by Peter David
“Don’t you know there’s a penalty for early withdrawal?” Spider-Man demanded.
“Back off,” snarled Sandman, and just to underscore how serious he was, he extended his arm and swung a sandy fist at Spider-Man. Moving faster than Sandman would have thought possible, Spider-Man ducked under it, punching Sandman in the gut.
It had about as much effect as the cops’ bullets—his fist went right through Sandman’s body. Sandman instantly reacted, transforming his fist into the shape of a hammer and slamming Spider-Man not only into the truck’s rear doors but through them, tearing the doors right off their hinges.
One of the doors clattered to the street and tumbled away; Spider-Man landed atop the other. The door, still moving at the same speed as the armored car, skidded and sent up a shower of sparks. The annoying insect fired a webline and, affixing his feet to the door with his astounding adhesive powers, “surfed” down the street behind the car, dragged along at top speed.
Other cars were scrambling to get out of the armored car’s path. The armored car swerved, mowing through a line of parked cars, sending each of them flipping up and over, and Spider-Man had to surf left, right, left again, dodging the tumbling vehicles as they crashed down on either side of him.
Sandman witnessed a van fly toward Spider-Man, who somersaulted over it and landed back on his still moving “wakeboard.” A Gremlin, of all things, now hurtled toward him end over end, and Spider-Man practically bent backward, like a limbo dancer, allowing the car to pass harmlessly over him.
Sandman admired Spider-Man’s agility, if not his brains. Deciding that watching the wildly gyrating web slinger had provided enough amusement for one day, Sandman climbed out the top of the armored car, hauling as many of the cash bags as he could carry. Out the corner of his eye, he saw his pursuer suddenly vault from his makeshift wakeboard onto the top of the armored car, squaring off yet again in this ongoing and ridiculous attempt to impede him.
Just ahead of the out-of-control armored vehicle, oblivious of the world around her, a woman crossed the street to her car while chatting away on a cell phone. She opened the driver’s door of her parked car. The armored car was barreling straight at her—in about five seconds there would be nothing between the hurtling truck and the open door of her car.
She was standing directly under a lamppost. Without thought, Spider-Man fired a webline in a long arc that soared over the top of the lamppost, descended, and snagged her from behind. In the instant before the armored car struck, the webline drew shorter, and the startled woman was yanked upward. The armored truck smashed through the open car door, sending it flying with such impact that it landed a block away. The woman dropped to the ground seconds later, looking around dizzily, clearly uncertain as to what had just happened.
Spider-Man was torn with conflict. Clearly this… this human sandpile had to be stopped. But so did the armored car before it killed someone, and at least he had some clue how to go about that.
Taking a huge risk, he dropped into the speeding armored car, ignoring the scowling face of the sand guy as he went. He spotted the one guard, pressed up against the shattered Plexiglas, and the driver, who was buried up to his neck.
Spider-Man also saw that the problem of stopping the armored car was about to be solved. It was heading toward the solid side of a building.
With only seconds to act, he grabbed the one guard under one arm, hauled the driver out from the sandpile with the other, and threw them both out the back of the ruined car. Even as he did so, he spun webnets faster than ever before. They formed slings around the guards, snagging them both.
Spider-Man was about to leap clear when the leftover sand beneath his feet grabbed at him. He looked down in confusion, buried in sand up to his ankles. He tried to pull free, yanking with increasing desperation.
Just as he managed to extricate his feet, the armored car hit the curb, flipped completely over, and slammed into the side of the building.
Ironically, the pile of sand in the cab saved him. Spider-Man was propelled forward on impact, but all the sand in the front that had nearly smothered the driver cushioned the blow. The rest of the armored car crunched in behind him, and he tightened himself into a ball, tucking his head down for maximum protection.
Even after the car had been halted in its suicidal course, Spider-Man stayed there for long seconds, scarcely able to believe he was still alive. His whole body ached, the world around him spinning.
Hauling his battered body forward, hand over hand, Spider-Man pulled himself out the open back of the car and tumbled with a distinct lack of gracefulness into the street. The armored car was a smoking wreck, and a bit of flame burned on the underside. He snuffed it out with a few quick web shots; the last thing anyone needed was for the whole thing to erupt in a massive fireball.
He looked over toward the guards just long enough to ascertain that they were all right. There was not, however, any sign of the money, nor of the sandy freak that had made off with it.
Spider-Man immediately fired a webline that hauled him to a high perch, giving him an unobstructed view of the surrounding area for blocks in all directions. He tried to catch a glimpse of his opponent, but there was none to be had. He was long gone.
He briefly pondered the insane opponents that had surfaced since the first day he had put on the Spider-Man costume—the Green Goblin, Dr. Octopus, the Goblin redux… and now this human sandpile.
“Where do all these guys come from?” he wondered aloud, then grimly thought that the Daily Bugle was going to have a field day with this.
Peter Parker couldn’t have been more correct. The next day’s Bugle headline blared: SANDMAN! SON OF A beach! even SPIDEY cant stop HIM! Even more irritating was the smaller headline, which had a picture of Spider-Man receiving the key to the city from Gwen Stacy, with the words: give back the key! plastered beneath it.
Reading the front page in his apartment, Peter threw it down in irritation. Then he looked in the mirror, straightened his tie, and pulled on his sport jacket as he muttered, “It was a draw.”
He was still aching from the pounding he’d taken at the hands of the guy everyone was calling Sandman. An obvious enough name, and certainly appropriate, since he’d come close to hammering Spider-Man into unconsciousness. But Peter healed quickly and was determined to soldier through the pain for Mary Jane’s sake. This was going to be an important evening, and he didn’t want to risk anything ruining it.
Pulling his wallet out of his jacket pocket, he checked the contents and wasn’t thrilled. He went to a drawer where he kept what he laughingly referred to as the Parker family fortune and extracted a few more bills. He stared at it, looked at the money in his hand, then took the whole pile and shoved it in his pocket. From his other pocket he extracted Aunt May’s engagement ring. It was tiny, granted, but if he held it up just right in the light, it dazzled.
As he headed for the door, he had a vague sense of unease. At first he thought it was simply butterflies in his stomach over his plans for the evening, but then something drew him to the closet.
He glanced in and saw nothing except his sparse wardrobe and deep shadows. Peter supposed it was understandable that he was getting increasingly cautious in his old age. If sand could have it out for him, then it was entirely possible that, the next thing he knew, shadows would be out to get him.
Laughing inwardly at the notion, Peter headed out the front door, shutting it tightly behind him… and never noticing that one of the shadows in his closet was moving ever so slightly.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
PROPOSAL ON THE ROCKS
The Constellation Restaurant was a reasonably upscale rendezvous that was within Peter’s financial limits, albeit barely. Originally, Peter had been concerned that he wasn’t going to be able to put thoughts of yesterday’s debacle behind him, but was now pleasantly surprised to find an increasing spring in his step as he approached the restaurant. During evening hours, an elevator in the front
lobby operated express from the ground floor to the Constellation, and Peter stepped into it feeling positively elated. Whatever shellacking his confidence might have taken at Sandman’s hands yesterday was all washed away in a flood of good feeling that this evening would turn out well.
Prompted by the cheery ding of the elevator, he stepped out on the top floor and glanced around with uncertainty. He’d never been to this restaurant before, but Mary Jane had spoken of it highly; this was supposed to be her night, and that was all the incentive he’d needed. A wandering violinist passed by, playing a sprightly rendition of “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
Peter moved toward the reservations desk, where a maître d’ peered down his nose at him and said, “Bonsoir. he monsieur a-t-il une reservation?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak…” Peter was already feeling out of his depth.
His eyes crinkling with carefully cultivated French disdain, the maître d’ reminded him, “This is a French restaurant, non?”
“Out.”
Heaving the sigh of one who does not suffer fools gladly, the maître d’ said, “Name, please?”
“Parker. Peter.”
He skimmed down the list, then nodded. “Ahhh, here we are. Parker. For two. You are the first.”
“I have a request. My girlfriend will be coming. I have this…” Peter fumbled around in his pocket and experienced a brief, horrified moment when he thought it had somehow discovered a hole and had slipped away… before his fingers finally settled around it. He withdrew Aunt May’s engagement ring and held it up. “This ring… and I want to…”
This seemed to cause the maître d’ to perk up. “You want to pop the question tonight?”
“Right. I want to do something special.”
“Ah,” said the maître d’, thumping his open hand to his chest as if he were trying to prevent his heart from bounding out of it. “I love it. Romance.” He paused, then added, “I am French,” as if that were in doubt.
“When I signal you,” Peter said in a conspiratorial tone, “if you bring the champagne with the ring…”
“… at the bottom of her glass.”
Peter gave him a high sign. “Perfect.”
“Magnifique,” replied the maître d’, and for good measure, he made one of those popping noises, like a champagne cork, by bouncing his hand off his mouth.
“Also,” said Peter, pulling a slip of paper from his inside jacket pocket, “I thought at the same time, if the violins could play this song…”
The maître d’ glanced at it and, to Peter’s relief, nodded in approval. “Their favorite.”
Peter handed the ring to the maître d’, who held the diamond up for closer inspection. If he thought the size was unimpressive, he at least had enough discretion not to say anything about it. “Take good care of the ring,” said Peter.
“With my life,” the maître d’ solemnly intoned. He gestured for Peter to follow him to the table. “S’il vous plaît.”
“Oui,” Peter once again utilized one of the four French words he knew.
It appeared to be enough. “I like you,” said the maître d’ as he lead Peter past other tables, where elegantly dressed, sophisticated diners were enjoying an evening out. One or two glanced his way, found nothing about him particularly remarkable, and went back to their conversations.
A waiter quickly stepped in to pull Peter’s chair back for him, which took Peter by surprise. In the places where he typically dined out, the most interaction he was used to from a server was a bored query of “Do you want fries with that?” He sat down, and the waiter eased his chair in behind him. It was one of the most comfortable chairs that Peter had ever sat in.
He watched the maître d’ move off and noticed that a bread basket had been placed in front of him. At least he thought it was a bread basket—it was filled with artistically designed, braided breads and unusual crackers. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to eat them or admire them from a distance. Glancing around, he saw that all the fashionable people seemed to be eating them, although amazingly there were no crumbs to be spotted anywhere.
You swing upside down on threads eighty stories above street level. You can be adventurous enough to have some bread.
He picked up one of the braided sticks and bit into it carefully. It was wonderful, freshly baked.
He waved the stick around in what he perceived was a casual manner and imagined Mary Jane seated across from him. “I ordered some champagne,” he said, and realized he was speaking with a French accent. He cleared his throat and continued in his normal voice, “Would you like some champagne?” Then, pretending to see a ring in her glass, he acted surprised as he said, “Oh! How’d that get in there!” He smiled, seeing her getting teary eyed. “Oh, stop. Don’t cry.”
He acted out the rest of the scenario to his satisfaction, then glanced at his wrist only to discover that he wasn’t wearing a watch. Well, that was all right. Certainly she’d be along any minute.
Time passed… and more time… until he lost track. He was munching on the last of the bread sticks and growing concerned. The notion that Mary Jane might be standing him up never occurred to him. Instead he was entirely concerned that… well, who knew what? What if Harry had gotten his memory back and was holding her hostage somewhere? What if she’d run afoul of this Sandman character? What if… ?
With great relief, he saw Mary Jane finally enter the restaurant and speak a few words to the maître d’. The maître d’ nodded, looking rather pleased, and led Mary Jane over to the table. Peter thought she looked a little self-conscious, but he could understand why. A girl as gorgeous as Mary Jane was always having people looking her way with admiration. It had to be hard drawing appreciative stares wherever you went.
Peter politely rose as the maître d’ personally held the chair out for her. She sat down and shifted uneasily, which seemed odd to Peter since there was nothing remotely uncomfortable about the chair.
“This place in your budget?” she asked.
Ah, that was it. Money worries. Peter smiled reassuringly and said, “It’s a special occasion. You’re on Broadway. You’re a star.”
“I don’t feel like much of a star tonight.”
“You’re a star in my eyes. You’ll be in everybody’s eyes now.” When she didn’t react to that, he reached over and took her hand. “I know what you’re feeling, but you’ll get used to it. Take me: I’m everywhere.” He laughed at the absurdity of it. “I see Spider-Man posters in the windows, kids running around with me on their sweaters. I’m a big Halloween item.” He saw a trace of a smile on Mary Jane’s mouth over that and, feeling encouraged, continued, “I don’t know. I guess I’ve become something of an icon. ‘Spider-Man, Spider-Man.’ They kept screaming it. I mean, c’mon… I’m a nerdy kid from Queens. So I’m thinking to myself, do I deserve this?”
He hoped he was taking the right approach to the situation. Last time Mary Jane had flipped out on him when he’d started addressing her concerns from his point of view. But he was certain that the way to get through to her now was to make her understand that he could relate to her problems through personal experience. Still, he didn’t know how much headway he was making here, and he was about to pursue her worries further when suddenly he saw exactly the wrong person at exactly the wrong time heading their way.
“Hi, Peter!” called a cheerful Gwen Stacy.
You gotta be kidding me. Of all the restaurants in all the boroughs in all New York, she walks into mine.
Peter was suddenly self-conscious. That spur-of-the-moment kiss that had seemed like such a good idea at the time now left Peter feeling extremely vulnerable. Here he’d made this whole big demonstration on the stage, and now the girl with whom he’d performed it was standing there smiling at him, and Mary Jane—to whom he was preparing to propose!—could only scowl.
At that moment Peter would have welcomed an attack from the Sandman just to defuse the situation.
“Oh, Gwen. Hi.” He tried not
to project anything in his tone or demeanor that might suggest he was doing anything other than politely acknowledging her presence.
“My parents and I were just having dinner here, and I saw you guys.” Gwen pointed toward the doorway, and Peter saw a man and a woman waiting there. They had their coats on, obviously about to leave. They must have been dining on the opposite side of the restaurant, and Gwen had spotted Peter as they were on their way out. It took him a few seconds, but then he recognized the man: the police captain who had been at the scene when he’d saved Gwen.
Her father is a cop? A trained observer of people who could tell when someone was uncomfortable or lying or trying to conceal something? Oh, this is just perfect.
Gwen’s parents waved to them, and Peter waved back.
Immediately the maître d’, mistaking Peter’s gesture for his signal, started toward Peter with the champagne. Peter’s eyes widened in panic, and he quickly waved the maître d’ off. This caused the maître d’ to stop where he was, blinking in confusion like a blinded owl. Meantime Gwen’s parents, equally bewildered, continued to wave.
While Peter flapped like a crippled sparrow, Gwen seized the initiative and extended a hand to Mary Jane. “Hello. I’m Gwen Stacy.”
Realizing that the two hadn’t formally been introduced, Peter quickly said, “Oh, right. This is, uh…” To his horror, he blanked on her name for a split second, but recovered quickly and said, “Mary Jane Watson.”
“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you,” Gwen said warmly. “Pete talks about you all the time.”
Mary Jane raised a single eyebrow. Never a good sign. “Oh?”
Clearing his throat, Peter said, “Gwen’s my, uh, lab cart… lab… partner in Dr. Connors’s class.”
Gwen rested a hand on his shoulder, a simple friendly gesture. From the look on Mary Jane’s face, though, Gwen might as well have been sliding her hand down the front of his shirt. “Peter’s something of a genius,” Gwen said blithely. “He saved my life in Chemistry.”