A/N: OK, here's the whole chapter, for real this time! Thanks to everyone who has been nudging me to get back to this story and for all the great reviews.
Chapter Three
Quentin Beck paced his workroom. He'd stuffed the glass helmet and purple cape back in with the props without anyone seeing him, his heart still pounding from the narrow escape. He'd panicked when Riebeau brought in that new photographer and told him to go get Sokal's stuff. All he'd needed to do was get a hold of the negatives first, and he'd messed it up. That woman had seen him, what if she managed to describe him?
Rubbing his hands over his head, he stopped and gazed around the workroom with blank eyes. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. No, she couldn't describe him. That's what the cape and helmet had been for, right? He'd planned ahead of time. He was on top of things. He could still do this, all he had to do was make sure Parker didn't get his hands on those pictures. If he did, Beck would take care of it, just like he'd taken care of Sokal.
Quentin walked over to his computer and sat down. All of this was going to be worth it in the end. All of the aggravation, all of the humiliation, all of the problems. He accessed his latest program and pulled up the menu, setting it in motion. He hadn't been sure he should do this, but it was time. He was being wasted in special effects. He belonged in front of the camera, and if it took a little pressure to make it happen, that was fine by him. Hitting enter, he leaned back in his chair. Too late for second thoughts now. Soon, Riebeau would be begging him to step into the role that should have been his from the beginning. He would shine as the Green Goblin, he knew he would. Critics everywhere would hail the discovery of a great new talent. Fame and fortune would be his...he would walk up the red carpet with cameras flashing on all sides, eager reporters asking him questions, admiring fans shoving and fighting for a chance to be near him. Sexy actresses would hang on his arm, smiling into his eyes.
A knock on the door startled him out of his daydream. Quentin slammed his thighs into the desktop as he stood, sprang back, and knocked his chair over. Manny yelled from outside the door, "You OK, Quentin?"
"Yeah, come on in," he muttered.
Manny ambled in, peering around curiously. "So this is the place where the magic happens?" He watched Quentin shrug and mumble something. "Hey, ah—you should, you know—" he mimed wiping his mouth.
The younger man swiped at the drool on his chin, embarrassed. "Thanks. Did you need something?"
"Well, I mean, yes. Basically, I need to know if you can work with me on a script, help me figure out if the effects for some of the scenes I have in mind are practical."
"Wow. You mean Riebeau is already setting up his next project? What's it going to be?"
"That's the big part of the favor, you see. This isn't for Riebeau." Manny righted Quentin's chair and sat in it, leaning his elbows on his knees. "See, Panavision has offered me double the normal rate to come in and fix the script for the Get Real sequel."
Quentin scowled. "Thought you were contracted exclusively with Apex."
"What they don't know won't hurt them, right?" Manny winked at his friend.
"You get caught, Riebeau's going to skin you alive."
"I know. Thing is, I need the money."
"Doesn't everyone?" Quentin grunted. "What's the point of sabotaging everything you've worked for so far—"
A ringing crash interrupted him. Manny and Quentin ran out the door, toward Studio Three where the screams and continuing commotion seemed to originate. Manny's long legs took him into the lead, and he missed the tiny smirk that Quentin couldn't manage to keep off his face.
Both of them missed seeing Chris, standing behind the workshop door with a fresh cigarette in her hand and a look of shock on her face.
J. Jonah Jameson lit his cigar and puffed smugly, hands on hips as he surveyed the nightclub, lit with spotlights and flashbulbs. Behind him, Joan Jameson struggled out of the limousine and smoothed her electric blue dress back down over her knees. His cigar dribbled ash down the front of his evening clothes but he didn't notice, his attention taken up by the glittering dresses and black tuxedos walking past him. Everyone was here to enjoy the newest hot spot, or more honestly, to see and be seen. There was the CEO of Gorcorp, and there was that supermodel—what's-her-name—hanging all over some grey-haired man—better find out who he is—and there was the mayor.
Oh, and there was Riebeau, the director that Manny was working for. They'd gone to school together, years back, he and old Manny, dreaming of being writers. Jameson swelled a little with pride as he thought of his own prosperous appearance and successful career. Sure, Manny's scripts were popular, but journalism was a real career. Journalists were respected defenders of the First Amendment. It was a noble, dignified calling.
"It's the mayor, Jonah," Joan hissed. She stretched her lips into a smile and yanked him forward.
"Mr. Mayor! Good to see—" The mayor moved out onto the red carpet without a second look at Jameson and his wife. Apparently he was still upset about Jameson's little faux pas a few months back.
"Look at that, see what you did? I can't believe you, how could you completely offend him, you should've known better, what do you publish a newspaper for?" Joan continued to nag him out of the corner of her mouth as they strolled up to the entrance behind the mayor's portly form, but Jameson ignored her. Wife, mistress, it didn't matter if he'd put his foot in it at John's party. The mayor would be dying to be friends again with the power of the press as soon as that article came out tomorrow. Jameson smiled and pulled Joan to a halt so that one of the photographers could snap a good picture. Just as the flash went off, Jameson's face fell comically, the cigar dropping from his lips and tumbling to the pavement.
Riebeau had moved aside to let the mayor in, and now he was turning to enter himself—accompanied by none other than Mary Jane Watson, stunning in a shimmering white sleeveless dress, and a young man. That was bad enough. He wouldn't mind if he never set eyes on her again, after what she'd done to John. But even worse—even worse—she was smiling and laughing at something her escort said to her, alight with happiness. That must be him, that was the creep, the reason she'd humiliated the entire Jameson family. After all the money that they'd dumped into that farce of a ceremony, she'd run off to be with some short twerp who looked uncomfortable in dress clothes.
Then the twerp turned, and Jameson saw red. That was Peter Parker. The photographer, his photographer. Peter Parker was stepping into a posh nightclub with Mary Jane Watson. Peter Parker. He had his mouth open before his brain could finish assimilating the information.
"Parker!"
Parker jumped guiltily and turned. Jameson stalked toward him. He didn't even feel Joan pulling at his arm or hear her squeal, "Not here, dear, really, not here."
"You! You black-hearted, double-dealing traitor!" He clenched his fists but left them at his side, leaning over Parker and thundering with all his considerable lung power into the boy's face. "I hired you off the streets! Gave you a job! Trusted you, and you repay me like this! Traitor!"
"Mr. Jameson, I don't think you want to do this right now," Parker stuttered, looking around at the avid crowd of gossip paper photographers and VIP's. Jameson's face was purple.
"You! You, you—my son is a hero! He's worth twenty of you! A hero! Not some nobody who can't wait to bite the hand that feeds him! You're fired, Parker! Never step into my office again, do you hear me?"
"Everyone can hear you, Mr. Jameson. Please, let me explain," Parker said, but Jameson wasn't finished.
He turned to MJ. "And you, you—Jezebel, you Delilah, you should be ashamed of yourself!"
"Oh, get an audience, Jonah," MJ snapped. Taking Parker's arm she swept into the club, the men with her following meekly.
Jameson was left staring at the door as it swung closed behind them.
"Great exit, Mary Jane," Riebeau said as they sat down to dinner. Peter was silent, still red-faced.
"You know, we actually got along while I was seeing John? At least, he yelled just as much, but in a nicer way." MJ grinned and her dimple showed. She was still on an adrenaline high, her eyes sparkling and her chin defiant.
Riebeau looked amused, but Peter had disappeared behind his menu. MJ looked at the black leather cover and her grin faltered. "I'm sorry, Pete. I can't believe he fired you for going out with me."
"Improper cause for termination. Can't you sue and get your job back?" Riebeau said briskly.
Peter lowered the menu and took a deep breath. "Well, no. I'm just free lance, so all he has to do is not buy anymore photos from me." MJ looked down at the table. She was starting to wish that she and Peter hadn't accepted this invitation, no matter how excited she'd been when Riebeau had asked them both to come.
"Hey, don't feel bad, MJ, it's not your fault at all." He reached over and grabbed her hand, smiling to show he meant it, but she thought it looked forced. Peter hated emotional confrontations—well, he wasn't used to them, was he? No matter what he said, May and Ben hadn't been the type to yell. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.
Unfolding his napkin over his paunch, Riebeau snorted. MJ turned to him. "It's not like any paper in town wouldn't buy Spider-Man pictures. I've been telling Peter he could do better for ages."
"Jameson really did buy my first pictures."
"Come on, you don't really think you owe him anything?"
Peter shrugged. "He's not as bad as he sounds, you know. Half the time he's just yelling to see if anyone has the guts to yell back."
MJ's eyes were wide. After what he'd said to them tonight, after all the damage that Jameson had done with his anti-arachnid editorials, Peter was actually defending the jerk? She took a sip of water to keep from saying what was in her head, but promised herself that they would discuss this. Later.
"Started dinner off with some excitement though, eh?" Riebeau chuckled. "Wonder what his reaction will be when tomorrow's columns come out—some of those rags will publish this. 'Editor in Street Fight over Beautiful Young Actress.'" MJ choked. "In fact we might—you know, you kids haven't told me how you got together. How'd you meet?"
Busy blotting off the water that had gone down her chin, Mary Jane couldn't answer right away. With a sheepish glance at his girlfriend, Peter said, "We were next-door neighbors, growing up. Guess I've always been in love with MJ, but she wouldn't give me the time of day in high school."
"Peter!" She swatted his arm.
Riebeau looked at her with calculation in his eyes. "So, you're really, literally, dating the boy next door? We need to work that into an interview, get you to talk about how you ditched the high society astronaut for an ordinary schmoe—"
"That's not—"
Riebeau held up a hand. "No offence meant, hon. It's a draw, people love a sweet little love story like that."
MJ thought Peter's face might be permanently red after tonight. Great, a movie he hates and now this. "You know, Jon, I don't think—"
"Jon!"
The group looked around at the high-pitched call and saw Chris winding between the tightly packed tables to reach them. Riebeau looked irritated for a split-second but then closed his mouth with a puzzled expression. All three remained silent and watched her approach, realizing that something had to be wrong. She was wearing a casual pantsuit, completely out of place in the fashionable surroundings, her hair slightly ruffled, her face worried. As she came up to stand beside Riebeau, MJ noticed that her eyes were puffy and slightly wild.
"Jon," she hissed quietly, "you've got to come over to the studio right away, we were trying to get you on your cell—"
"Turned it off," Riebeau grunted. "Hate people who yak in restaurants. What's the deal?"
"Tim's dead."
There was a short, nasty silence, and then MJ asked, "Tim—the stuntman playing the Goblin? My God, how did it happen?"
Chris answered without looking away from Riebeau. "It's murder. He was...God, it was an explosion, the police are all over. I've got a cop car outside waiting to drive us back, they want to see everyone who was on set today." And," Chris twisted her fingers helplessly, "there were witnesses—Jon, it's crazy, you've got to get back, this just isn't real."
"Calm down, Chris. Listen to me, take a breath, get a grip, OK?"
"Jon, it was the Goblin, the real Green Goblin. He was inside the studio, people saw him, he said that anyone who tried to take Tim's place would meet the same fate. And then he just disappeared."
Stunned, Mary Jane turned to stare at Peter. The Goblin is dead. Norman Osborn is dead. This can't be happening. Peter's face had turned white, and he was sitting with that unnatural stillness that he seemed to achieve when he was upset. Then MJ saw something determined surface in his eyes, and when he spoke she heard Spider-Man in his voice.
"How many people saw him? What did they see, exactly?"
Chris answered the authoritative tone automatically. "A bunch of the stage hands and a couple of techs, they saw him flying that glider thing across the sound stage and heard him speak. He flew past the sets and they lost sight of him." MJ frowned, and exchanged a confused glance with her boyfriend.
"Come on, everyone," Riebeau said, standing and placing a hand on Chris' shoulder. "Let's get to the studio, we'll know everything that's happened soon enough." MJ stood too, wishing Riebeau didn't have such an uneasy expression on his face—it was unnerving to see the confident director at a loss. "Sorry to end the night early, Parker. Chris, can you call a cab for him?"
Before he could protest, Chris repeated, "They want everyone who was there today. Peter was there today."
"Oh. Right." Riebeau shepherded them toward the door. MJ hustled, pulling at Peter's arm, trying to get far enough ahead of Chris and Riebeau to keep them from overhearing.
"Pete? What's going on?"
"I don't know," Peter whispered back. "But there's something really fishy about this whole thing—flying the glider through a closed studio building and just vanishing? It doesn't make sense."
MJ bit her lip and kept her arm wrapped around Peter's as she saw the officer waiting outside to usher them into the front seat of the squad car. Riebeau and Chris squeezed into the back seat. What she'd dismissed that morning as a superstition was becoming a nightmare. Turning, she saw Chris whispering to Riebeau, whose face darkened.
"Better keep it to yourself, for now," MJ heard him whisper back at her, his booming voice carrying in spite of him. Chris didn't look convinced, but fell silent. MJ faced front again and watched the streetlights slide by. For a moment she wondered what that was all about, but then her mind returned to this new disaster.
Maybe, the real curse is me, she thought unhappily. I always seem to be in the middle of this kind of thing. And if it is the Goblin, is he coming after us again? The thought was enough to send a cold shiver down her spine, and she leaned closer into Peter. He hugged her arm gently to his side and she saw all of her worry reflected in his face. Then the car pulled into the Apex parking lot, full of the depressingly familiar official bustle and light of a crime scene.