Marvel Classic Novels--Spider-Man, page 36
Looking at the shorter detective, Spider-Man said, “Your confidence in me is touching.”
“Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Spider-Man muttered.
“Actually,” Fry said, “you should probably come with us.”
“Oh?”
Fry started walking down the hall. Spider-Man followed by coming out of the crouch and walking upside down along the ceiling, avoiding fluorescent light fixtures as he went. Wheeler trailed a few steps behind, muttering something about how costumes were weird.
“Got a call from the attending. They got another gamma-head—he busted up a fancy restaurant on Columbus—only this is a middle-aged white guy in a suit.”
Fry had said that like it should mean something. “So?”
“Like Shanahan said, X is a kids’ drug, mostly. Anybody over the age of thirty who takes it is probably a junkie or homeless or something. This guy don’t fit the profile. That makes him worth talking to, assuming he’s out of his coma.”
“Does our middle-aged white guy have a name?”
Before Fry could say anything, Spider-Man experienced a mild buzz of his spider-sense. He resumed the crouching position on the ceiling, which got him out of the path of the gurney that was coming down the corridor behind them at top speed, even as a nurse yelled, “Coming through!”
Fry and Wheeler dashed to the side of the corridor as the gurney went past, navigated by emergency medical technicians, nurses, and doctors toward one of the trauma rooms. One of the EMTs was saying, “GSW to the chest, BP eighty over thirty, pulse—”
The victim’s pulse was lost as they went around the corner.
“Never a dull moment,” Spider-Man said.
Fry nodded in agreement.
“I don’t get that,” Wheeler said, shaking his head. “Why do they say ‘GSW’?”
“Same reason they say ‘BP,’” Fry said. “It’s an abbreviation.”
“No it ain’t. ‘GSW’ is five syllables; ‘gunshot wound’ is three. The whole point of the abbreviation’s so they can convey the information faster and maybe save the guy’s life. Those extra two syllables could make the difference between life and death.”
Spider-Man smiled under his mask even as Fry said, “I doubt it.”
“How the hell do you know? You catch a bullet—sorry, a ‘GSW’—right in the heart, your life’s down to nanoseconds. I don’t want to die ’cause some EMT was too busy pronouncing all three syllables of the letter W.”
Looking up at Spider-Man, Fry said, “I begged Jerry—begged him— to pair me up with Una. But he stuck her on phones talking to scientists all day, so I got stuck with him.”
“You can bite me too, Jimmy.”
“I ain’t bendin’ over that far. Here it is,” Fry said quickly before Wheeler could reply to that. “This is the room where they’re keeping the gamma-heads.”
“You never told me the guy’s name,” Spider-Man said as he skittered over the top of the door frame to enter the room. There were eight beds inside, all occupied. Spider-Man wondered how many other hospitals in the city had devoted entire rooms to victims of this drug.
“Right.” Fry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook. “It’s, a doctor, named—hang on.”
Spider-Man, however, no longer needed the detective’s assistance in identifying the latest addition to the ranks of the gamma-heads. He recognized the pale man with the brown hair and matching mustache lying in the bed nearest the door, having first encountered him very shortly after he became Spider-Man. “Kevin Hunt.”
Both Fry and Wheeler looked at Spider-Man with surprise. “You know this guy?” the latter asked.
“Yup. Brain specialist, right?”
Fry nodded. “He’s working at the ESU Medical Center.”
Nodding, Spider-Man said, “Yeah, I’d heard that. When I first met him, he was working at Bliss Private Hospital in Westchester. He was the physician of record when a man was checked in after being caught in an explosion at the U.S. Atomic Research Center.” Spider-Man turned to the two detectives. “That patient was Dr. Otto Octavius.”
“Oh, great,” Fry muttered.
Wheeler asked, “Who the hell is Dr. Otto Octavius?”
“You probably know him better as Dr. Octopus,” Spider-Man said. “I know I do.”
Hunt was still in a coma, from the looks of it. Spider-Man probably wouldn’t have even remembered him if he hadn’t appeared on television a while back to discuss Octavius. Specifically, he’d been recanting his initial diagnosis of brain damage—a diagnosis that had always been used as the explanation for Octavius’s insanity. However, Hunt was saying, what he’d assumed to be damage might have been the synapses of his brain reordering themselves to accommodate the four new limbs that were now a part of Octavius’s body, and ones that didn’t follow the muscle-over-joint pattern of virtually every other human limb. Octavius had mental control of his metal arms, even after they were separated from his body, and that would probably have meant changes to his brain chemistry.
Spider-Man remembered that interview mostly because it drove home the very real possibility that Octavius wasn’t insane—that he was that much of a creep normally.
Fry walked over to the bed. “I ran this guy before coming down here. No priors, no history of drug use—hell, according to what the woman at ESU told me, he doesn’t even smoke or drink.”
Spider-Man remembered what O’Leary had told him when they first started talking. “This isn’t a beginner’s drug.”
“Right. Like I said, this guy doesn’t fit the profile.”
Hunt’s eyes suddenly fluttered. Spider-Man leapt over the bed to the other side and grabbed the doctor’s right hand, since the left one had various tubes and leads in it. “Doc, it’s Spider-Man, can you hear me?”
In a very muddled voice, Hunt said, “Spi-Man?”
“Close enough.”
“Dunno—wha’ happen. Was jus’ eatin’ brunch like always an’ somethin’ happen.” Then he drifted back to sleep.
Looking up at Fry, Spider-Man asked, “What was the restaurant?”
Checking his notebook, Fry said, “Place called Mark’s on Columbus and 83rd.”
Turning around, he saw that there was a window in the room—along with seven other patients, most of whom were asleep or staring openly at Spider-Man. He leapt toward it, causing one of those staring patients to bark out an astonished scream. “I’ll meet you guys there.”
“We already had units canvass the restaurant,” Wheeler said. “Nothin’ weird there.”
Before Spider-Man could respond to that, a weak voice said, “Spider-Man? That you?”
Looking over at the bed closest to the window, Spider-Man saw a face that he hadn’t seen in years. A pale, flat face, a nose that had been broken at least once, curly black hair—now receded a bit—and matching thick mustache, this was the face of a man who, among other things, was partly responsible for the death of Betty Brant’s brother Bennett, as he’d been working with Dr. Octopus at the time.
“Blackie Gaxton, as I live and breathe.”
“You know this guy?” Wheeler asked.
“Yup. Haven’t seen him in years, though.”
“That’s ’cause I’m clean,” Gaxton said.
“Sure you are,” Wheeler said as he and Fry walked over to Gaxton’s bed. “That’s why your sheet in Philly’s as long as my arm.”
“In Philly, yeah,” Gaxton said. “After I went up against this guy, I went straight, moved to New York. I been workin’ as a store manager since then.”
Spider-Man had to admit to a certain pride, and a desire that more lowlifes would decide, after facing Spider-Man, to go straight the way Blackie had. At least that explains why I haven’t heard boo from him since Bennett’s murder.
Fry asked, “So how’d you wind up in the Triple X ward?”
“The what?” Gaxton sounded confused. “Look, all’s I know is I got sick, felt something weird on my legs, and then I woke up here.”
Spider-Man checked his chart. “You took Triple X, Blackie—it’s a new drug that’s like X, only with super powers.”
“What the hell’s X? Oh, wait, ecstasy, that garbage the kids’re doing? Jesus, I don’t do that stuff. Talk to my parole officer, I been clean.”
Looking up at the detectives, Spider-Man said, “I believe him.”
Wheeler looked at him like he was nuts. “Mind tellin’ me why?”
“Why would he lie?”
Fry said, “Using illegal narcotics would qualify as a parole violation.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m clean,” Gaxton said.
“What if he has been?” Spider-Man asked. “What if somebody fed him—and Hunt—the Triple X?”
Wheeler rolled his eyes. “Gimme a break. Maybe you costumes are big on conspiracies, but in the real world, things ain’t that complicated. This hump’s a gangster with a sheet who ain’t exactly outta the profile.”
“I told you, I’m clean!”
Ignoring Gaxton, Wheeler pointed back at Hunt’s bed. “That one’s a doctor who sees drugs all the time, and works in a medical research center. For all we know, he made the stuff. It ain’t any more complicated than that.”
“What if it is?” Spider-Man asked.
Before Wheeler could say anything else, Fry asked, “What’re you saying?”
“If Blackie here has been clean—”
“I am!”
Looking over at Gaxton, Spider-Man said, “Shut up, Blackie, willya?” Turning back to the detectives, he said, “These two guys have one thing in common: Doc Ock. And he’s one of the top suspects for creating this drug in the first place. He’s got the smarts to create it.”
Fry nodded. “And he’s enough of a sociopath not to care about distributing it.”
Wheeler looked up at his fellow detective in shock. “You’re buyin’ this, Jimmy?”
“No, but I’m not dismissing it, either. You were the one who said he’d be useful.”
“For keeping the gamma-heads in line, not for police work. He’s a thug, we’re detectives—we should be doin’ the detecting!”
Fry looked away from his partner. “Say it is Octavius. What’s the next step?”
Spider-Man shrugged. “Find him.”
“He’s got half a dozen warrants out on him already,” Wheeler said. “We’re already lookin’ for him.” He shook his head. “This is nuts. Why’s it always gotta be costumes with you people?”
“Occupational hazard. Look,” Spider-Man said, turning to Wheeler, “I’m gonna head out and do my thug thing by keeping the gamma-heads in line. I’ll also press some of my contacts, find out if anybody knows what ol’ Ockie’s up to these days. Who knows? Maybe I’m wrong. But it’s worth checking out.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Fry said.
“Speak for yourself,” Wheeler muttered.
As Spider-Man opened the window and leapt out it, he heard Gaxton say one last time, “Goddammit, I told you guys, I’m clean!”
TEN
THE last person Hector Diaz expected to see in the lobby of his building on Monday morning was Biggie, but there he was, standing in the corner by the mailboxes. As soon as Hector came out of the elevator, Biggie looked up and said, “Yo, Hector, time to be suitin’ up.”
“Suitin’ up for what?” Hector asked as he and Biggie shook hands. I swear, one of these times, I ain’t gonna get my hand back, he thought as Biggie’s massive palm enveloped his.
“You been livin’ in a cave, dog? There’s a war on, yo, and we got to be retaliatin’ on them Russians.”
Hector was now completely confused. “Biggie, what you talkin’ ’bout?” He headed to the dirt-streaked glass door that led to the lobby. Briefly, he wondered how Biggie got in without a key, but he probably just waited until someone came out and then walked in. Happened all the time.
“Ray-Ray been expandin’ into the city, hornin’ in on some real estate that used to belong to some Russians—till Ray-Ray came in with the product. So them Russians done gone and shot up Sweet and Lemonhead and Jay.”
That drew Hector up short. “Sweet’s dead?”
“All three of ’em, dog. And it’s time for some righteous retributatin’, know what I’m sayin’?”
Given their relative sizes, Hector figured it was best not to let Biggie know that “retributating” wasn’t a real word. He walked down the street toward the bus stop that would take him to school. “So what’s the drill?”
“The drill be, get yourself to them Houses soon as you’re done with classes.”
“Why we waitin’ that long?”
“’Cause them Russians ain’t stupid, dog. They got boys workin’ for ’em that might be noticin’ if everyone in Ray-Ray’s crew ain’t in school today, you feel me?”
Hector nodded. “A’ight, I be there.”
“Good.” Biggie offered his hand, and Hector’s got swallowed up in it again. “Later, dog.”
Biggie stomped off in the other direction. Hector got to the corner just when the bus showed up. He dropped his MetroCard in, pulled it back out, and went to the seat in the back corner. He didn’t know nobody on this bus, which was weird, but happened sometimes. Just luck and all.
Sweet’s dead. Hector couldn’t believe it. Elwood Candelario got the nickname “Sweet” when he was in grammar school with Hector, mostly on account of hating his first name. He was always going on about capes and their different powers, when he wasn’t talking about baseball. Hector used to joke that if Sweet ever met Derek Jeter and Captain America on the same day, he’d just die right there ’cause he wouldn’t have nothing else to live for.
And now he’s dead.
Drugs was one thing. Hector didn’t think he’d be able to get through life without drugs, and it didn’t make no sense to him that people could buy all the booze and cigarettes they wanted, but couldn’t get blow. Hector had seen people drunk and had seen people high. Drunks killed people and shot people and beat people, but when you was high, you was mellow.
But dropping bodies? That ain’t right. People shouldn’t be dying.
And there’d be more if Ray-Ray was talking war. He was starting to think that maybe he wasn’t gonna be heading down to no Robinsfield Houses after class. I ain’t ending up like Sweet. No way.
He arrived at school, said yo to folks he knew, and went to his locker. Martha was just closing her locker when he got there. “’Sup, Martha. How’s Javier doin’?”
Martha just shook her head. “Still in a coma.” Then she went off to homeroom.
Hector headed to the bathroom before following her to homeroom. He pushed the big painted metal door open and sauntered in. Nobody else was inside, which suited Hector fine. He didn’t want to deal with nobody right now.
Instead of going to a stall or a urinal, though, he walked over to one of the tiny white sinks, dropped his bookbag on the tile floor, and stared at his reflection in the dirty, cracked mirror.
This ain’t right.
“Hey, Hector, got a sec?”
Hector turned to see that Mr. Parker had followed him into the bathroom. “What, this gonna be a thing with you now, Mr. Parker?” Then he looked at the teacher more closely. He had bags under his eyes and he was walking slowly, like his legs hurt. “The hell happened to you?”
“Rough weekend,” he said quickly. “Listen—I need your help.”
“You need my help?”
“I know you’re involved in this, Hector. It’s bad enough that people are winding up in the hospital by the dozens—”
“Dozens? What you talkin’ ’bout?”
His voice getting harder, Mr. Parker said, “Every hospital in this city has at least three or four people who are sick and dying because of Triple X. Or they’ve got people who’ve been beaten, bashed, zapped, or mind-controlled by someone on Triple X. And on top of that, you see the papers this morning? There’s a drug war on—Spider-Man stopped a major shoot-out on 113th Street yesterday, right before he kept five other gamma-heads from tearing up the town. This is getting out of control, and it has to stop.”
Hector had been thinking the same thing, but hearing it come out of some white teacher’s mouth made him realize how stupid he’d been. “What, you gonna stop it? You makin’ me laugh, Mr. Parker.”
Mr. Parker shook his head. “Hector, you owe it to—”
“To what? What you askin’ me to do? Roll over on my people? Ain’t happenin’, yo. They my friends. They family. I ain’t flippin’ them.”
“Hector, you don’t understand—”
“Oh, and you’re gonna explain it to me? You makin’ me laugh again, Mr. Parker, livin’ the good life and trying to tell me how it is.”
Then Mr. Parker laughed. “Now you think it’s funny?”
“I do actually, yeah—you really think I’m living ‘the good life’?”
“You expect me to believe you ain’t? Grew up in your house in the suburbs an’ shit.” Hector turned his back on the teacher and twisted the handle on the sink. Cold water dribbled from the faucet; Hector shoved his hands under it.
Mr. Parker laughed again. “I grew up right here in Forest Hills, Hector—and the house was barely big enough to fit me, my Aunt May, and my Uncle Ben.”
That surprised Hector. “No parents?” he asked as he walked over to the paper towel dispenser.
“They died when I was a kid. My aunt and uncle were pretty old, but they raised me anyhow. And then Uncle Ben died when I was only a little older than you, so it was just me and Aunt May. I had to take on work as a photographer when I was still in high school just to pay the bills. To give you an idea how incredibly lucrative that profession is, I took on teaching instead, and I think you have a good idea how little we make. So don’t think you’ve got the monopoly on a crappy life, Hector. And even if you did, that doesn’t mean you or your friends should just throw your lives away for a drug that’s killing people—whether it’s the users, the people they’re hurting, or the pushers who’re shooting each other over it.”
Hector didn’t say anything as he finished drying his hands and balled the cheap paper towel up into a ball.
