A Very Special Election

By Bill Kenney

Moe Flynn, Diane Husted, and Joe Benedetti return from their adventures in “Victims of the Past” to investigate strange goings on around the special election called in NJ to replace US Senator Frank Lautenberg, who died while in office.

Private eye Joe Benedetti killed a couple of bad guys who came after him—and his hard reputation keeps other would-be troublemakers away. He never goes anywhere without his gun, and he has connections, both with some shady dudes and with the cops.

When Joe is offered a position as bodyguard for Ben Kupperman, a senatorial candidate, it sounds like the perfect job. Not too hard, no real stress, and easy money, or so he thinks.

But this U.S. Senate hopeful has pissed off contractors, union bosses, and teachers in the State of New Jersey with his corruption probes. And he’s somehow made one unlikely enemy; a beautiful blonde TV reporter named Janet Winn, who seems determined to show the candidate in the worst possible light. His opponent, on the other hand seems to be getting favorable press in spite of some questionable campaign contributions and shady acquaintances.

With all the enemies Kupperman has made, he needs protection from dawn till midnight. Joe takes the late shift, unaware that he’s heading straight into trouble, including two strangers who accost him in a parking lot late at night, and a firebomb thrown in the candidate’s headquarters by an unknown assailant. When the danger escalates, he recruits his investigator friend Moe Flynn to help to sort out what’s really going on with Winn’s vendetta and the mysterious attacks.

Together they find themselves sinking deeper and deeper into the ever more perilous Kupperman campaign.

With murder, betrayal, blackmail, payoffs, and a maelstrom of twists and turns, can they keep Kupperman alive until the election, and will he ultimately win the coveted senate seat? How will Moe’s romancing of Diane progress?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Nov 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781621833079

Book preview

A Very Special Election

Bill Kenney

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-307-9

Copyright © 2015

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chapter One

It was almost noon on a Sunday in late August. Joe Benedetti sat at the kitchen table in his apartment in Summit, New Jersey, dressed in his white skivvies, enjoying his first cup of coffee for the day. The phone rang just as he finished that first cup. He looked at the caller I.D. on the phone on the kitchen wall, saw unknown, and snorted.

What asshole is looking for money on a Sunday morning? he thought. He went to the coffee pot and poured a second cup.

Joe was a private detective—a hard man who had killed a couple of bad guys who came after him, and whose reputation kept other would-be troublemakers away. He was thirty-four years old and six feet tall, with Mediterranean good looks and that lean, muscular frame people associate with an NBA guard.

He never went anywhere without a gun.

He had eaten from the tree of Good and Evil and used that insight to thread his way between what some shadowy associates believed and the rules his mother had brought him up with. He chose his projects carefully and enjoyed using the gifts God gave him to feather his own nest—and sometimes help deserving people.

When his answering machine came on in the next room, it squawked, Joe, come on. I know you’re up by now. Pick up. It’s Bobby Caruso.

Caruso was another PI who did mostly bodyguard chores these days. They knew each other pretty well but weren’t close friends. Caruso was twenty-five years older than Joe and worked for a pretty upscale clientele. He even got his picture in the NY Times once in a while.

Joe strode to the wall phone near the door. Hello, Bobby, how ya doin’? It’s been a while.

Life is great Joe, but I need some help.

Joe’s brow furrowed. What kind of help?

Presence. I got this great gig, but it’s too much for me. The guy works sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and is surrounded by a bunch of like-minded workaholics. I can’t put in all those hours no more, and it’s only gonna get worse. I need somebody to cover the second shift. You like to stay up late and sleep late, so I thought of you.

Joe took a swallow of coffee. I’m sure my sleeping late wasn’t the whole reason you decided to call me.

There was a little laugh on the other end of the line. Of course not. You’re thirty-something and strong, can shoot the eye out of a jack rabbit, and have some connections.

Connections?

Yeah, with both some shady dudes and the cops.

I’m not in bed with the cops.

Of course not, but there are a couple you can talk to.

Is that the word on the street?

Only among those of us who do their homework.

Joe didn’t like that answer. He drained his second cup and decided to change the subject. Who is this perpetual motion machine?

Ben Kupperman.

I was just reading about him: the Jersey state senator who wants to run for the U.S. job.

That’s the guy. When the governor appointed some no-name to keep the Gray Eagle’s seat warm, Kupperman decided to give it a shot. He’s pissed off every contractor, union boss, and teacher in the State of New Jersey with his corruption probes, and vows he’s gonna straighten out Washington next. He needs protection from dawn till midnight. I can’t do that alone anymore. The guy is seventy years old but is running me into the ground.

Is Kupperman a decent guy?

I think so. He seems to believe all the stuff he spouts and sure works hard at convincing people he means it. His campaign manager strikes me as a possible sleazebag, but so far he’s done it Kupperman’s way. The pay is good, Joe.

How good?

A thousand bucks for a normal day, seven days a week, needed or not. Extra hours are three hundred per, payable in cash.

Joe smiled, but kept it out of his voice. Do you think there’s any real danger?

Haven’t seen any bad guys around, and so far no riots at his speeches, but he’s made a lot of enemies. I’ll take the day shift. You can sleep in and pick up the duty in the afternoon and the night time activity.

How do you get paid?

Like clockwork, every Monday at lunch time. A check for the days on the record; hundred dollar bills for the OT.

Joe thought for a moment. It had been only a month or so since he helped his friend, Moe Flynn, track down and capture the greedy bastards who had dumped caustic soda into an abandoned coal mine in Pennsylvania. The stuff had leaked into the Susquehanna River, burned some campers at a swim beach, and caused the death of the brave counselor who rescued the kids. He was beginning to think it was time to find some gainful employment after this short respite, but it was hardly an urgent impulse.

Starting when?

Tomorrow at lunch at the Newark Hilton. I’ll introduce you around and stay with you until dinner. You’ll get up to speed fast. He’s got a speech in Hoboken tomorrow night, so it will be a full day.

What’s the dress code?

Strictly suit and tie during the day. Sometimes it gets a little informal at his town meetings, picnics, and the like. He tries not to be too obvious.

All right, I’ll see you Monday at noon.

My whole body thanks you, Joe. Meet us at the ballroom a little before noon. There’s a parking garage. Get a good night’s sleep. Kupperman is the Energizer Bunny.

Joe hung up the wall phone and returned to the table where he’d been reading the Sunday New York Times. Sunday was the only day of the week he bothered to read the paper. The weekly news summary was all he needed. There weren’t many current events that impacted his life. Restless, he walked back to the machine that filled the room with the aroma of fresh-brewed beans and poured himself a third cup. The shiny stainless steel machine that ground the beans for each cup sat on his black granite countertop next to the shiny stainless steel refrigerator.

He sat down again at the table and focused on the lengthy article describing the special election to be held on an odd Monday in October to find a successor to the recently deceased senior U.S. senator from New Jersey. The governor had appointed a caretaker to the seat who immediately announced he wouldn’t run for the remainder of the dead senator’s term. That sparked a heated contest between the mayor of a city near Camden and a conservative, corruption-fighting state senator. In the short time scheduled for the campaign, things were moving fast. The election would be over before all the trees were bare.

A few leaves were starting to fall on the grass outside the kitchen window, but it still got pretty warm during a sunny day after the night’s cool burned off. He liked this time of year, slept with his bedroom window open every night, and the sunny days energized him to get his exercise in the fresh air while he could, before the trees were bare and the cold winds began to blow. He knew, though, that if he was going back to work, there were some preparations he needed to make.

Joe got up and went to his gun cabinet, looking for a couple of smaller models that would be easy to conceal under his suit coats. He had a half dozen suits, all cut to conceal a weapon in a shoulder holster, though some pistols fit more inconspicuously than others. The last thing Joe wanted was to be seen as a gun-toting thug. He took pride in his appearance, especially when dressed up, always wanted to be comfortable in whatever he wore, and always needed a tidy place for his gun—even if it was a relative pea-shooter in an ankle holster.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t go to church. Carrying a gun into church amounted to a mortal sin, according to his mother.

He brushed a bit of dust off a gray single-breasted, light-weight worsted suit and hung it over the door of his walk-in closet. The guns, holsters, a blue button-down shirt, navy blue tie, and matching handkerchief were placed neatly on the dresser, ready for tomorrow.

He went back into the kitchen and freshened up his coffee. The sun was brilliant, the day warming up nicely, and he figured he’d better get some exercise today. No telling how much time there would be for that in future days.

He studied the story about Kupperman in the Times a little more. Not only was the man devoted to cleaning up corruption, but he also put his religious beliefs up front. He was absolutely opposed to abortion and gay marriage.

Joe could relate to some of that. Aside from a rape victim, he didn’t see why anybody got pregnant if they didn’t want to. These days, kids knew all about sex, AIDS, and condoms by fifth grade. If they paid any attention, they should never get involved with pregnancy unless the girl was raped. Of course, education wasn’t cool in some neighborhoods, and some teens would always think they were bullet-proof, so some young girls would still get pregnant. The uneducated and those who didn’t want to be educated always paid dearly, no matter how much money governments threw at education.

But enough philosophy, he thought. Time to get my shoes on and get out on the road for a nice run. Five miles around Waranaco Park sounded good.

While he was out he’d pick up a Star Ledger. He was going to have to start studying the news daily to get any hints about what might be coming up with his new client and the folks who wanted to derail him.

***

Joe met Bobby in the ballroom at the Newark Hilton at 11:40 the next morning. The hotel was the mainstay of the Gateway Plaza, an early development in the effort to rebuild Newark after the riots decades ago. It was right across the street from Penn Station and provided an elevated walkway to the train station.

The luncheon was both a fund raiser and an opportunity to get Kupperman’s message out to this largely black urban region. Around two hundred people sat at round tables munching the usual rubber chicken while they awaited wisdom from Ben Kupperman, whom the staff called BK. Joe lurked at one end of the long table on the dais, and Bobby at the other. The table was filled with Newark politicians, business men of all skin shades, and one large black woman with the uncommon name of Leticia O’Brian. She was one of BK’s key staff members. Her face was broad, her short hair straightened, and the lines around her mouth gave the impression she was always ready to smile.

Joe had yet to encounter Avery Butler, the chief of staff. He did meet Mrs. Kupperman—Merna. In modest heels she was as tall as Ben, and as cool as he was energetic. Dressed in a black jersey top and skirt with subtle flowers, her raven-black hair tied in a neat ponytail, and wearing little makeup, she struck Joe as all business; no laugh lines crinkled around her eyes. After a firm handshake and gracious smile, she quickly turned to greet others.

Joe had done some homework on the Kupperman family before journeying to Newark that morning. Ben’s family had a ton of money, a mansion in Short Hills, and connections. Ben had graduated as salutatorian at Millburn high school and gone to Yale. There he met Merna Most, a third generation Smith student from Chestnut Hill, a suburb of Boston, on Mountain Day.

Joe was amused to learn that in those days a surprise holiday was announced at Smith College, and most of the girls at that all-female institution boarded chartered buses heading to what were then the New England men’s colleges. The grapevine alerted the Yalies, and various preparations were made. When she got off the bus, Merna caught sight of a smiling young man playing the piano in a first floor suite in Silliman College. The windows were open, allowing her to hear as well as see him. They met, and nature took its course.

They were married just after he graduated from Harvard Law while she was teaching English at a private school in Boston. Her parents offered to buy them a house in Chestnut Hill, but Ben landed a good corporate job in New York City, so they set up housekeeping in the town of Basking Ridge, New Jersey. Ultimately the perfect brace of children arrived: the boy first, followed six years later by the girl.

Apparently neither child had the ambition for an Ivy League education, despite above-average records at Ridge High School. Their son graduated from Rutgers and now worked in a small brokerage firm in New York. His sister graduated from James Madison in Virginia and found a job in that university’s fund-raising operation.

Ben had signed on with a prestigious law firm in Princeton about twenty years ago, and consequently launched his political career, aided by his good looks. He wasn’t quite six feet tall, lean, stood straight, and moved gracefully. Back then he had a full head of black hair. Now it was streaked with gray, but his hairline hadn’t receded. He had a prominent nose and a pointed chin, he dressed well, smiled a lot, and exuded confidence. He made a great TV image. With his inherent energy, lots of family money, and a gracious wife, he was soon a popular legislator.

BK’s speech consisted of crowing about his triumphs in rooting out corruption in state construction contracts, exposing money laundering in the casino industry, and questioning lavish spending by the teacher’s union. He went on to promise to clean up corrupt lobbyists, cut waste, and eliminate earmarks in Washington. All this was well received by his audience, but Joe could see where BK had probably pissed off a lot of major players in New Jersey. If it looked like he had a chance to win the special election in October, he might well need some protection.

After all the cheering was over, Bobby escorted Merna home to Basking Ridge and left Joe to monitor the afternoon’s meetings and the speech that night in Hoboken, another Democrat stronghold. He spent the time eyeballing all the invited fat cats as they waited their turn to meet with BK. He saw nothing remotely threatening.

Joe could see why Bobby thought that Avery Butler, the campaign manager, might be a sleazebag. He had a lean and hungry look; the lines around his eyes making him look older than his fifty-one years. His graying hair flopped over his forehead, reaching almost to his bushy eyebrows. He greeted everyone as if the person were God’s gift to the campaign, hugging many with his huge smile always present.

He ignored Joe after their brief introduction.

Joe rode to Hoboken in the campaign van. They stayed dressed in suits for this speech. The audience was younger, the meeting at a social club, and only a couple of hecklers bothered to come. The local police were there and quietly made sure there were no disruptions during the Kupperman presentation. It all was over by nine o’clock, but BK’s day wasn’t over. Strategy meetings were planned at Ben’s house in Basking Ridge. They dropped Joe at his car in Newark, and rode the van to Basking Ridge to burn some midnight oil.

Joe was still wide awake when he got home at ten o’clock, so he turned on the local news channel and contemplated his first day on the job. He liked it. There was one brief notice on the news about the speech in Hoboken. A blonde woman about Joe’s age reported that several hecklers had been escorted from the room after complaining that Ben was exaggerating his accomplishments, and had caused significant losses to some innocent contractors in his overzealous crusades. This was gross hyperbole from Joe’s point of view—and it intrigued him.

Perhaps things would turn more exciting.

Chapter Two

About noon on Tuesday, Joe had finished the Times and was working his way through the Star Ledger and his second cup of coffee, luxuriating in the rich aroma of freshly ground beans, when Moe Flynn called.

I hope I didn’t wake you up. What are you doing these days?

Hey, Moe, how’re you doing? I just started a new gig. Time consuming, but rewarding.

I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me for some shooting practice at the range this afternoon, said Moe. I’m finally going to find out whether the shakes I got after I killed Dante Falzarano a month ago are permanent. I haven’t touched my gun since. Keep putting it off. It’s time to find out whether I can even hit a target anymore.

Sorry, Moe. I’d like to help you get your mojo back, but no can do. I’m working the second shift.

How about tomorrow morning?

You know I can’t hit the side of a barn before noon. Don’t you have anything to do?

I’ve cleaned up the last loose ends of the dumping case with Liam a couple of weeks ago, Since then there have been a couple of nice stories in the Bloomsburg paper about the scholarship he set up in honor of Susan Cassidy, but mostly I’m just relaxing.

Spending the time with Diane?

Moe sighed loud enough for Joe to hear. You know she has a big time computer job, works a lot of hours, and needs her running. Besides that, I need to tread carefully these days.

How come?

Well, my great scheme to accelerate our romance turned out to be a friggin’ disaster.

I knew you brought her parents east for a surprise visit. What went wrong?

They had a great time. Her mother and mine hit it off like school girls and started acting like they were planning a wedding. That was too much pressure for Diane—scared the hell out of her. I’ve been held at arms’ length ever since. It’s pissing me off, and pretty depressing. Not quite as depressing as when I fell off the treadmill during my rehab, but almost. Combine that with my anxiety over the shooting, and life just isn’t rosy these days.

Joe couldn’t help laughing. He was pretty sure that Moe and Diane would get together one of these days, but his friend’s flare for the dramatic did clash a little with Diane’s penchant for detailed analysis. Maybe I ought to go to eleven o’clock mass on Sunday and get the whole story from your mother.

Ha! said Moe. If you showed up, the church would probably be struck by lightning. Enough of this—tell me about your new gig.

I’m doing the bodyguard thing for Ben Kupperman. The guy works eighteen hours a day, and Bobby Caruso couldn’t keep up. I’ve only been at it one day, but it was a long one.

Kupperman has been getting some headlines these days. Do you think he has a chance against the Democrat regime?

Who knows? If hard work means anything, he has a chance. Speaking of that, I gotta go. I’m meeting the campaign van at his office in Basking Ridge in an hour. If I get some free time, I’ll call you about getting together to shoot. Meantime, say hello to Diane for me—that is, if she’ll talk to you.

Thanks a lot, Joe. You have a good day too.

***

The Kupperman campaign office was a unique building located at one end of a municipal parking lot in the three block long commercial district of Basking Ridge. The lot was on Maple Avenue across the street from the new public library. The Bishop Jones United Methodist Church and associated buildings dominated one end of the lot; a couple of brick-faced restaurants and the office, the other.

What made the office unique was that it had been somebody’s home, a two-story clapboard structure painted pale yellow with white trim that predated the two brick buildings that flanked it. It had been converted into an office some time ago, and was currently rented by the Kupperman campaign. Its double, lead-glass-inlaid door opened on to a ten-foot-wide landing three steps up from the parking lot. Two private parking spaces were marked in front of the landing.

As you faced the door, the Ridge Bagel and Café, complete with cupola, was on the left, and Bella’s Burgers was on the right, separated from the office building by a brick-paved walkway that connected the parking lot to Henry Street. The office had a rear door on Henry Street, but it was rarely used. The whole area was redolent of broiling beef with a hint of fried onions. No one would starve in these surroundings, but one might drown in saliva.

A small reception area, painted in an off-white shade, lay just inside the double entry door, from which a tan-carpeted hall ran the length of the building to a large open space at the back. The hall and bullpen were painted in the same off-white color. The room was shared by a half dozen volunteer staffers, all with beige metal desks and telephones. There were two rooms on each side of the hall. On the right was a large, walnut-paneled office/conference room where Kupperman’s desk was located, and the bathroom. A bare-bones office shared by Avery and Leticia and an empty room were on the left.

The campaign van was a fifteen-passenger model like the ones sometimes painted yellow and used as school buses, but this one was black. The back two rows of seats had been replaced with facing benches separated by a small work table. Each side of the van was decorated by Ben’s initials: BK, in three-foot-high letters painted in red, white, and blue and sprinkled with stars. The rest of his name was inserted between the initials in six-inch-high white paint.

They were driving south for some meetings at the shore. Joe sat in the front passenger seat for the trip, while Ben, Avery, and Leticia met at the table. Bobby wasn’t going to stay for the duration, so he followed the van in his own car. They took route 78 to the Garden State Parkway and headed south in fairly light traffic. The sun shining through thin clouds cast the van’s shadow on the cars that zipped by on the left at considerably over the speed limit.

Periodically Joe would check the rear view mirror to be sure they hadn’t lost Bobby. Several times he noticed a silver Honda behind Bobby. A check of the tag proved it was the same car each time he saw it. As they approached the central rest area just before the GSP split into local and express lanes, Joe asked the driver to pull into the rest area.

What’s the matter? Can’t you hold your water? asked the slight, gray-haired black driver who came with the leased van.

"I’m a camel, bro, but I