The Minnesota Candidate

The Minnesota
candidate

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.