Spiderman 1 (7 page)

But Flash quickly disabused him of that notion. The jock was obviously only capable of figuring something out if it involved tormenting someone smaller than he. "Explain me something, Osborn," he said.

I'm not sure I know enough small words,
he thought, but said gamely, "Sure, Flash. What?"

"You and Parker. I mean, he's such a loser, and you're
Mister Megarich Dad and riding around in a Rolls
Royce . . ."

"That was a Bentley."

"Whatever," Flash said impatiently. "The point is, why do
you bother hanging around with the guy? What's the big at
traction? You and Parker ain't
. . .
uh . . ." and he flipped one
hand forward and down in a decidedly limp-wristed manner.
"Huh?
No!"
said Harry with extreme vehemence. "No,
it's nothing like that. It's ... look, you really wanna know?"
"I asked, didn't I?" Flash's disposition wasn't improving.
Harry glanced right and left to make sure no one was
paying attention, and was sufficiently satisfied with Mr. Sul
livan's fruitless endeavors to get everyone to pay attention.
He was reasonably sure they could chat undisturbed for a
few moments. "Okay, look . . . my previous schools, all the best, preppy, private schools there were
...
I got bounced
out of them, okay? I couldn't cut it scholastically. In point of
fact, I didn't even want to."

Flash let out a whistle. "I wondered how you wound up at
our dump of a school."

"Yeah, well, if I'd been left on my own, I'd probably have

flunked out of yours, too." He leaned against the wall, shift
ing uncomfortably, as if his shoes were suddenly too tight.
"I'd been at Midtown for about two weeks, and I had this bi
ology report due. I didn't have a clue how to approach it. So
I figured I'd do what I always do when I run into a problem:
throw money at it. I track down Parker, the biggest brain in
school, and offer to buy a biology paper off him. He writes it, I sign my name, pay him off, everybody's happy."

"I get it! So you're Parker's meal ticket!" Flash grinned
broadly, as if pleased to learn that Peter Parker's feet were as
made of clay as any other guy's.

But Harry shook his head vehemently. "No. No, not at
all. Because Peter wouldn't do it. He says it's wrong. He says
it won't accomplish anything. I double the offer. Two hun
dred bucks, I offered him. He still won't take it. I say,
'What? Don't you need the money?' He says, 'More than
you know. But that would be wrong,' he says to me. Instead
he says to me, 'Look
...
I'll help you do it yourself. Help
you pick a topic, show you how to research it, the whole nine
yards. And I'll proofread the paper for you once you've writ
ten it. Make sure all the facts are right. That way, it's really
your paper and it's all aboveboard.' I ask him, 'How much
will that run me?' And he says, 'Nothing.' I say, 'So why
would you do this for me?' He says, 'Because you look like
you need the help. And that would be right.'

"So I take him up on it, because I figure I can still talk
him into it. The thing is, thanks to him, I really started getting into it. As I found out stuff in my research, I really did
get excited about the idea of seeing it through, for maybe the
first time in my life. So I did, and I got a B+, and it was the
sweetest grade I ever got, 'cause it was mine. And Peter
never took a dime from me.

"Y'see, Flash, most people are like you. They see me,
they see a walking dollar sign. Not Peter. He's barely got two nickels to rub together, but I realized—thanks to hanging out

with him—that some things, like integrity, are beyond
price." He put a hand on Flash's upper arm, and cringed
slightly as he felt the rock-solid muscle beneath the shirt
sleeve. "You hear what I'm telling you, Flash? Does that tell
you something about Peter Parker?"

"Yeah," said Flash with a snort. "Parker's even dumber
than I thought. Walking away from two hundred bucks! He
probably would've enjoyed writing the stupid paper. And he
could've had you as a customer for the rest of high school. What a jerk!"

Harry moaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
"Noooo, Flash
...
I think you kind of missed the point . . ."

"The only point that matters is the one on top of Puny
Parker's pointed head. What a maroon! What a ta-ra-ra

goon-de-ay."

Harry stopped talking, realizing that nothing he was
going to say would change Flash's mind about Peter. Indeed it was possible that nothing in existence would do that, short of Peter caving in Flash's face. But as Flash swaggered over
to Mary Jane, draping an arm around her as if she were a
side of beef, Harry realized that the odds of Peter ever laying out Flash were very, very slim indeed.

The Ascot Club, situated in a neatly adorned brownstone
on Lexington Avenue, was one of those men's clubs that seemed hopelessly out-of-date. That, of course, was exactly
what its uniformly male membership enjoyed about the
place. All one had to do was walk in and take a deep breath. It was easy to detect, with just one whiff, the history, pipes,
fine cigars, and testosterone that filled the atmosphere. There
was a sense of gravitas in the air, and a serene quiet. In a
number of rooms, discussion was banned entirely, allowing
blissful silence to hold sway.

Norman Osborn wasn't especially in the mood to talk,
but all the truly comfortable chairs in the silent areas were

taken. So he had opted to settle into an overstuffed easy
chair in the far corner of one of the conversational rooms
and bury his face behind a newspaper in hopes of being left
on his own. This hope proved to be futile, although at least it made a perverse sort of sense when he was interrupted.

"At least you're reading my newspaper, Norman. I appre
ciate the show of solidarity."

Osborn folded the
Daily Bugle
in half and looked with surprise at the person who had addressed him. "Jonah!" he
exclaimed. "A bit early in the morning for you, isn't it?"

J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the
Daily Bugle,
didn't
need the excuse of his club to puff away on a cigar. He did
so whenever and wherever he was inclined, ignoring every
thing from prohibitive signs to city laws. But he'd been
heard to say that, at his club at least, he could smoke without having to worry about getting dirty looks.

Jameson's face had a lived-in look. He had a habit of
walking with his chin thrust out, like a boxer daring people to take their best shots. Jonah Jameson also had said on any
number of occasions that he led a life without apology. It had been observed by others that he didn't need to apolo
gize; that's what he had a staff for.

In contrast to the impeccable designer suit that Osborn was sporting, Jameson was attired in one of his customary
ill-fitting gray off-the-rack things that looked like he'd slept in it for two days. Since he seemed to spend every waking
hour either in the office or at the club, he might very well
have been sleeping in it. It was a total mystery to Osborn
how anyone with as much money as Jameson had could pay
so little attention to personal appearance.

Mustache bristling, Jameson dropped into a chair oppo
site Osborn. "Early for you as well, Norman. Me, I just
walked out of a meeting with my idiot accountants."

"Ah. So you came out of an unpleasant meeting. Me, I
have to head into one. So I figured some quiet time with a

good newspaper . . . and a better brandy ...," and he held
up his brandy, swirling the contents slightly in the glass,
"... might be just what the doctor ordered, to help get
through it."

"Where is it? Your factory out on the Island?"

Osborn nodded and leaned back in his chair. There was a
look of amusement on his face. "Yes, Jonah, it's my factory

out on Long Island, and no, I'm not going to go into details.

With an old newshound like you, less is always better to say
than more."