Marvel Classic Novels--Spider-Man, page 37
“Fine,” Mr. Parker said. “Stand by and watch people die, knowing you could’ve done something about it.”
After tossing the towel into the trash bin, Hector whirled around and pointed a finger. “Yo, don’t be puttin’ that on me, Mr. Parker!”
“Who else am I supposed to put it on?”
With that, Mr. Parker turned around and left the bathroom.
Hector stared after him for a few seconds, then picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and went back into the hallway.
He spent the rest of the day in a kind of daze, wandering from class to class without paying much attention, except in Mr. Parker’s class. For some crazy reason, he wanted to act natural in his class. Not draw attention or nothing.
As soon as school let out, he practically ran out the door, not even bothering to stop at his locker. He hopped the bus that would take him to them Houses to talk to Ray-Ray. He went to the back, and saw somebody left a copy of the Daily Bugle on the seat. Picking it up, he started flipping through it. On page ten, he saw a story about Triple X. It was written by a reporter named Betty Brant, and it talked about the task force the NYPD formed, and people who’d been put in the hospital ’cause of Triple X. It also talked about how Spider-Man was keeping the folks high on it—“gamma-heads” is what Mr. Parker called ’em, and now Hector knew why, since that’s what the article called ’em, too—from going too crazy or hurting people. He couldn’t be everywhere, but he was doing his best.
And he was up in them Houses last week trying to find out.
It took almost half an hour ’cause of the damn traffic, but Hector finally made it to Robinsfield, walking through the graffiti-covered archway on 34th Avenue that led to the courtyard.
Nobody was barking today. No other crews were slinging. Hector looked for De, so he’d tell him where Ray-Ray was holed up, but when he saw De over at Tower A, he also saw Ray-Ray, along with Blowback, Biggie, Cap, and some other folks he didn’t know by name, though one of ’em was the kid Ray-Ray was chewing out last time Hector was up in here.
When Hector walked up, Ray-Ray said, “My man! Glad you could join the party, dog!” He held up his hand, which Hector clasped. “We be takin’ down some Russians, yo.”
Hector winced. “Takin’ down?”
Ray-Ray stared at him through his big sunglasses. “They got Sweet, they got Lemonhead, they got Jay, and they almost got Blowback. Time for some payback!”
Everyone around Ray-Ray made all kinds of “Yeah” and “Damn right” noises.
“This is wrong, yo,” Hector said. “Where is it gonna end?”
Holding up a hand, Ray-Ray said, “Back up off me, Hector. Ain’t nothin’ to be doin’ but unto them what they doin’ unto us, you feel me?”
“This ain’t right. Look, you give people dope, that’s cool, nobody gives a damn ’cause everybody be dopin’, but now you killin’ folks! With the Triple X and now this.” Hector shook his head. “Forget that, what about the cops? You start droppin’ bodies, them cops gonna be out here, yo. In force. They already got a task force.”
“Say what?” Ray-Ray was looking at him like he was buggin’.
Hector shoved the Bugle in his face. “Was in the paper, yo, they formed a task force just for Triple X. You know what that means?”
Knocking the paper to the ground, Ray-Ray said, “Don’t mean shit, a’ight?”
Cap said, “We wastin’ time, Ray-Ray. We gots to be goin’.”
Shoving his hand at Hector’s face, Ray-Ray turned around and said, “Let’s be movin’.”
They all started to walk away from Hector into the courtyard toward the exit. Hector could see that they all had bulges in their pants or jackets—they all was carrying. He only had one thing left to say. “What about Spider-Man?”
That stopped all of them about twenty feet from the archway. Ray-Ray turned around and said, “Spiderwhat?”
“He came by here the other day—broke De’s gun.”
Ray-Ray whirled on De, who started backing up. “Yo, you told me you lost that gun.”
De didn’t say nothing.
Hector kept talking. “He all over this, and he ain’t gonna be lettin’ up. What happens when—”
Whatever Hector was going to say next was cut off by the squealing of tires. He looked over and saw that two cars had pulled up onto the sidewalk and were in the archway, blocking it.
Four white guys got out and started shooting.
Hector thought he heard shouting, but he wasn’t sure ’cause Ray-Ray and his crew opened up, too, and the guns was so loud. He fell down to the ground, but he wasn’t sure why except that everything was so loud and his stomach hurt and then he couldn’t breathe and what the hell’s going on, is that blood, oh. . . .
Then everything went black.
* * *
SPIDER-MAN swung across the North Lawn of Central Park en route to the 24th Precinct, having spent the day trying desperately to keep his eyes open while teaching. After leaving the hospital yesterday, he’d stopped five different gamma-heads, as he’d told Hector, as well as stopping some kid from breaking into a synagogue. Apparently, the kid had the mistaken impression that there’d be valuables inside. Spider-Man took a certain bitter amusement out of educating him to the fact that the only thing he’d find in there worth anything was the Torah scroll, but that had more spiritual than monetary value. Besides, he probably wouldn’t find a fence for it. Though in this town, you never know.
He’d also been digging through his contacts, but nobody he found knew anything, and he hadn’t seen any of his usual Octopus-related stoolies. Then again, Sunday night’s not usually the best time for seeking out lowlifes.
All this meant yet another late night. He’d gotten a message on Ursitti’s phone from O’Leary to come by the Two-Four for a meeting in the afternoon, which he’d barely be able to make if he came straight from Midtown High. He had been hoping for an opportunity to tail Hector after class—since direct questioning and a guilt trip weren’t doing the trick, and right now Hector was all he had—but he didn’t want to squander what little goodwill he had with the NYPD. If nothing else, it might come in handy later.
He leapt out over the 100th Street exit to the park and swung around the face of the tenement-style buildings on the north side of the street, then the buildings of the condo complex on the south side, then took a big swing off the Health and Human Services building across the street from the precinct house before landing on the roof. This time he came in through the same window by which he departed on his last two trips here: the one that led to the detectives’ squad room. Sure enough, all six members of the Triple X Task Force were present, as was Sergeant Green and a Hispanic man wearing a pink shirt and yellow tie. O’Leary, Shanahan, Wheeler, and Petrocelli were all seated at their desks, with Green sitting in the guest chair at O’Leary’s desk; Shapiro was standing, as were Fry and the other man.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he came in and climbed across the big pipe on the ceiling. “Couldn’t catch a cab.”
“Inspector,” Green said, indicating the man in pink, “this is our civilian assistance.”
“Cute way’a puttin’ it.” The man looked up at Spider-Man. “Esteban Garcia. I command this precinct. I appreciate the help you’re giving us.”
Both surprised and pleased, Spider-Man said, “Thanks—glad to do it. I just wish I could do more than knock around the gamma-heads.” He said that last with a look at Wheeler.
“Actually, you have.” Shapiro sounded like he would’ve liked anything in the world more than to have to say those words. “Una?”
Sounding much more excited, O’Leary said, “We’ve got two more gamma-heads that don’t fit the profile. One was on Ryker’s, a kid named Jeff Haight.”
Spider-Man frowned. Ryker’s Island was the largest prison in New York City, located on the East River between the Bronx and Queens. The name sounded familiar, but it took him a few seconds to finally place it. “Oh, jeez, Haight? He was an idiot, but I never pegged him for a druggie.”
“He isn’t,” O’Leary said. “Somebody offered him a hit of Triple X in the cafeteria and when he didn’t take it, he got the shit kicked out of him.”
“Figures. Haight can’t even do something intelligent right.” Haight was a photographer who wanted to become Dr. Octopus’s personal shooter. All it got him was busted for conspiracy and harboring a fugitive, a term he was still serving.
O’Leary continued: “The other one’s a man named Nat Fredrickson. Also no history of drug use, though he has a couple of DUIs. The kicker here is, he’s the ex-husband of Carolyn Trainer.”
Spider-Man winced. “This just gets better and better.” Trainer was a devotee—one might say a groupie—of Otto Octavius, having followed his career even before the accident. When Ock was killed, Trainer took on the mantle of Dr. Octopus for a time, before figuring out a way to resurrect Octavius through means Spider-Man still had to admit to not entirely understanding. Then again, Ock was hardly the only bad guy in his rogues’ gallery who’d cheated the Grim Reaper.
Fry said, “Looks like you were right—Octavius may be involved in this.”
“And like I said before,” Wheeler said, “so the hell what? We still can’t find the sonofabitch.”
“We can look harder,” Spider-Man said. “I’ve already put a few feelers out.”
“To who?” Shapiro asked.
Chuckling, Spider-Man said, “Gee, Detective, you gonna give me a list of your CIs?”
O’Leary laughed, but broke it off at a stern look from Shapiro. “We have contracts with our CIs.”
“And I have understandings with mine.”
Shanahan said, “‘Understanding’ my ass. You bust their heads, right? Hell, we should arrest him for brutality.”
“That’s enough,” Garcia barked. “Detective Shanahan, you’re out of line.”
In a wholly unapologetic tone, Shanahan said, “Sorry, sir.”
“Something I don’t get,” O’Leary said.
Shanahan muttered, “There’s a surprise.”
Somehow, Spider-Man resisted the urge to punch Shanahan in the face—or, at the very least, web up his mouth.
“Octopus has never had any kind of underworld contacts.” O’Leary turned to Spider-Man. “Right?”
“Just the usual rent-a-thugs. He was never a player in the same way that other guys have been. He wouldn’t lower himself, to be honest— the only times he’s worked with other people, it’s been a marriage of convenience in order for him to achieve his own ends.” He was thinking in particular of the times Octopus hooked up with some of Spider-Man’s other regular sparring partners to form the so-called “Sinister Six,” mostly in an attempt to do together what none of them had managed alone: kill Spider-Man. There’d been several incarnations, sometimes with more or fewer than the usual six, and they’d mostly been done in by their mistrust of each other—and, in Ock’s case, by his own massive ego.
Petrocelli asked, “If that’s the case, how does he hook up with a Long Island City slinger?”
“He doesn’t,” Spider-Man said, “but he doesn’t have to. Look, we know that Ock’s involved because there are people being hit here who don’t have a history of drug use, but who do have a history of getting in Ock’s way. Hunt’s the doctor who worked on him after the accident— Ock thought Hunt was trying to imprison him in the hospital. His deal with Gaxton went south when I stopped them. Haight was an annoyance. There may be others, for all we know.”
“What about Fredrickson?” Fry asked.
“That’s the key,” Spider-Man said. “Carolyn Trainer doesn’t have Octavius’s book smarts, but she’s got plenty of street smarts, and I know she did develop the kinds of contacts that Octavius would consider beneath him. I can’t see him being able to facilitate a deal with Ray-Ray, but I can see Trainer.”
“We still gotta find Octavius,” Petrocelli said.
“Yeah,” Wheeler said. “Question is, how?”
“Let me work my angle.”
Shapiro pointed at Spider-Man. “If you do find him, you call us, you understand? I’m not having my case trashed because some costume can’t follow procedure again.”
Frowning, Spider-Man said, “‘Again’?”
“You know how many times we find a guy webbed to a lamppost for no reason? You put your cute little ‘courtesy your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’ card on it, but there’s no stolen merch, no witnesses, no victims, just a couple of knuckleheads webbed to a lamppost—and they ain’t talkin’.”
“Detective—” Spider-Man started. He’d heard this complaint before.
However, Garcia interrupted. “All right, Detective, you’ve made your point.”
Glowering at Spider-Man, Shapiro said, “Yeah.”
“As for you,” Garcia said to Spider-Man, “if you’re gonna keep cooperating, you will cooperate. That means following the rules, understand? I don’t want a glory hound screwing our case.”
“Inspector, the next time I seek glory will be the first. Like I’ve already told your detectives, that’s not why I do this.”
“Fine.” Garcia walked to the door. “I want this drug war ended and this case closed, people. Do a job.”
As soon as the door to the squad room closed behind Garcia, Shanahan said, “‘Do a job,’ Jesus. Knute Rockne, he ain’t.”
“All right,” Shapiro said, “enough. Let’s get to the hospitals, keep trying to get something out of the vics. Maybe one of ’em knows their dealer.” To Petrocelli, he said, “Narcotics is keeping an eye on Ray-Ray, right?”
Petrocelli nodded. “It’s been quiet, though. That in itself is scary.”
Oh man, Hector, why couldn’t you talk to me? Spider-Man shook his head. Hector was a good kid, but Spider-Man couldn’t entirely blame him for not rolling on his buddies. How many secrets had he kept to protect his friends and family over the years, after all?
“Keep in touch with them. I wanna know—”
The desk sergeant Spider-Man had met on his first trip here burst in all of a sudden. “Jerry, we just got a call from the One-Oh-Eight—shots fired in the Robinsfield Houses. There’re some narcos there, and they told the One-Oh-Eight to call you.”
Without hesitating, Spider-Man leapt for the window. “I’ll meet you guys there.” He was out the window before anybody could object, swinging across the street and through the condo complex to the park, making time as fast as he could to Long Island City.
Now, Spider-Man wished he had tailed Hector. True, it would’ve meant not getting the confirmation on the Ock connection right off, but if that kid wound up dead . . .
With great power comes great responsibility. That was something Uncle Ben had told him, something that had become his lifelong credo. But sometimes the responsibility really sucks. And I just can’t be in two places at once.
It took about fifteen minutes to wend his way to LIC, and by then it was all over. Ambulances and blue-and-whites were surrounding the Houses, lights flashing, casting a red glow on the entire area. Spider-Man could smell the gunshot residue as he approached, which meant a lot of gunfire.
“Yo, web-head!”
Spider-Man saw a short black woman waving at him. She was dressed casually, but had a badge on her belt. He twisted in midair to do a backflip onto the top of an ambulance, then leapt over to the roof of the car next to where the cop was standing. “Can I help you?”
“Joan Barnes, Narcotics. Una O’Leary called and said I should talk to you when you got here.”
Making a mental note to buy O’Leary flowers when this was all over, he asked, “What happened?”
“Drug hit. We got one of the shooters, but the rest rabbited. Two of our guys got hit—the one shooter we got laid down cover fire for his buddies.”
“They okay?”
Barnes nodded. “We’re stakin’ out a drug market, you bet we’re all wearin’ Kevlars.”
Looking closely, Spider-Man noticed the impressions of the Velcro flaps of a bulletproof vest under Barnes’s sweatshirt. “Who’s the shooter you got?”
“White guy—talks with an Eastern European accent. I figure it’s a Ukrainian crew working out of Brighton Beach. They’re the ones getting pushed out by Ray-Ray.”
“Anybody else hit?”
At that, Barnes actually smiled. “That’s the fun part. Ray-Ray took one in the chest—and he wasn’t wearing a Kevlar.”
“Anybody else?”
Opening her notebook, Barnes started flipping pages. “Lessee—two of Ray-Ray’s crew. Ambo took ’em to Parkway.” She got to the right spot. “Robert Billinghurst, street name ‘Cap,’ and a new kid, Hector Diaz.”
A fist of ice clenched Spider-Man’s heart. “They took ’em to Parkway?”
“Yeah, why, you—”
But Spider-Man didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, as he leapt off the roof and made his way to the hospital. I should’ve tailed Hector. I knew I should’ve tailed Hector!
ELEVEN
AS opening night fast approached, the minds of the cast and crew of The Z-Axis were turning to thoughts of homicide.
Mary Jane was working out just fine in the role of Olga, if she did say so herself. The part was, after all, less challenging than that of Irina, so plugging into it wasn’t too difficult. Dmitri had been effusive in his praise—which, for Dmitri, meant that he only told her that she was awful and was ruining his show once or twice, as opposed to constantly.
The problem was with Regina in the role of Irina. Regina was also, after all, playing Fiona, the lead female part in Up the Creek Without a Fiddle, the about-to-close show currently running at VPC. Fiona was a not-too-bright prostitute with a drug problem who was the victim of the men around her; Irina was a smart, prim young woman who believed in the best of people. Thus they were two radically different parts of the type that most actors would be thrilled to have on their resumé in order to show off their range.
The problem was, Regina was having a hard time getting out of Fiona mode and into Irina mode, as it were.
