175 Fifth Avenue on Manhattan Island was nicknamed the Flatiron Building by New York City residents. In the underworld, the business operated here had a prestigious name: the Continental Hotel.
The top floor of the hotel was rented out to New York City's most hardheaded newspaper, the Daily Bugle. Eddie Brock was currently in the office of its editor-in-chief and owner, J.J. Jameson.
"Eddie, don't turn in your article yet. Don't try any other newspapers either. Go take a break for a while."
"Jameson, is Carlton Drake putting pressure on you? I thought you were a hard-nosed media man who wasn't afraid of that kind of pressure."
J.J. Jameson clenched a cigar between his teeth, hiding his expression behind the smoke. "I am, but I also know how to read people.
"I know that if people like them can't make you shut up, they'll do something worse.
"Facing the same situation, I have ways to deal with it. But do you? I don't want you to think that having my support means your personal safety is guaranteed. If you die because of that misjudgment, it'll be a loss to society.
"So take my advice and go on vacation. Aren't you getting married soon? Then go on your honeymoon. Hawaii, Thailand, Bali, Iceland—or California or Las Vegas, if you prefer.
"If you think you're brave enough and aren't afraid of sacrifice, go to Iraq. News about the U.S. military messing around over there draws just as much attention, and I happen to need a war correspondent."
Eddie Brock cursed angrily. "Damn it, Jameson! Is it because your son, John Jameson, works for the Life Foundation that you're protecting them like this?"
J.J. Jameson's face darkened. "My child, John, was one of the astronauts aboard the LF1 space exploration vessel. That boy