Chapter Two
"Mr. Riebeau!" Mary Jane shouted and waved, and the director ambled across the studio set toward them. Peter wasn't too sure about this plan of MJ's. Grimacing, he looked down and fumbled with the camera around his neck until MJ grabbed his arm and walked him forward.
"He needs a photographer," she hissed. "Why shouldn't he hire you?"
"I don't want a job just because my girlfriend..." Peter had to stop whispering because Riebeau had arrived.
"MJ! Hon, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Jon. We're a family here." Riebeau patted MJ's arm and cocked an eye at Peter.
"Jon, this is Peter Parker, an excellent photographer. You may have seen his work in The Daily Bugle?" Mary Jane flashed a challenging smile and lifted an eyebrow. "Since we're a photographer short, I thought you might not mind if I brought him along."
Riebeau snorted and looked Peter up and down. "Mind? Nope. Of course, I might throw him right back off the set...You ever done PR work?" he added.
"Ah, no," Peter glanced briefly at MJ. "Mostly crime scenes. Most of what I sell are pictures of Spider-Man," he admitted. "I brought along my portfolio..."
Riebeau said something that sounded like "Hrumph" and snatched the folder. He flipped rapidly through the pictures, not too carefully, and tossed the portfolio back to him. "Really don't need artsy junk."
"Mr. Riebeau—" The director held up a hand to cut MJ off.
"I've seen your stuff in the Bugle. It's not bad." Riebeau looked out from under his heavy eyebrows down at Peter, who was about two-thirds his size whether you went up or sideways. "Look, we've got to get the publicity shots done, stills for magazines, posters, that kind of thing. Sokal—he's the photographer we lost—he had a schedule, poses, some preliminary junk done. Why don't you get all that, look it over. You think you can do it, we'll talk price."
Mary Jane's smile was real this time. "Thanks, Mr.—OK, Jon, sorry," she laughed.
"Thank you for the chance, Mr. Riebeau, I really appreciate it," Peter added. Riebeau made the "hrumph" sound again and suddenly bellowed at someone all the way across the studio, making both MJ and Peter jump. "Hang on, kid, right back," Riebeau said, and strode off to confront the set designer.
"See?" MJ was practically bouncing on her toes. "And it's not like he's going to be nice to you just for me. Face it, Peter, he could get another actress. He's hiring you because you're good."
"He hasn't hired me yet—"
"He will." Peter looked unconvinced, and MJ moved over to give him a quick peck on the lips. "Relax. Besides, this way you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don't get caught by the curse."
"Curse?" Peter swung his camera around to the side, stuck his portfolio under one arm, and slid his hands around MJ's waist. "What curse?"
MJ chuckled softly, leaned her forehead into his, and closed her eyes. "Oh, Peggy, the make-up girl, is convinced the movie's cursed because there's been a couple of accidents. She thinks the Green Goblin is out to sabotage the movie."
Peter breathed in the scent of her hair. "Norman Osborn is long gone. And, well, it's not like Harry—"
"Let's not talk about Harry," MJ said, pulling back and looking at him with her dimple showing. "It's all silly, it's just the kind of rumor theater people start. The thing is, they've been having a hard time finding someone to play the Goblin. One guy got sick and quit, one guy broke his leg, stuff happens." MJ shrugged and ran a finger up and down the camera strap across his chest. "Just bad luck."
"Right..." he breathed. A few seconds later a loud cough startled them into jumping apart.
"MJ, hon, they need you over at wardrobe. When you're done there, get back in here. Last rehearsal for the Times Square scenes today, we starting shooting tomorrow. Get a move on." MJ gave Peter's hand a squeeze and dashed off. Riebeau grunted and waved Peter to follow him.
"Nice girl," he said.
"The best."
Riebeau looked at Peter out of the corner of his eye. "Manny says she dumped that astronaut, Jameson, at the altar. Not too long ago. She was dating the Osborn heir at one time too, wasn't she?"
"Something like that." Peter wasn't liking the conversation.
Riebeau laughed and slapped Peter on the back. "None of my business, huh? Tell you what, that girl of yours is my business, until this movie's done. She's good, better than I thought she'd be—"
"MJ's not good, she's great."
"So, get used to it, kid. People are going to be talking about her. People are going to want to know all about her, especially her love life. If the publicity department and I get our way, every tabloid in the country will be putting out articles about her every time she sneezes, sneaking around to catch pictures of her in a bikini. She's going to be big time, once this movie hits the box office—or before."
Peter kept his mouth shut and followed Riebeau out of the studio and down a hallway at a fast clip. Mary Jane on billboards all over Manhattan, Mary Jane's face on posters outside the theater—he'd been so proud for her. But he'd never really thought about what this dream of hers to be an actress meant for him. Now, she was starring in this stupid movie that was like one of J. Jonah Jameson's ranting editorials brought to life. Now, this famous Hollywood director was telling him how everyone was going to want to know everything about her. How long could he keep his secret, if MJ attracted that kind of attention? He'd thought about his job putting her in danger. He'd never thought about her job putting him in danger.
Riebeau opened the door of a tiny office filled with too many people. A forty-something woman with frosted hair was typing at a computer. A skinny, twitchy man and an awkward kid about Peter's age were huddled around a table covered with papers, diagrams, and coffee cups. Riebeau squeezed in by the desk, the only space left, and Peter stood uncertainly in the doorway.
"Hey, Chris, where's Jeff Sokal's stuff? For the shoot. This is um," he snapped his fingers.
"Peter Parker."
"Right, Peter, this is Chris, the producer, and over there, that's Manny Alzamora, our scriptwriter," Manny waved, "and Quentin Beck, our special effects wiz kid." Beck didn't bother to look at Peter. "Peter's going to take over photography on the set."
"All that stuff went home with Jeff's wife," Chris said, still intent on the computer. "She just kind of packed everything up."
Riebeau groaned theatrically and hooked his read end over the desk. "He had the schedule, the test shots—"
Chris turned to smile brightly at Peter and indicated the printer, which was smoothly spitting out a page. "That's Jeff's home address. I'll give Susie a call—she's the widow—she'll let you go through Jeff's stuff and get what you need. I put my cell number on it, just holler if you need anything."
Peter picked up the paper, glanced at it, and slid it into his portfolio. "Thank you."
"You can find the place, kid?" Riebeau said. "We need you to get going pronto, we're enough behind as it is."
"Sure, Mr. Riebeau, I'll go right away." Peter gave the office a vague wave goodbye, realized that Riebeau had already forgotten he was there, and left.
Heading out, Peter hunched his shoulders and went back to his gloomy thoughts. Mary Jane had accepted him, mask and all, without protest. She had brightened his whole world, from the moment she stood in his doorway and refused to leave. And he knew it hadn't been easy for her, even in the short time they'd been together. So how could he ask her to give up her dreams for him? It wasn't an option. Still...what if some fan with too much time on his hands started counting up all the times she'd been saved by Spider-Man? How long before some enterprising journalist—
Peter was jolted out of his reverie by a quick buzz of spider-sense prompting him to step aside, just in time to avoid being run into by a man hurrying past. Peter recognized the geeky special effects guy from Riebeau's office, rushing out a doorway at the end of the hall. Not a people person, obviously. Manny Alzamora was coming down the hallway too, but unlike Beck he slowed and nodded at Peter as he came up.
"Hi! Peter, right?"
"Yeah, and you're Mr. Alzamora?" Peter shook hands.
"Just Manny, please. I'm just a writer—we don't get any respect around here." Manny grinned, and Peter smiled weakly in return. So this was the guy who'd written that...that libelous hogwash about Spider-Man. Peter tried to keep his reaction off his face. It was easy to get along with Jameson, in spite of his editorials. He was so annoying in person that everyone wore irritated expressions around him. But Peter couldn't frown at Manny, who was trying to be friendly.
"Oh. Uh, yeah, MJ—you know Mary Jane?—she let me read the script. It's, um, interesting."
"Totally accurate," Manny said, thumping his chest with one hand. "I did all kinds of research, I really got into the story. Jonah Jameson over at the Daily Bugle is a close friend, gave me access to all kinds of unpublished information."
"That explains it," Peter said before he thought.
"Huh?"
"It's just that you've got such a negative view of Spidey. I take pictures of him, you know, and he's always been...helping people, doing good things. Jameson's got a real attitude—"
"Hold on. There's a lot about Spider-Man you don't know, Peter. I mean, Jonah let me see police files, profiling that's been done on him, the works." Peter opened his mouth—there were profiles of him?—but shut it as Manny went on.
"That's great, that you're the Spidey photographer. Jonah never told me your name—he protects his sources—but he mentioned that his photographer was a fan. It's OK, you know? You're young, you still have some faith in heroes. But let me tell you," Manny shook his head and set his hands on his hips, "there's no Santa Claus, and no one's out there fighting bad guys just to make the world a better place. Everyone's got an agenda."
"I think you're wrong," Peter said quietly.
"Well, tell you what. Next time you go taking pictures of him, take me with you." Manny grinned, eyes sparkling, hopping from one foot to another. "What a rush, it'd be great to see Spider-Man in action."
"Oh, ah," Peter shook his head and looked down. "I don't think I can do that, Mr. Alzamora."
"Come on, I wouldn't tell anyone how you meet him. Swear. Maybe you can convince me that Jonah's wrong. You know, it could inspire a scene or too—show another side of the Spider-Man. You think he's a hero—this is your chance to get your side of the story told."
Peter stared helplessly at him for a second, wishing he could say yes. "No, really, it'd be...I just don't think I can. Anyway, I um, can't really tell when he's going to show up."
"Uh-huh. Right." Manny threw up his hands. "Whatever, but if you change your mind, I mean, I'll be around!"
"OK. Thanks." Peter nodded farewell and backed away, heading for the door back into the sound stage.
He wasted some time unsuccessfully searching for MJ before giving up and heading out to Sokal's house. If he wasn't back before she got off work—well, MJ was used to him randomly disappearing. He told himself that she'd be more shocked if he was actually stayed there all day, and scribbled a quick note for her which he gave to a stage hand.
Jeff Sokal had lived in Jackson Heights, not far from Aunt May's old house. Peter rode the bus there, his thoughts running in circles throughout the trip. He stepped off the bus so absorbed in his worries that he didn't notice the commotion a couple of blocks down until a police car drove past him. It pulled up next to another black-and-white in front of a small home with a neatly tended patch of grass in front. A crowd of neighbors was being motioned away from the front steps by an officer already on the scene.
With a sinking heart, Peter realized that the house was on the right side of the street to be the Sokal's house. It must be close to the Sokal's. Really close. He approached slowly, checking the numbers for a block before he gave up on denial and shoved the address back into his portfolio. He went directly up to the officer in the front yard.
"Sir?"
The uniformed officer turned and held up a hand in warning. "Please stay back. This is a crime scene."
"I have an appointment to see Mrs. Sokal, is this her house?"
"Sir, please stay back."
He sighed with exasperation, but the officer disappeared into the house and reappeared before Peter could figure out what to do next. Apparently he'd been given orders to let Peter in, because he gestured him sternly forward saying, "Please step inside."
Peter stepped over the broken glass littering the front step and entered through the open door. The house was old, and so was the furniture. The walls were covered in flowery wallpaper and family pictures, and there was a worn green carpet on the floor. Peter was reminded sharply of the house he'd grown up in.
A young woman was sitting on a couch in the front room, crying. She was pretty, with short, curly brown hair, dark eyes and dusky skin. But she looked exhausted and confused and stared at Peter with hostility. A second cop stood next to her.
"We took down your report, ma'am. Are you sure there's nothing you want to add to the description of your attacker?"
"I told you, I've told you already. He was wearing some kind of weird helmet thing, like an astronaut. He had a purple cape on. I couldn't see his face or anything."
"Like an astronaut," the cop repeated.
"Yes, look, would I make this crap up? He was in the house when I came home, he knocked me down and ran out. I didn't get a good look at him, OK? Can't you just leave me alone?" she shouted, including Peter with another angry glare.
"Um, I'm sorry," he said. "I...Chris from the studio was supposed to call about me picking up your husband's work...ah, this is a bad time, I'll come back."
"Hold on." The cop looked back down at Susie Sokal. "Where is your husband now?"
"Dead," she snapped. "He died last week, you moron. He was mugged and shot and why aren't you out catching his murderer, or the jerk who broke in, or anything other than harassing me and acting like I'm insane?" She burst into noisy sobs, and buried her face in her hands.
The cop turned calmly to Peter. "And you were supposed to pick up Mr. Sokal's work? What kind of work was that?"
"Um, he was a photographer. Um, me too," Peter lifted his camera up as evidence. "For a movie studio."
"The study was trashed," Susie said, raising her head. "There's pictures all over the floor. They've already asked me if anything is missing. I don't know. I don't care. Just get what you came for and go away." Tears were still streaking down her face.
Unhappy and wishing he could be somewhere else, Peter followed the cop to the study. Boxes of photographs had been tossed from the shelves to the floor. Peter looked over the room with an experienced eye; whoever broke in had been interrupted before he could really get started. Nothing had been ripped up or damaged, and only a couple of drawers had been pulled out of the desk. The guy in the purple cape had obviously been looking for something more than cash or a TV.
Spotting the Apex Studios logo on some scattered papers, Peter knelt down and began shoving them into a box, along with nearby photographs and a couple of envelopes of negatives. If he picked up anything he wasn't supposed to have, he could return it later.
Peter picked up the box and let the cop know he was done. Walking back through the front room, he hesitated by the couch, still feeling guilty about intruding at such a bad time.
"Mrs. Sokal? I'm sorry, about your husband. I wish I could help." She didn't look up.
Sighing, Peter walked back out the open door and carried the box toward the bus stop. The cops were already getting ready to leave. Nothing missing, no one really hurt, he knew they'd just file the report and forget it. Maybe make a few jokes about astronaut thieves.
Peter wasn't laughing. He couldn't help thinking about a mysterious curse, a series of accidents, a murder, and now a break-in. He'd stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.
Thanks for all the great reviews. Sorry the update took so longhopefully the next chapter will be coming soon!