Spiked by Mark Arsenault

candlelight rally to save the old church tonight at six,” he said. “I gotta wave the flag there before Manny Eccleston and his henchmen tear it down. See my press staff when it’s over. They’ll have something for you.”
    â€œCan it wait a day?” Eddie said. “I’m feeling a little beat up, Congressman.”
    â€œDon’t get formal with me, you little shit,” Vaughn shouted. “You’ll be there.” Click.
    ***
    Franklin Keyes was in his office, behind the desk. The room smelled like drugstore aftershave, a brand a high school boy would wear on a date. Keyes checked his watch when Eddie came in. “Bourque, I was going to send for you in a few minutes.”
    â€œI have an idea to pitch,” Eddie said. “Strong stuff, but it’s going to take some off-staff time to do it right. Maybe two weeks. And I’ll need a photog.”
    Keyes gestured for Eddie to sit down. “Wow—what happened to your hands, Ed?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s nothing. This story—”
    â€œDoesn’t look like nothing,” Keyes said, interrupting. “Looks like you got into something. I’m worried.” He folded his hands on the desk and bunched his brow in a look of concern. He was baiting Eddie, but into what?
    â€œI’m all right, Franklin,” Eddie said, using the editor’s full first name, which subordinates rarely did at the office. “Let’s talk journalism, all right?”
    Keyes nodded.
    Eddie told him about the community of addicts under the bridge, about Leo and Gabrielle and the stray cats. “At heart, this is a love story,” Eddie explained. “Leo and Gabrielle, like Romeo and Juliet with needle marks. It’s fabulous material.”
    Keyes shrugged. “Doesn’t Romeo die in the play?”
    â€œThey both die.” He sighed. “Forget Shakespeare—that’s not the best example.”
    The wrinkles in Keyes’ brow spread to the corners of his mouth. “What is?”
    â€œJust look at the danger they’re in under that bridge.”
    â€œLike they’re killing each other?”
    â€œLike they have no home and they’re addicted to heroin,” Eddie said. “Any injection could be fatal. Yet they’re still together, as a couple. Love triumphs over all.”
    Keyes grabbed a purple lollipop from his top drawer and unwrapped it with the rapt attention of a man defusing a bomb. With the pop in his mouth, he said, “Sounds like a bunch of dope addicts in love with dope.”
    â€œAddiction isn’t love,” Eddie offered. “But you could say heroin has muscled in on their relationship and made this a love triangle—all the better for the drama of the story. These people appear to be the dregs of the city, yet they have their own kind of honor and compassion.” Eddie found himself writing the story out loud. “And they have love, Frank, a deep, soul-rattling love. Our readers in suburbia pay thousands to marriage counselors in search of the love that these addicts manage to have under a goddam railroad bridge.”
    Keyes shrugged. He jiggled in his chair. “Why should I care?”
    Wasn’t it obvious? Even to Keyes? “Because every good story is about people and their struggles,” Eddie said.
    â€œAnd?”
    Eddie felt his face flush. This wasn’t supposed to be so hard. “Most of Lowell travels that bridge every day. The citizens of this underworld are literally right under our noses.”
    Keyes paused a moment. He twirled the lollipop, and then his face creased like a raisin. He shook his head. “I’m not impressed,” he said. “Why do we want to glorify a bunch of dope fiends?”
    â€œNobody is glorifying anything,” Eddie answered, his voice rising. “These people are part of Lowell. We cover Lowell.”
    â€œSo why don’t they get jobs?”
    â€œYou got