Read the opening of Spiked!:

Chapter 1

Lowell, Massachusetts

Monday

October 19. 7:50 a.m.

Eddie Bourque gulped the last of his bitter Arabica, then lifted the empty mug over his head and wagged it at the waitress. He put it down, exhaled noisily and looked out the window at the hard sleet slanting to the street. His flip-top reporter's notebook, on the table, was still empty.

“Just amazing,” continued Councilman Eccleston. “In the front of the spoon I see myself upside down. But when I took in the back,” he flipped the spoon, “I’m upside up.” He grinned, delighted, then pumped his eyebrows up and down.

“Councilman, you started to say—”

“In a minute, Eddie,” Eccleston said, turning the spoon.

The waitress filled Eddie's mug with black java that looked an hour past its prime. She left four shots of non-dairy creamer on the table and went away. Eddie added two creams and stirred the drink with his ballpoint.

Eddie’s partner on the newspaper’s political beat, Danny Nowlin, had assured him that the councilman had a tip—a tip so hot that Danny would have followed it himself if he weren’t too busy on a long-term news feature. But two coffees into the interview, Eccleston had offered no sizzle, not even a news brief.

If Danny’s going to dump Eccleston on me, I hope he’s chasing a Pulitzer.

Five-term City Councilman Manuel Eccleston was sixtyish. He had greased-down ginger hair, a flushed, overscrubbed complexion, and an enduring dazed look about him—one part curiosity, two parts brain concussion. A former Lottery Commission hack, Eccleston had retired on a disability. Bum leg, blood clots, sciatica-he had claimed them all, which          meant he could only golf where nobody knew him.

Eccleston flipped the spoon again. “You ever seen this trick?” he asked.

“No,” Eddie said. “It doesn’t work for me.” Eccleston looked up, and Eddie pounced. “It must be tense times for you incumbents, three weeks before the election. The opinion polls have it close.”

It was an educated guess. Eddie had seen no polls—no news agency had commissioned one, and the politicians guarded their own poll results like missile codes. But when­ever eighteen candidates compete for nine open seats, there has to be a close race somewhere.

Eccleston struck at the bait. “It’s a crazy season, like they say—all politics is loco.”

Eddie bit his bottom lip until it hurt. In political circles, Eccleston was known as Manny the Mangler for his regular assassination of the King’s English. If the King were still around, Manny would hang.

Eccleston went through the election ticket, top to bottom,           rating each incumbent's chance for reelection. He offered a rosy, but plausible, analysis: that Manny and four of his political allies would survive.

“So you think your block will keep its majority?”

Eccleston shook the spoon at Eddie. “We better. This city is at a critical conjunction.”

Manny was swimming near the hook, and Eddie didn’t want to spook him. He shrugged, resisted the urge to reach for his pad, and inwardly begged for more.

The councilman leaned over the table. He said, “Government needs to take a lesson from business.” His breath smelled mysteriously like baking soda. “What does business do with employees who don't pull their own freight?”

Eddie bit his lip again.

Eccleston rapped the spoon on the Formica. “They fire em.” He leaned back. “And a certain neighborhood of this city ain't working out.”

That didn’t make any sense. Eddie drained his mug. He said, “You can’t fire a neighborhood.”

Eccleston’s index fingers came together at eye level. “We have to think outside the box,” he said, as his fingers traced a triangle in the air.

Eddie reached for his pad, a narrow spiral notebook with a red “E” emblazoned on the cover. The councilman’s eyes got big. “You’re not writing this down, are you?”

“Got to,” Eddie said. “Forgot to wear a wire this morning.”

Eccleston gave a nervous laugh. He scratched his scalp with the spoon, and kept his voice low. “This ain’t for the paper.”

“Councilman,” Eddie said, sounding like a disappointed father, “You didn’t arrange this meeting to send me home empty-handed.”

Eccleston looked outside. He tapped the spoon in his palm. “The situation isn't ripe yet.”

Eddie got it—Eccleston was playing defense. He wanted to tip Eddie to something juicy, off-the-record, with a conditional release date. Then, even if Eddie heard the news someplace else, he would be bound by the embargo, and the councilman could be sure the story wouldn't run before it was ripe.

Of course Eddie could refuse the deal and pursue the story on his own. But then there would be no guarantee he’d get it. Later, when he was ready, Eccleston would leak it to the TV stations.

Eddie looked in his coffee mug. He shook a last drop into his mouth. “You have me curious, councilman,” he admitted. “What’s your timetable?”

“After the election.”

“Christ Almighty, this is big,” Eddie muttered.

Too big, he decided, to pass up. He tucked his pad and pen into his overcoat. “Okay, deal. Now empty your pockets, and make it good.”