seriousfic

If J. Jonah Jameson ruled the Daily Bugle like a king, Robbie Robertson was the power behind the throne. Despite having the build of a heavyweight boxer, his smile was easy and accommodating, and he had an eye for the good in people. And for good photographs, which he found in spades as he looked through Peter’s work.

Peter, trying not to preen, stood across from him, looking around Robertson’s office.

“Peter, these are incredible! How’d you get shots of the crime scene at Osborn’s place?”

”You know me. Right place, right time. So, will you take them?”

”Sure. Three hundred sound fair to you?”

”’Fair’? Sounds like a whole carnival. But Jonah’s never going to go for it.”

”Don’t worry about it,” Robbie said, pulling three hundreds from his wallet. Peter tried hard not to let his fingers twitch as he took the money. ”Now get out of here before Jameson sees you. You’re still persona non grata, remember?”

”Right,” Peter said smartly before dashing off.

Robbie watched him go, passing Betty, who was holding a tray of piping-hot coffee. Robertson walked up to Betty, trailing behind her as she distributed the coffee to the busy bullpen.

”Miss Brant, could you ring me up a hundred bucks? Got an anonymous photographer to pay.”

”Sure. Mr. J’s going to love you for getting a bargain like that.”

”I’ll bet he will. May I?” Robbie asked, indicating the coffee.

”Be my guest.”

He took a cup and sipped from it as continued on her rounds.

”Mmm… cappuccino.”

He went back into his office and closed his door.

”That was a nice thing you did for Parker. Real classy.”

Robertson turned to see Spider-Man upside-down and sticking to his window from outside. Surprised, Robertson opened the window.

“Spider-Man! What're you doing here?“

”I need help finding a man. And before you make a gay joke, someone’s been pulling jobs on Oscorp warehouses.

”Funny, you always struck me as a ‘crime-in-progress’ type.”

”I’m thinking of moving up in the world, doing the whole detective thing. I may not have an array of hilarious yet touching psychological disorders, but I try. Arnold Donovan was found dead at one of the robberies, is he part of a crew?”

”I wouldn’t know. But there is a stool pigeon, goes by the name of Patch.”

”Let me guess,” Spider-Man said as he swung in to sit on the windowsill. “He wears an eyepatch.”

”Well, he isn’t a kitten.”

”That was my second guess. Where is he?”

Robertson searched his memory. “He hangs out at a dive in the Kitchen called Josie’s Bar. Urich or Foswell would know more about him than me, but he seems to always shed some light on the situation. If you want to know something, he’ll clue you in for the right price.”

”Does he respond well to threats?”

”Spidey…”

”Hey, I’m a little low on cash at the moment. So, is he the ‘cowardly, superstitious’ sort?”

”Yeah, I guess you can call him that.”

Jameson walked into the office without knocking. ”Robbie, what’s the idea of hijacking my coffee…” His eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline. “Spider-Man! What are you doing in my building!?”

”Ruh-roh!” Spider-Man gave Robbie a quick clinch. “Just remember, they can’t stop our love!”

He leapt out the window. Jameson watched him swing away, stunned.

”Deep down, he means well,” Robbie said.

”So you keep telling me.”

***

If the world was a barrel, Josie’s Bar was its bottom. The one redeeming quality, besides the light amount of alcohol in the watered-down drinks, was that so many lowlifes gathered there that the answer to any question could be found, provided you knew who and how to ask.

Patch specialized in not being asked. When Daredevil came in to knock some heads together, he hid under a table. Or ran out the fire escape or hid in the toilet. Right now, he was out for a smoke. Although smoking was not just allowed, but encouraged in Josie’s Bar, Patch preferred to taste his cigarettes without the atmosphere of others’ inferior brands.

Just as he lit up, though, something splatted on the end of his cigarette. Bird crap? Before he could stop himself, he touched it. It was sticky and very stretchy. Like chewing gum or something.

“What the hell is this stuff?”

“Free sample,” said a voice from above. “For the rest you’ll have to scream.”

Patch looked up. He screamed.

***

On one of Hell’s Kitchen’s infamous one-star hotels shone a large neon sign, illuminating its purported status as a HOTEL. Patch found himself imprisoned in a web that took up the center of the O, struggling in vain.

“Hey, c’mon, what did I ever do to you?”

Spider-Man scuttled down on a webline. In the light, Patch had always figured him for a garish clown in a circus outfit, but in the dark… in the dark, he was something else.

“Nothing. I just thought you’d like to come over to my place and meet the missus.”

”Missus?” Patch repeated.

Spider-Man jerked his head up. Patch obediently followed his gaze. A giant spider was concealed by the shadows cast by the top of the O.

“Look, man, what’re you doing this to me for? I don’t know nothing!”

”Good. Then we’ll be happy to have you for dinner. After all, we’ve got kids to feed. About five thousand.”

”Listen! Just let me go! I’d taste terrible! All skin and bones!”

”Sorry. You’ve seen my nest. I can’t let you tell anyone where I live…”

”I won’t tell anyone, I swear!”

”If only you could prove it to me. Some little morsel of information… to catch me a bigger fish then a street punk like you…”

”What do you want to know? I’ve got ears everywhere, I can help you!”

Spider-Man moved in closer, his jack o’lantern eye-lenses reflecting Patch’s terrified face. “A few days ago, Arnold Donovan was found dead at a robbed Oscorp warehouse. Who did he work for?”

”That’s an easy one! Donald Menken! All I know, swear!”

”Where can I find him?”

”I swear to you, I don’t know!”

”What did he want stolen?”

”I swear I don’t know!”

”Alright, stop swearing, you’ll beginning to make me think you’re a sailor. Thanks for the help.”

He swung away, leaving Patch and the giant spider he’d constructed from webbing to their fates. Patch began to pull himself free of the web. It was very slow-going.

”Ummm… Spidey? Little help?”

***

Everything was coming together. John Jameson had warmed to him, after a fashion, and that meant that Jonah would call off the dogs soon. Things with Mary-Jane were getting more intense, which was scary, but good. And best of all, Take Me Out To The Ball Game was wafting through the air. Spider-Man swung down to Yankee Stadium, all lit up for a game between the Yankees and the Indians. Spider-Man landed on a nearby rooftop for a view of the action, surrounded by a strangely foreboding interplay of gargoyles and shadows. He shook it off. He was Spider-Man. He scared crooks, they didn’t scare him.

Not quite the same as season tickets, but on a quiet night like this, with Mary-Jane off doing her own thing, who’s complaining?

”Think they’ll mind if I throw out the first pitch?” said a voice from above, in grim counterpoint to Spider-Man’s earlier stalking of Patch.

Peter turned around as a bolo shot out of the shadows, wrapping around his chest and pinning his arms to his sides. The two ends interlocked, causing centimeter-long thorns to shoot out of the rope and into Spider-Man. He grunted in pain.

One of the gargoyles moved and emerged from the shadows. Hobgoblin.