King-Makers of Providence

John Houle

Sujets

• Political
• Politics

Informations

• Publié par: Bookpress Publishing
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 0001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781947305380
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE
KING- MAKERS
OF
PROVIDENCE
JOHN HOULE
Copyright © 2023 by John Houle. All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without prior written permission of the publisher. Requests to the publisher for permission or information should be submitted via email at [e-mail] .
Any requests or questions for the author should be submitted to him directly at [e-mail] .
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published in Des Moines, Iowa, by:
Bookpress Publishing
P.O. Box 71532
Des Moines, IA 50325
www.BookpressPublishing.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Houle, John C., author.
Title: The King-Makers of Providence / John Houle.
Description: Des Moines, IA: Bookpress Publishing, 2023.
Identifiers: LCCN: 2021921229 | ISBN: 978-1-947305-37-3
Subjects: LCSH Providence (R.I.)--Fiction. | Politics--Fiction. | Politicians--Fiction. | Political campaigns--Fiction. | Thriller fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Thrillers / Political
Classification: LCC PS3608.O85543 K56 2022 | DDC 813.6--dc23
First Edition Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my father, Carl A. Houle, for teaching me how to persevere.
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1
Four Years Ago
“I’m not burdened by personal conviction,” Henry Mercucio admitted. With the top down and AC/DC blaring from the stereo, cell phone pressed against his ear, he slid his black convertible up to the curb in front of a crowd of gawkers in their Sunday best. “If you’re telling me we gain five points, then Congressman McNally supports a $1,000 tax credit for working families.” On the other end of the line was a pollster tracking the gubernatorial race. The sight of a political operative in a heated conversation was not unusual in the middle of an election season, but the mourners’ glares told Henry he might be overdoing it. He pressed the button to redeploy the drop top and attempted to speak in lower tones. “I know, I know. He voted against it last session, but if it comes up now, we’ll just say we’re for it. Do you really think people remember what he voted for last year, and do you think they care? That would mean they’re actually paying attention to what’s going on, and you and I both know the truth.”
As he stepped out of the car, he returned his phone to his suit jacket pocket. This was the last place he wanted to be two weeks before the election—a funeral in an Italian enclave of Providence, Rhode Island, a place where Machiavelli would have been at home, not only for the cuisine, but also for the city’s approach to politics. In New England’s second-most-important city, politics was a blood sport. It was not uncommon for nomination papers to mysteriously disappear from the Board of Elections or for political yard signs to be defaced with profanities. The destruction of political enemies by any means necessary was as alive in twenty-first-century Providence as it had been in fourteenth-century Florence.
But this was a somber time. One of the city’s beloved political bosses had succumbed to a life of hard living. Antonio Campagna had been a heavyset man with a calm temperament and vivacious personality, whose years of service to the people of his district had drawn more than 2,000 people to pay their respects. Senators, congressmen, councilmen, business leaders, carpenters, teachers, and firefighters all filed through the receiving line. Campagna had worked thirty years in the Providence Public Works Department as a laborer, a foreman, and eventually as its director, earning the admiration and respect of his community. But his evenings had been spent on the front lines of the local Democratic Party as a ward committee member and ultimately the influential ward committee chairman. There was no election for a political boss; it was something earned through respect, loyalty, and influence. He never had a problem delivering bodies for political events since putting labels on mailers or making get-out-the-vote phone calls earned volunteers Maria Campagna’s lasagna and stuffed shells. It was old-time politics, where loyalty was purchased through favors, but a man’s word was ironclad.
With the highest voter turnout of any area in the state, the district had always been a key opportunity for Democratic politicians to pay homage to the man who could guarantee a bloc of 15,000 votes, and those who challenged the natural order sealed their political fates. When an ambitious political upstart refused to wait his turn and instead challenged a candidate in a primary supported by the Campagnas, the young man not only lost the election, but also his city job, the very same one that had been procured for him in the first place. It was unwise to challenge the political reality in this part of town. With Campagna’s two sons serving as councilman and state representative, the family still retained its hold on the district even now, after the patriarch’s death.
Congressman Ray McNally was from the old school, and he religiously made the election year pilgrimage to the Campagna district. This time, however, he was honoring an old friend. At the moment, McNally was in the political battle of his life. Reasoning that it was better to be one of fifty governors than a member of Congress from the minority party of a minor state, he gambled his future as a tenured-for-life congressman for a chance at becoming the state’s chief executive. The lifelong Democrat, the son of a carpenter who had risen to political stardom with the backing of the state’s powerful union machine, was facing a formidable challenge from the patrician Republican attorney general, whose family represented some of the state’s oldest money. With the family name and an unlimited war chest, Jeremiah “Jay” Whitfield was on his way to purchasing the election and maintaining the Republicans’ national majority of governors.
Leading Congressman McNally’s campaign was Henry Mercucio, a thirty-year-old graduate of Boston College and Georgetown Law School who had traded a promising law career for his passionate first love—politics. He’d caught the political bug while in college, interning during a hotly contested senatorial campaign. After taking a year off to work for the president’s re-election, he’d met the congressman, then the president’s regional campaign chairman. Throughout law school and during his first years as a young lawyer in Washington, D.C., Henry remained close to Congressman McNally as his political adviser. He had counseled him to wait for an open senate seat, but the governor’s office was a post McNally had always coveted. Even though he disregarded Henry’s advice, the congressman had ultimately tapped him to run the campaign.
Henry now found himself seven points down with two weeks to close the gap. That was the only thing on his mind as he walked through the brass doors of Saint Bartholomew’s Church. He needed McNally to focus on the last televised debate, where he hoped to use debate footage in a series of television ads to contrast his candidate’s knowledge and experience with his opponent’s inexperience and ineptitude. Standing stoically in the church, he began calculating in his head the general voter turnout along with the union numbers and the political base needed to deliver victory. Like any true believer in politics, Henry held on to the hope that his candidate could still win even though the polls predicted defeat. He argued that the polling numbers were unreliable, since they did not factor in McNally’s enthusiastic union support. If union members and their households came out in droves as promised, Henry rationalized that McNally could close the growing gap with his Republican opponent.
Amid the grievers, however, only Henry was preoccupied with the election. Congressman McNally, standing with one of the bereaved sons, motioned to him. Henry dreaded the congressman’s introductions, which reminded him of his father’s insistence that he kiss one of his old aunts.
“Henry, come over and say hello to Councilman John Campagna.”
Henry said the things expected in such situations. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your father was very well-respected.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Mercucio.”
Councilman Campagna appeared unimpressive—short and overweight with a receding hairline—but he carried himself with the grace of a man aware of his power. Unlike many other politicians who felt the need to remind their followers how important they were, Campagna did not need to project his power. Humility governed him, but when challenged, he emulated the tiger. Ask the fellow councilman who had broken ranks with leadership and had voted against the council’s budget at the request of the mayor. In the next election, Campagna had recruited and financed the councilman’s successor, defeating him by a wide margin. Campagna did not crave war, but when attacked, especially when it involved his selfless plans for his city, he showed little restraint in taking out his enemies.
After obliging the congressman, Henry approached him with a careful eye trained on the people he was greeting, ready to move him along to the next potential voter. He motioned the congressman toward the door, but the congressman brushed off the gesture. After a few more minutes of Henry’s silent entreaties, McNally turned to him with an uncompromising look.
“You’re supposed