Marvel Classic Novels--Spider-Man, page 31
Mary Jane had tried calling Valerie’s live-in boyfriend, Greg, but he wasn’t answering his cell or returning messages, either. He and Valerie never bothered getting a landline installed, since they both had cell phones and could get Internet access via cable modem. Unfortunately, that meant that if Greg left his cell off, he couldn’t be reached. Greg was famous for forgetting to turn his phone on, and for not checking his messages on those rare occasions when he did.
So Mary Jane took a brisk walk across Manhattan to Alphabet City, so named for the names of the avenues east of First Avenue that made up the neighborhood: Avenue A, Avenue B, and so forth. Apartments were small and cheap in this area, and many actors had taken up residence here due to both that factor, and its proximity to many of the small theatres where they plied their trade.
I just hope that Valerie’s okay and she’s just all weirded out because of what happened, Mary Jane thought as she walked up the steps of the crumbling stoop that led into the small apartment building. None of the names on the buzzers matched the names of the tenants, of course, but Mary Jane remembered that they were 4W, and she pushed that button.
A burst of static followed, with the vague hint of a voice under it.
“It’s Mary Jane Watson,” she said slowly, hoping the other end had better speakers.
The dirty glass door to the building emitted a low buzz, and Mary Jane pushed the door open. As she entered the dark, narrow hallway, she had the usual New Yorker’s concern that she misremembered the apartment number and some stranger just let her into the building. Still, it was a common enough occurrence that it didn’t really elevate above a concern to a worry.
Local zoning laws stated that any building six stories or higher had to have an elevator. For that reason, there were a lot of five-story apartment buildings in New York, and many were like this one: a corridor no wider than the doorways, a winding staircase wedged into the back of the building to allow access to the higher floors. Mary Jane trudged up the four levels— trying to maintain her footing on stairs that hadn’t been swept in months, and trying not to think about the odd smells from the second floor—then went to the door on the west side of the building and knocked.
A muffled voice from behind the steel-and-wood door said, “S’open!”
Mary Jane turned the knob—sure enough, the door was unlocked. She’d been here only a few times before, but the door had always been locked; Valerie had always been paranoid about someone robbing her place. Then she recalled that Greg had been more blasé about it. Which means that Greg’s probably home alone, which doesn’t really bode well.
The door opened to a small living room. A battered old couch was against one wall, opposite a television that was currently tuned to the Discovery Channel. Wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts, Greg Halprin sat on that couch amidst several remotes, empty food wrappers and bags, and unopened pieces of mail. His short brown hair was spiked upward in a manner that suggested he hadn’t combed it since he’d slept awkwardly on his pillow, and he hadn’t shaved anytime recently. Greg was supposed to be an actor, too, but it didn’t look like he was in any physical shape to audition. He was also “between jobs,” as Valerie had put it.
“’Ey, MJ, how’s it hangin’?” Greg’s words were so slurred, Mary Jane could barely distinguish the consonants. “What brings your babelicious face to the humble abode?”
“I was looking for Valerie. She—well, disappeared from rehearsal yesterday.”
“Ain’t seen her.” Greg sounded wholly unconcerned as he looked back at the television. “Dude, can you believe all this stuff about dinosaurs? I mean, it’s so totally out there, y’know?”
“You haven’t seen her in over a day?”
Greg shrugged. “Figured she was out partyin’ or somethin’. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Mary Jane walked over to Greg and sat down on the vinyl ottoman with the splits along the side that sat randomly placed in the middle of the living room floor. Greg’s eyes looked awfully vacant. “Greg, have you guys been doing Triple X?”
Now those vacant eyes lit up. “Is that what that’s called? Valerie was talkin’ ’bout scorin’ some kinda special X. Our guy, he said it’d make her brain work better an’ stuff. She thought it’d make her ’member her lines better. But I ain’t seen her since then, so I don’t know if she did score it.” He frowned. “Bitch is probably hoardin’ again. She always does that with the good stuff.”
“Who’s your guy?” Mary Jane asked.
“I dunno, the guy. Valerie knows ’im from back when they was in college. He had some weird lady with him. What’re you, the cops or somethin’?” He grinned. “Or you tryin’ to score, too?” Laughing, he added, “Knew that Ms. Perfect thing was just a thing, right? You’re startin’ to ’preciate the fine qualities of a good—”
Getting up quickly, Mary Jane said, “I gotta go.”
“Naw, c’mon, MJ, stick aroun’. I got some weed ’round here somewhere.” He looked on the floor in front of the couch and on the couch itself, rooting around the detritus, but not actually getting up. “Get some MJ for MJ— hey, get it?” He tittered at his own stupid pun.
“Hilarious.” Mary Jane had never been all that thrilled with Greg, and now she actively wanted to run screaming for the nearest shower. “Look, if you see Valerie, tell her to call me right away, okay?”
“Fine, whatever.” Greg sounded disappointed that Mary Jane didn’t stay to get high—with him. “Dude, those dinosaurs really rocked.”
Mary Jane exited the apartment, closing the door behind her, and walked as fast down the filthy stairs as her legs would carry her.
SEVEN
“I’M sorry, Peter, I can’t help you. And I must say, I’m disappointed that you’re even asking.”
Peter Parker squirmed in the guest chair in the Midtown High School principal’s office. The chairs were designed to be uncomfortable, something Peter had always ascribed to the principal’s wanting to keep any students in here ill at ease. He was learning now that it applied to the employees under the principal’s supervision as well. “Mr. Harrington, I wouldn’t ask, but I met his mother at the hospital, and—”
“Peter, Peter, Peter.” Harrington shook his white-haired head in a manner that made him look for all the world like a grandfather reproving a grandson who didn’t know better. “I realize that you’re comparatively new to teaching—although you did put in a certain amount of time as a TA at ESU, so I would think you wouldn’t fall for these kinds of things.”
“I’m not falling for anything,” Peter said defensively, “I—”
“They all have mothers, Peter. And the ones that don’t, have fathers. Some are even lucky enough to have both. And they’ve all got a story, they all have extenuating circumstances, but none of it matters.”
“It does matter. We’re talking about people, Mr. Harrington, and—”
“And I’m talking about abstract concepts, is that it?” Again he shook his head. “Peter, this is about people—specifically about the people who attend this school. I cannot keep a student enrolled in this school who takes drugs and then inflicts harm upon his fellow students and the employees of this school—including, I might add, you. Now I appreciate that young Mr. Velasquez has a mother. But so do Pablo DeLaVega, Lourdes Escobar, Peter Bain, Ian Chantal, and David King.”
Peter frowned. “Who’re they?”
“Mr. DeLaVega is the one Mr. Velasquez punched. The other four are the ones Mr. DeLaVega landed on. You say that it’s not fair to Mr. Velasquez’s mother to saddle her with a son who has been expelled from this school just because of some arbitrary rule in a book somewhere. I counter by pointing out that while people are affected, people also wrote that rulebook, and they were not imbeciles—and also that it’s not fair to the parents of Mr. DeLaVega, Ms. Escobar, Mr. Bain, Mr. Chantal, and Mr. King to allow their children to remain in a school that has a shape-changing, rampaging drug addict among their fellow students.” Harrington let out a long breath. “I’m not unsympathetic, Peter, but I’m also not going to fall for a sob story I’ve heard several thousand times before. And I certainly can’t change the rules because one woman loves her child and one brand-new science teacher vouches for her. Am I making myself clear?”
In fact, he had made himself clear several sentences earlier, but Peter didn’t think it was appropriate to mention that to his boss.
Especially when he’s right. Harrington had been very kind to Peter, and he had hoped to prevail upon that kindness. But Peter found himself unable to argue with anything the principal said. Not that that’ll make talking to Eileen Velasquez any easier.
He got up from the guest chair. “Thanks, Mr. Harrington. I, ah—I had to give it a shot. I promised Ms. Velasquez, and—”
“I understand,” Harrington said, leaving Peter to wonder how often people ever got to finish their sentences when in this office. “And I’m glad to see you taking such an interest in your students—though I would recommend your time be given over to the students who’ve actually earned it.”
“The ones who’ve earned it aren’t always the ones who need it—or the ones who get it,” Peter said without thinking. Ouch. He would have given anything to take the words back. Why can’t my spider-sense warn me when I’m about to say something stupid?
To Peter’s relief, Harrington took the rebuke sportingly and laughed. “A fair point, Peter. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Peter nodded and turned and left the principal’s office. His shoulders slumped, he meandered through the empty halls toward the exit. Most of the students had left for the day, with only those involved in extracurricular activities still around, and most of those were in whatever room they performed those activities in.
He had sleepwalked through most of his classes today. After his trip to the drug markets of Long Island City, he had gone on his usual nightly patrol, which involved a dustup with a would-be jewel thief on West 4th Street. It was almost 4 A.M. by the time Peter stumbled in through the apartment window, at which point Mary Jane woke up and told him about her failed attempts to track Valerie down. As a result, he’d taught today on precious little sleep.
He walked down the streets of Forest Hills, the late-afternoon spring sun shining pleasantly on his face, looking for a pay phone. He had a few phone calls to make, and at least one of them needed to be made from a public pay phone, as opposed to a cell phone that was easily traceable to Peter Parker.
Reaching into his sport jacket pocket, he retrieved his cell phone and turned it on. As soon as it acquired a signal, the phone played the theme music from The Simpsons, which indicated that Peter had voice mail.
Opening the phone as he continued walking down the street, he called the voice mail to find two messages. The first was an I-love-you from Mary Jane. The second was from Eileen Velasquez, informing him that Javier had recovered from the heart attack, but had lapsed into a coma and Dr. Lee was concerned about whether or not he’d survive. Apparently Peter’s theory— that the strain of changing size had put a strain on Javier’s heart—was correct.
Peter returned that call but, to his disappointment, got only Eileen’s voice mail. “Hi, Ms. Velasquez, it’s Peter Parker. Thanks for your message, and I’m really sorry—and, uh, I’m afraid I don’t have any better news for you. I talked with Principal Harrington, but he’s pretty adamant about there being no exceptions. I’m afraid Javier’s no longer a student at Midtown High. I’m, ah, really really sorry. Call me back when you get a chance. Uh, bye.”
He hit the END button, then let out a long sigh. Wish I could’ve talked to her in person—that’s lousy news to have to give in a voice mail message.
Turning a corner, he saw a bodega that had a pay phone outside it. Better yet, the phone was at least twenty feet from the entrance, which cut down on the likelihood of eavesdroppers. He pulled Detective O’Leary’s card out of the belt he wore with his Spider-Man suit under his clothes and the change that had originally been earmarked for laundry. After depositing the coins, he dialed the number. Using his calling card number would have had the same security risks as the cell phone—better to play it safe.
“O’Leary.”
“Hi, this is, uh, this is Spider-Man,” Peter said, realizing too late how ridiculous it would sound.
“Yeah, sure.”
“It really is me—you did say to call when we met yesterday. I told you about Triple X coming from Long Island City, and you told me it started on Amsterdam in the 90s with a telekinetic, and you didn’t know what that word meant.”
“I did too know what it meant!” O’Leary said indignantly. “Whatever— it is you, I guess.”
“I did say we’d talk further,” Peter said. “Wanted to know about that package I left for you guys yesterday afternoon.”
“We just got the prelim on that from the lab. Oh, and before I forget, stay away from Officer Carcetti for a while.”
“Yeah, I got the feeling he wasn’t about to join my fan club,” Peter said with a smile.
“Not hardly. Anyhow, we rushed the test, and they knew what they were looking for, so the prelim says it’s probably a variant on ecstasy, with a heavy presence of gamma radiation. So much so that the lab techs are all wearing lead aprons when they work with the stuff.”
That surprised Peter. “The rad levels are high enough to be toxic?”
“How the hell should I know? Christ, I’m not even sure what you just said; that’s what we keep the geek squad around for. Unfortunately, we ain’t keepin’ a lid on this. The Bugle had a piece on it today.”
That must be Betty’s story, Peter thought. “Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“I don’t—it’s what the great unwashed out there believe. I swear, this is gonna cause a panic. People are used to the guys like you and the FF— the people who’ve been around a while. But bring something new in, and everyone gets skittish. And this hits all the press hot buttons: paranormals and drugs.” She sighed. “There’s good news for us, though—they signed off on OT, finally. I guess when it’s kids disrupting schools and articles in the Bugle, then it’s worth paying overtime money for. I hate the bosses sometimes. Oh, and our first gamma-head, the telescoping kid?”
Grinning, Peter said, “That’s telekinetic.”
“Whatever—he’s got radiation poisoning. Docs give him a week at best. And another one—a kid in Queens—just fell into a coma.” Peter winced, assuming that to be Javier. O’Leary continued: “Hell, with that news, I’d be wearing a lead apron if I was in the lab, too.”
“Yeah. Oh, listen—I think I know where the Triple X is coming from. The Robinsfield Houses.”
Somewhat snidely, O’Leary asked, “You willing to come in and sign a sworn statement to that effect?”
Peter didn’t answer.
“I’ll take your sudden silence for a ‘Hell, no.’ Which leaves us right where we were yesterday, with Narcotics keeping an eye on Robinsfield like they always do. Problem is, the crews there are good. We can’t get up on them without months of surveillance and wiretaps and things, and right now, that’s not a priority in the department.”
“Not a priority?”
“Don’t get me started,” O’Leary said in a long-suffering voice. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. Even if you could sign that statement, it’d be weeks before we’d get anything off it. Unless those boys mess up—and these crews are too good to mess up that bad—there isn’t much we can do except bang doors down. And we may do that, but we need better PC than a phone call from you.”
Peter was suddenly reminded why he didn’t work with the cops more often. He understood their need to follow procedure, but sometimes it really got in the way. Before he could say anything else, an automated voice asked him to deposit more money for the next three minutes.
“You’re on a pay phone?” O’Leary said incredulously after he’d deposited more quarters. “I’d think with the way you move around, you’d have a cell.”
“Who says I don’t? Cell phones are wonderful things—flexible, mobile, and they tell you the identity of who’s calling.”
“Ah, okay. Fair enough.”
Another question occurred to Peter. “What about those four kids on Central Park West?”
“College kids,” O’Leary said dismissively. “Thought it’d be cool to get super powers.”
“They should try having them,” Peter muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Regretting the words, Peter quickly said, “Nothing.” I need more sleep—I keep putting my foot in my mouth.
But the detective wouldn’t let it out of her teeth. “Like hell it’s ‘nothing.’ C’mon, spill. Listen, I know Joll signed off on you talking to me, but Shapiro’s in charge of this task force, and he’d go nuts if he knew I was talking to you on the phone—and worse, telling you lab results.”
Smiling, Peter said, “Shapiro not fond of me, huh?”
“Don’t take it personally—he hates all you costumes. Says you’re all prima donna glory-hounds with delusions of relevance.”
Peter rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d encountered that particular slur. “Well, as long as it’s not personal.”
“He’s full of it, but he’s good police. Anyhow, you got me offtrack— what do you mean ‘they should try having them’?”
“Remind me never to be interrogated by you.”
O’Leary chuckled. “Hey, I do this for a living.”
“Yeah.” Peter hesitated. A breeze kicked up, blowing some garbage out of the overfull public trash can at the curb toward him. “Let’s just say Shapiro’s dead wrong—I don’t do this for the glory. A casual perusal of the Daily Bugle would show just how little glory I get in this business anyhow. No, it’s not that.”
