Chapter Five
J. Jonah Jameson was in a rage. This was so far from unusual that Hoffman hadn't realized that anything new was wrong.
"Hoffman! Get in here!" Hoffman scuttled past the secretary like a mouse with its tail on fire and burst into speech as soon as he was inside Jameson's glass-walled office.
"Sir, we've got the Macy's ad for page three – "
"Shut up!" Hoffman's mouth closed abruptly. Jonah glared at his junior editor, Robbie Robertson, and snapped, "Why not?"
"Because you can't sue them, Jonah," Robbie explained in the most patient, reasonable tone he possessed. "You know the libel laws as well as I do." His round, kind face was a total contrast to Jameson's sharper features and flat haircut.
Betty Brant leaned through the two men, slapped a folder on Jameson's desk, and walked out.
"I don't care about the law, I want them sued! What are you doing here, Hoffman? Get out!"
"Sir, you wanted to know – "
"Can't you see I'm busy? If I want you I'll shout." Hoffman left without argument.
"Jonah, you can't sue the New York Sunbeam for running this picture." Robbie waved the paper with its front-page photo of Jameson, cigar ash down his shirt and face twisted in anger. "You can't sue them for telling people that Mary Jane Watson left your son at the altar. And you can't sue them for the headline." The headline, in the largest, blackest print the Sunbeam had been able to come up with, read 'Bugle Editor in Public Brawl with Actress Girlfriend.' The article inside, under a glamour shot of Mary Jane, went on: 'Actress Ditches Bugle-Boy, Father Swears Revenge.'
"She put them up to it," Jonah shouted, pounding his desk. "It was a set up! And she's going to regret this for the rest of her life!" A cup of pencils teetered at the edge of the desk, and Robbie wondered how many more thuds from Jonah's fist it would take for it to fall.
Hoffman came back in. "Sir, there's someone from Apex Studios here to see – "
"GET OUT!" Jonah bellowed. "If we can't sue them we'll bury them! And Mary Jane the Pain Watson! And Parker! And that fat director – HOFFMAN! Get back here!"
Hoffman stuck his head cautiously past the door, peering at Jameson through his thick glasses. "Yes?"
"Apex Studios? What are you waiting for? Get him in here!" Jameson lit his first cigar of the morning and waved it at Robbie. "You don't have a job to do? Get Brock and Ulrich on it."
"Ah – on what?" Robbie asked.
"The Pain, don't be an idiot. Get me some dirt on her, on the Sunbeam, whatever. I'd say get me dirt on Parker, but the biggest secret that kid's ever had was getting a B on some test in high school," Jameson grunted. Robbie rubbed a hand quickly across his mouth and didn't comment.
Hoffman sidled into the office with an even skinnier, mousier guy in tow. Jameson stared at him in disappointment. "So? What? What are you wasting my time about? Who are you anyway?"
"My name's Quentin Beck."
"No one cares." Jameson flipped through the folder Betty had left on his desk.
The kid gaped at him and sniffed noisily. "I work at Apex…there was an explosion there yesterday…"
"We ran the story. Probably a gas leak. Killed some no-name stuntman. Big deal."
"Yeah, but..." Jameson opened his mouth to kick the irritating whiner out. Beck went on, "Riebeau's covering it up. There were more people killed today." The words Jameson was about to say changed halfway through his vocal chords.
"What people. How. What do you know?"
"The Green Goblin – he's been attacking people, blowing them up, shooting – just now, a few minutes ago, he shot a bunch of people, a photographer and a couple of women. They don't have a clue over there, they aren't doing anything to stop it, just trying to keep it out of the papers. Riebeau's trying to hush it up," Beck said.
"Photographer? Don't tell me someone got Parker." Jonah chuckled, rubbing his hands together.
"Uh – yeah, that's his name," Beck said, eyes wide with surprise. "You, uh, know him?" Robbie made a soft, shocked sound. Jameson hadn't really been expecting it to be Parker. He looked blank for a moment.
"He works for me." Then Jameson waved Parker away in a cloud of cigar smoke. "The Green Goblin? What's he doing attacking a movie studio?"
Beck's face was pinched and spiteful, and he couldn't wait to explain the weird streak of bad luck the studio had been experiencing. Jameson listened, eyes narrowed and cigar burning, forgotten, in his hand as he heard how badly production on Mary Jane Watson's new movie was going. Eventually, Robbie broke in.
"You actually saw the shooting – you saw Peter Parker get shot? And you came here right after?" He frowned suspiciously. "How come the cops let you go?"
Beck shifted his gaze to the floor. "Well, maybe I wasn't right there for the shooting, but I heard all about it. And I thought it was time people knew what was going on. Riebeau is trying to keep it quiet," he repeated, sniffing self-righteously.
"HOFFMAN!" Jameson bellowed. Hoffman popped back into the room and Jameson ordered, "Get on the line to Manny Alzamora, or anybody over there at Apex, confirm a shooting. Robbie, forget everything else, get Ulrich and Brock over there." Shaking his head, Robbie left the office. Jameson saw him pause by Betty's desk, and she shot Jameson a stunned look through the glass partition.
He looked back at Beck, who was grinning unpleasantly. Something wrong there, Jameson thought. Maybe he got fired, or didn't get his raise, whatever – Jameson didn't care. There was something to this story, he could smell it. And Mary Jane and that traitor Parker were in the middle of it. Then he remembered that Parker had been shot. Frowning, he bellowed at Beck, "So, what're you still here for, a medal? You want credit as a source?"
Beck's mouth dropped open and he stammered, "Oh, hey, no, that's – can you keep me out of it? I – I don't want to lose my job. I, um, I might be hired to play the Goblin, since the last guy died."
Jameson looked at the skinny twerp and remembered the Goblin, who had once broken into his office and held him up with one hand around his neck. He burst out laughing, and Beck stormed off red-faced with Jameson's laughter following him out.
Riebeau stomped through the darkened studio, red-faced with rage. He felt nastily like his life was spinning out of control. This morning Beck, that deleted-expletive of a special effects technician, had come to his office, dripping fake sympathy all over his floor and offering to take Tim's place as the Green Goblin stuntman. Riebeau had waved aside the idea and asked him to make a holographic Green Goblin instead. Great idea, film history in the making – the first movie filming computer-generated characters interacting with live ones – the main characters, at that.
"You'll be the best in the business – hell, son, you'll be surprised at the kind of recognition you'll get from this. Not to mention contracts." Riebeau had leaned back, smugly waiting for Beck's appreciation.
"Mr. Riebeau, what I'd really like is to get in front of the camera, you know, get a shot at acting."
"What, the Goblin? Not much of an acting job, not with a mask on," Riebeau chuckled.
"But I'm really good with martial arts, Mr. Riebeau, I could do a great job – like Jet Li!" Beck's face was shining with enthusiasm, but Riebeau didn't notice it. He had thrown his head back to laugh.
"Right! Right, kid, I'm sure you're a black belt! No, no, you're a green belt! A Goblin belt!" Riebeau gasped for air. Beck's face darkened and he snarled soundlessly, but Riebeau didn't see it as he wiped his eyes. "Look, you've got your strengths, right? You're a wiz. You need to work with that, think about your career – not waste your time trying to be something you're not." He looked at the kid, who stared back at him without expression. "Seriously, Quentin, you're great at what you do. That's what I need you for."
Beck had nodded slowly and stood up. "I wish you would reconsider, Mr. Riebeau. All of this bad luck, the explosion – the Green Goblin doesn't like what's going on here. I keep thinking – I could play him right. Give his character some respect. Maybe that's what he's looking for."
"Don't give me that Goblin crap. There's nothing going on here but a run of bad luck and some hysterical actors blowing it out of proportion. I don't want to hear anyone talking about the Goblin, you hear me?"
"I hear you," Beck had answered, very softly.
Half an hour later, the lobby had exploded in gunfire. Riebeau shook his head. He didn't like what Beck had said about the Goblin being against the movie, and Beck wasn't the only one saying it. He'd heard the same line from Manny, and overheard the set designers and dressers whispering about it. He'd squashed the talk as much as he could, downplayed the explosion as an accident to the reporters, but there was no hope of that now.
The first wave of reporters had been cordoned off, waiting for the police to give them a non-committal summary of the shooting. But then that sharp-eyed blond reporter from the Daily Bugle had arrived, and the questions he asked showed right up front that he knew too much about what had been going on. He could talk all he wanted about company solidarity, but he was sure that pimply little dresser – Peggy? Maggie? – had spilled her guts, along with all her superstitious Goblin bull.
Riebeau headed to his office and thumped heavily into his comfortable leather desk chair with a sigh. He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. The dark was soothing, quiet. In a couple of hours, the studio would come back to life and the filming would go on. He was damned if he was going to be intimidated into ditching the project. Thank God for Chris, he thought. She'd been there past midnight, making phone calls, bullying staff, making arrangements with the cops, sealing off what was left of the lobby, talking to reporters. The dead girl, the receptionist – he'd called her family personally, tried to soften the blow, like anything could. He'd felt like that was his job. But he'd let the real load fall on Chris, and she'd done wonders. Woman was a fantastic organizer, not to mention loyal. For the first time that day, things slowed down enough for Riebeau to remember what she'd told him about Manny.
"Jon, I heard him – talking to Quentin. He said something about sabotaging the project for money," Chris had whispered to him the night before. He had glanced at the front seat of the taxi, where Mary Jane and her boyfriend were huddled together, and all he could think about was keeping this quiet.
"Better keep it to yourself, for now," he'd said.
And she had. She hadn't talked to the police, and Jon hadn't either. A couple of overheard words weren't a good enough reason to implicate Manny in murder. Riebeau hadn't had much time to think it through, but if Manny was involved in this and Beck knew about it, Beck's sinister hints about the Goblin being upset with the movie had to be taken seriously. But why? Was the Goblin paying them to get him on the set, maybe to arrange some of the less lethal accidents? He just couldn't believe it of Manny. He'd known the man for years. He couldn't be helping the Green Goblin, not like this. Not with people dead. Rubbing his eyes, Riebeau thought he'd never been this tired.
"A-Type Personality, huh? I mean, most people have called it a day."
Jaw dropping, Riebeau stared at the figure outlined in his doorway – a black silhouette against the hall lights, hanging upside down, legs akimbo.
"Don't tell me I need to introduce myself to my very own publicity department," the tenor voice continued cheerfully. "You've got my name in letters five feet high over in Studio 4. Hey, do I get royalties for that?"
Riebeau leaned carefully back in his chair, laced his fingers across his belly, and said, "No. But if you want a job, you can be leading man in my latest film." His voice broke on the last word and he cleared his throat harshly.
Spider-Man laughed. "Whoa, super-stardom for the super-hero. But what I really want to do is direct."
The joke was an old one, but Riebeau wasn't sure how to react. This wise-cracking acrobat wasn't what he expected from Spider-Man, who was probably here to back up the Goblin's murderous rampage. Maybe Spider-Man was the brains and the Goblin had been softening Riebeau up so he would cave to Spider-Man's demands. "So…to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Don't tell me – you want me to stop filming."
"Nope. I gave up my career as a movie critic and moved on to crime busting. And I hear you've had some crime. Since you're working late anyway, maybe you could give me a hand." Spider-Man swung easily up his web line and flipped from the ceiling to the wall near Riebeau. The confused director edged his chair slowly away, eyes fixed on the close shape in the darkness. Then what Spider-Man had said sank in.
"A hand with what? You're partner's been turning my studio into a horror flick the last couple of days, and if you think I'm going to – "
"Back up, Spielberg." Spider-Man raised his hands in protest, resting his elbows on his knees. "First off? The Green Goblin isn't my partner, never was, never would be. Believe it or not, I'm one of the good guys."
Riebeau grunted cautiously to show he was listening.
"Second, he hasn't been anywhere near Apex Studios."
"Hah!" He shook a finger at Spider-Man. "He's been seen – hell, he shows up on the security videos. It's the Green Goblin, no question."
"It isn't." Spider-Man's voice was soft and convincing. "Because the Green Goblin died, years ago. Official law enforcement doesn't know, but I do. I was there."
He felt a chill down his back. "You killed him?"
"No!" Spider-Man shifted on the wall. "Look, long story but – basically, he killed himself. The guy was a few pumpkins short of a patch, if you know what I mean."
At that, he had to laugh. "And you're what, a model of stability?"
"Me? Heck yeah. I'm the poster child for normal." Blank white eyepieces caught the dim light from the hall, expressionless. "You mentioned the security tapes. Well, I was up close and personal with the Goblin a couple years back, and the guy on the tapes isn't him."
"How'd you get the cops to show you the tapes?" Riebeau was honestly curious, but Spider-Man just shrugged.
"I have my ways," he intoned. "So, I took a look at your costume department tonight. Ten nifty little Green Goblin costumes, all just like the ones on the tape. Not like the one the Goblin actually wore."
Riebeau rocked back in his chair and considered that. "Our costumes. You're saying…this guy was wearing one of our costumes?"
"To me, that just screams 'inside job.' Well, that and 'call the fashion police.'" Riebeau chuckled absently, still thinking furiously, until Spider-Man prompted him with a trace of impatience.
"So…any candidates? Any employees against the exploitation of super villains? A janitor with a really active fantasy life?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again and hesitated. Spider-Man's reputation was mixed, to say the least. Until now, Riebeau had accepted the official version, the version spread by the Bugle, the attitude taken by the Feds. But Spider-Man was popular – wasn't that why he'd decided to do a movie on him? A lot of people thought he was a hero. Maybe, maybe not. But sitting here having a conversation with a man perched on a wall, Riebeau realized that his gut instinct was to trust him. Bizarrely, there was something about Spider-Man that reminded him, a little, of his teenaged son who lived back in California with his third ex-wife, although that was probably just the smart mouth. But what if that casual goofiness was just his way of getting past his victim's guard?
"Look. There's a couple of – well, OK, possibilities. But I can't believe," Riebeau rubbed his face briskly, "I just can't believe it. Not murder. I'm not going to go naming names."
"Here's the upside of me not being the police," Spider-Man said. "Name all the names you want – it's not like I can hassle them, or arrest them, or question them, even. What I can do is keep an eye on them, maybe stop someone else from dying. Think of me as an unpaid security guard – not, you know, like someone who flunked out of cop school, but the good kind."
Babbling didn't prove you weren't insane, and this guy was wearing spandex. Gut feeling or not, Riebeau decided to err on the side of caution. "I can't tell you anything. I don't know you – what if I do, and he ends up being the next person dead?"
"Are you always this slow, or did I pick a bad night?" Spider-Man snapped. Riebeau blinked. "Five minutes ago, you were convinced I was working with this Goblin-wannabe, now you're trying to protect him from me. You know something, that's obvious. You don't want to tell the cops, fine. You don't want to tell me, fine. But you're going to feel responsible for the next person who dies, regardless."
"Get off my case!" Riebeau roared. "Hell, yes, you picked a bad night! I direct, for God's sake, I don't usually have people dropping dead who don't get up when I yell 'cut' and I don't know what to do, so back off!" He was breathing hard at the end of his tirade, shaking. He scowled and tried to hide his uncertainty, waiting with some embarrassment for Spider-Man's reaction. The paused stretched while the costumed man sat there motionlessly, head cocked to one side.
"OK. I get that, I really do," he said finally. "But this is what I do. I try to help. I don't know if there's anything I can say that will convince you to trust me. But I can't leave if I know there's something I can do to stop this."
Lacing his fingers back over his paunch, Riebeau wished he could think clearly. It had been such a long day. With a sigh, he decided that Spider-Man was right. He had to make a decision, and if he didn't speak up – to someone – about his suspicions and more blood was shed, he'd have to live with it for the rest of his life.
"Manny Alzamora is our scriptwriter," he said slowly. "Chris – the producer – overheard him talking to Quentin Beck, the special effects chief. He said something about sabotaging the production." Now that it was out, he felt better.
"Any idea why? I mean, what the motive is?"
"I have no idea. That's what gets me – Manny! He's harmless. Good natured. Kind of a geek."
"Never underestimate a geek," Spider-Man said. Riebeau was getting tired of his jokes.
"Yeah, well, Beck's worse. He's always snippy and bent out of shape over something, but he doesn't have the guts to kill anyone. I just don't know." He let his head fall back on the headrest.
"It's somewhere to start." Spider-Man slid along the wall and flipped around the doorframe, the move incredibly smooth and quick. If he could get that on film –
"If you change your mind about that job, you know where to find me!" he roared. But Spider-Man was already gone.