

"Other wives?"

"Son," said Beau, "there are very few things in this life closer to divinity than standing in front of the preacher man and forging an eternal bond with the woman you love."

"But you didn't bond with them eternally. You didn't even spend your whole life with them."

"It's the living with them part that'll getcha," Beau said ruefully.

Noticing someone coming in at the side door, Beau waved at the newcomer and finished his drink. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to it, son. That'll be business."

"Nice meeting you," said Harry, offering his hand again.

Again, Beau shook it, adding, "Pleasure's mine." He gave Harry his business card and went to meet his associate. Harry tucked the card into his wallet. Maybe there was something to this club thing, after all.