The Minnesota candidate
By
Nicholas Antinozzi
Published By: Nicholas Antinozzi
Copyright © 2014 by Nicholas Antinozzi
SMASHWORDS EDITION
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Prologue
“You can’t take him out, Carlson,” said Jack, standing over a four-footer for birdie, “it’s too close to the election. The people will suspect that I had something to do with it.”
Carlson, which wasn’t his real name, watched Jack’s putt drain into the cup. “Nice putt. Jack… look, the people will believe what they’re told to believe. You know that. Accidents happen each and every day. People die, it happens. This guy doesn’t listen and needs to be taken out of the game. These things happen.”
“And I’m telling you that I don’t like it. Why don’t you let me talk to him?”
“Since when did it matter what you liked? Do you want me to include that in my report?”
Jack dropped his putter into his bag and shook his head. “No, that was just me thinking out loud. Try to see this from where I’m standing. People are going to talk.”
Even in his sixties, Carlson was an intimidating figure. He was tall and broad shouldered, yet trim for a man of his age. The ex-CIA man towered over Jack. “People talk, that’s what they do. Jack, the decision has already been made and you know that I had nothing to do with it. They just wanted you to know about it. I’m just doing my job. For the record, I like the guy.”
Jack sighed and nodded his head. “I know you don’t call the shots and I appreciate your candor. Levitz is a good guy, everyone knows that. He’s an idealist, totally devoted to the causes he supports. Honestly, America could use more guys like Merle Levitz. I’m going to miss him.”
“Well, he’s gaining on you in the polls and he’s gotta go.”
“You’ve made your point. Now, was there anything else? Do you want to go double or nothing on eighteen?”
Carlson nodded his head. Yes, there is something else. Our friends have decided to end the war on terror. Try and remember that I’m just the messenger, alright?”
“Something tells me that I’m not going to like this.”
“No, Mister President, you’re not. I’ll be blunt, sir, they want you to throw in the towel. The world is converting over to Islam.”
Jack thought that Carlson was pulling his leg and he laughed. The big man only stared back at him and Jack quit laughing. “You can’t be serious. That will never happen.”
“Not only am I serious, but it’s already happening. This is no joke, sir. They’re converting people as we speak. When the time comes, you and Vice President Mertz are going to announce that you, and your families, have converted to Islam. You won’t be alone. The leaders of Western Europe will be right there with you.”
Jack wanted to laugh. This was the most outlandish plan he had ever heard, and Jack had heard plenty of them during his tenure. “Why?” he asked.
“You don’t seriously expect me to answer that, do you? They don’t tell me these things and I never ask. My guess would be that it has something to do with the New World Order. Look at it this way… at least you have a choice in the matter. You and Mertz are just going to pretend to be converted. A lot of people won’t have that luxury. The world is changing, Jack, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it. I don’t like it any more than you do, but what we like doesn’t matter to these people. Yes or no, are you going to play along? They’re expecting an answer.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. These people didn’t accept no for an answer. He would either play their game or he would be taken out, along with his entire family. “They know that I’m a team player,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But this is going to be ugly. The American people aren’t going to go down without a fight.”
“Trust me, they know that. Now, let’s play. Did I hear you say something about double or nothing on eighteen?”
“You did,” said Jack, without an ounce of enthusiasm.
Chapter 1
They met on the dance floor at a wedding reception. They fell in love the moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. Just out of college, he was overweight and balding, shy and unsure of himself; for her part: she was nearly twenty years his senior with two failed marriages in her pocket. She was blonde and thin and had been considered pretty, but that was before Bell’s palsy had caused the right side of her face to droop. He barely noticed. She had all but given up on love, but love found her while she wasn’t looking. He had never experienced love, yet instinctively, he knew it when it came for him.
They called him Fat Tommy; they had always called him Fat Tommy, the nickname had been given to him by his own grandfather. In a family where nearly everyone had a nickname, Tom had never thought too much about it. The banquet hall was filled with Italians, both young and old. They gathered in small groups in the candlelight, congregating around large bottles of red wine, keeping one eye on the dance floor as Fat Tommy fell under the spell of an older woman.
And so they danced; Tom Picacello and Shari Munthon, they danced as if they were the only couple out on the dance floor. Tom was the cousin of the groom, while Shari was a friend of the bride. There was a slow, lingering kiss, followed by another.
This was when Doris Picacello, Fat Tommy’s overprotective mother, began to complain of a headache. Doris had once been considered pretty, but she had become a shriveled wood-tick of a woman. Three decades of cigarettes had added fifty years to her face, just as thirty years of poor eating habits had added a hundred pounds to her frame. She wore a form-fitting black dress that clung to her in all the wrong places.
With Fat Tommy’s father, Vince, ten years in his grave, her only son had become her constant companion. Doris put her hand to her head and stood at the edge of the dance floor, her face a mask of misery, waiting for her Tommy to notice her. She was a large woman and hard to ignore. The Picacello clan looked on with amusement. They knew about her phantom headaches, had watched her spoil so many of Vince’s evenings in just the same way, it was like revisiting the past.
“Oh crap,” said Tom, “looks like my carriage has turned into a pumpkin.”
Shari turned her crooked face up to Tom’s. “I’m guessing that’s your mom.”
Tom nodded and sighed. “I don’t want tonight to end, but it looks like she’s having a spell. I’ll have to drive her home. I want to see you. I mean, if you want to see me.”
“I do want to see you. I work at the Tribune. If you like, you could call me on Monday. I’m always in my office by seven.”
Doris Picacello was now staggering onto the dance floor, the back of her hand on her forehead, her mouth hanging open. Tom rolled his eyes and kissed Shari on her cheek. “I’ll call you Monday morning,” he said. “I have to go. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” said Shari, a sad smile drifting across the left side of her face. “I’ll talk to you on Monday,” she added, hopefully.
They parted there. Tom took his mother by the arm and led her to the door. He quickly said his goodbyes to his extended family as his mother made groaning sounds. By the time Tom climbed behind the wheel of his mother’s Lincoln, Doris Picacello seemed to have made a complete recovery. Just as Tom knew she would.
Tom did call Shari. Three months later, the couple hopped on a plane to Las Vegas. They were married later that day.
The newlyweds spent five days in Vegas. The first stop after flying home was to break the news to Tom’s mother. The cab dropped them off in front of the little house in Northeast Minneapolis, the only home that
Tom had ever known. And while Shari had been there many times, this would be her first trip inside. Tom was dressed in a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans, while Shari wore a red sun dress over a pair of matching sandals. The mid-May afternoon was sunny and warm. The lawn outside of the white bungalow was neatly trimmed and the house was surrounded by flowers of every size and color. Tom smiled as Shari paused to sniff the blossoming lilacs. Shari returned the smile. They were nervous, but each was anxious to get this over with.
The inside of the house was museum-clean, just as Tom knew it would be. And while none of the furnishings were new or fancy, Tom had always been proud of their home. Sunlight spilled in from the big living room windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. Doris Picacello met them at the front door. “Ma,” Tom said, “we have an announcement to make. Why don’t you have a seat on the sofa?”
Doris took the news hard, as if Tom had just confessed to being diagnosed with a terminal illness. She sank back into the sofa with her hands to her head. Tom had expected as much and he plowed ahead with his explanation, determined to get everything out of the closet and into the open. They were in love, but Shari couldn’t have children. This is where his mother began to wail and clutch at her heart. Shari had been married, twice, which was why they had decided to elope. This news brought tears to her eyes and the wailing turned into choked sobs. Tom turned to Shari and shrugged. He began to walk over to comfort his mother, but Shari put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
“Doris,” Shari said, taking the wingchair and positioning it next to the sofa. “I love your son. I might not be the daughter in-law of your dreams, but, like it or not, I am your daughter in-law. You had better get used to that idea.”
“No,” Doris whimpered, “we can have the marriage annulled. I won’t allow this. Tommy’s poor father must be rolling over in his grave.”
“Ma,” said Tom, “would you just stop it?”
“I’ll be the laughing stock of the family. Tommy, how could you do this to me?”
Shari narrowed her eyes as Doris covered her own. “Mrs. Picacello,” she said, “I need you to stand up. I want to show you something and if you still want us to annul our marriage after seeing it, I promise to walk away from your son.”
“Shari,” gasped Tom, “what are you talking about? Don’t do this.”
“Tom, you have to trust me on this.”
Doris was suddenly on her feet and she began dabbing at her eyes. “Fine, I’ll look at this thing, whatever it is, and you had better not be lying to me.”
“I may be a lot of things, Mrs. Picacello, but a liar isn’t one of them. May I use your telephone?”
“This is crazy,” said Tom. “Don’t I have a say in this?”
“No,” chimed both his new wife and his mother.
Doris pointed out the telephone and waited patiently as Shari placed the call. She didn’t like cellphones and refused to carry one. “Yes, I need a taxi at… Tom, what’s the address?” Tom gave Shari the address and she repeated it into the receiver. “Ten minutes? That would be fine. Thank you.”
Tom had absolutely no idea where this was heading. He stared at Shari in disbelief, wondering how she could have said something so foolish. He knew his mother, he was certain that whatever Shari was about to show her, had zero chance of impressing her. Doris excused herself to freshen up, a spring in her step, and she left Tom and Shari alone in the living room. “Why?” Tom asked, crossing his arms.
“Because,” Shari said, “there are some things you don’t know about me, Tom.” She brushed past him to study the many framed photographs that hung on the walls. “You have to trust me on this, baby. I know what I’m doing. Oh my, you were such a cute kid. How old were you in this picture?”
“I think I was ten. Look, I do trust you. I love you, but you don’t know my mom,” he whispered. “She’s a hard woman.”
“You married a hard woman.”
Tom nodded. The matter was out of his hands and all he could do was pray to God that Shari knew what she was doing. The two of them spent the next few minutes looking at the family photographs. Tom pointed out favorite relatives, past and present. He choked up when they got to a picture of his father. “He was a good man,” he said. “I wish you could have met him.”
Shari put her arms around him. “I’m sure he was,” she whispered. “He raised a fine son. I love you, Tom.”
“I love you, too.”
Doris emerged, dressed in a black blazer over a black blouse and black slacks, clutching a white handkerchief. “Well, I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be,” she grumbled.
“Really, Ma?” asked Tom.
Doris glared at her son. “This is the second saddest day of my life,” she snapped. “What on earth did you expect?”
“I expected some support.”
Doris was about to reply when a car horn tooted from outside the house. Tom led the way, picking up their suitcases on his way out the door. They walked out to the curb. The cab driver was old enough to be Tom’s grandfather, but he hefted the heavy bags into the trunk without even a grunt. “I’ll ride in front,” said Shari, waiting outside at the back of the yellow Ford with the driver. Tom shrugged and he and his mother climbed into the backseat. A moment later, Shari and the driver got into the car.
The traffic that Sunday afternoon was light and the driver said nothing as he drove them to their destination. Tom thought they were going to Shari’s downtown apartment, but he became confused when the driver bypassed downtown and hopped onto Highway 12 and headed west. Doris refused to make eye contact with her son, and Tom was sure he could see the wheels turning inside her head. Shari was also strangely silent. She stared straight ahead, making occasional conversation with the white-haired cabbie.
Doris didn’t say a word until they reached the suburb of Wayzata. “Where is she taking us?” she asked. “My bladder can’t take much more of this.”
“We’re almost there,” said Shari, not bothering to turn to face them.
“I certainly hope so,” grunted Doris.
The cab turned onto Shoreline Drive, the main artery that encircled Lake Minnetonka. Again, Tom wondered where Shari was taking them. What had she been keeping from him? More importantly, what did she have that she would gamble their marriage over? Tom could feel perspiration dribbling down his armpits as he stared at the beautiful lake homes. The cab took a left and two quick rights, and the cab came to a halt outside a formidable cast iron gate. “Excuse me,” said Shari, stepping out of the cab. She walked around the car to wave a plastic card over a sensor. A moment later, the gate began to slowly swing open. Beyond the gate, a concrete driveway wound through a grove of towering oak trees. Shari climbed back into the car and motioned for the driver to continue.
“Shari?” asked Tom.
Shari turned in her seat. “My parents were both killed in a plane crash. This was our home.”
Tom didn’t know what to say. Shari had never said anything about having money. In fact, he had practically wiped out his entire life savings on their trip to Vegas. All he knew about her finances was that she lived modestly on a journalist’s salary. The cab crested a hill, revealing Shari’s secret. A sprawling, five story brick mansion sat about a hundred feet off of the lake. A smaller brick house sat off to the right of the main house, but Tom could see that it was still twice the size of his mother’s home. The expansive lawn led down to a sandy beach, where a long dock jutted out into the choppy waters of Lake Minnetonka. Under a canopy, raised up on a stout boat lift, was what Tom correctly assumed to be a Chris-Craft. The old wooden boat looked to be in showroom condition.
“I wanted to tell you,” continued Shari, “but my other marriages were complicated by prenuptials and lawyers. I’ve always thought that my former husbands only wanted me for my money. I wanted someone who wanted me for me. I hope you understand.”
Doris Picacello rolled her eyes. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” she asked. “We know plenty of peo
ple with lake homes, don’t we, Tommy?”
Tom stared at his mother, his mouth agape. He closed his mouth and turned to face Shari, but she was busy digging the cab fare out of her purse. The driver stopped the cab outside of the main house and shut off the engine.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” said the cabbie, adding a thank you as he took a wad of bills from Shari. They stepped out of the front seat into the bright sunshine.
“Ma,” hissed Tom, “I know you’re angry, but do you think you could at least try and be happy for me?”
Doris gave Tom a cool stare as the trunk popped open. She reached for the door handle. “Let me get this straight,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. “You meet someone, someone who is closer to my age than your own, and carry on a relationship with her for three months without ever introducing her to me. You run off to Las Vegas; what do they call that place, sin town? And you get married to this cradle robber, outside of the Catholic Church? And to try and make it all better, she thinks that bringing me out to her cabin is going to make things all better? What, does she think a little money makes her better than me? I’m your mother, Tommy, how did you expect me to feel about all of this? I want to go home. I’m missing my programs.”
Tom felt the tips of his ears turning red and he got out of the cab. He closed the door and walked to the back of the car. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” said Shari. “I heard her.”
“I heard her, too,” said the cabbie, shaking his head. He then lowered his voice. “Give her a little time. My mom has been gone for forty years, but she was a lot like your mom. She’ll come around. You want some advice? Ask her to help plan a reception. That way she can introduce you to her family. That’s what I’d do.”
Shari turned to face Tom and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “how do you think she’d react?”
The Minnesota Candidate Page 1