The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  When we were talking about limits last night, I told Harris I had a little over eight thousand dollars in the bank, including all my down-payment money. He said he had four grand at the most. Maybe less. Unlike me, Harris sends part of his paycheck to an uncle in Pennsylvania. His parents died a few years back, but . . . family’s still family.

  “We can still cover it,” I tell him.

  “That doesn’t mean we should put it all on black.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Harris insists. “I just . . . maybe it’s time to catch our breath and walk away. No reason to risk all our money. We can just bet the other side, and you’ll make sure the project never gets in the bill.”

  That’s how it works—if you don’t have the high bid, you and the rest of the low bidders shift to the other side and try to stop it from taking place. It’s a great way to even the odds: The person with the best chance of making it happen faces off against a group that, once combined, has an amazing amount of muscle. There’s only one problem. “You really want to split the winnings with everyone else?”

  He knows I’m right. Why give everyone a free ride?

  “If you want to ease the stakes, maybe we can invite someone else in,” I suggest.

  Right there, Harris stops. “What’re you saying?”

  He thinks I’m trying to find out who’s above him on the list.

  “You think it’s Barry, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Actually, I think it’s Pasternak.”

  Harris doesn’t reply, and I grin to myself. Pasternak may be the closest thing he has to a mentor, but Harris and I go back to my freshman year. You can’t lie to old friends.

  “I’m not saying you’re right,” he begins. “But either way, my guy’s not gonna go for it. Especially this late. I mean, even assuming 189 is teaming up with his own mentor, that’s still a tractorful of cash.”

  “And it’ll be two tractorfuls when we win. There’s gotta be over twenty-five grand in the pot. Think about the check you’ll send home after that.”

  Even Harris can’t argue with that one.

  There’s a crackle on the line. He takes me off speakerphone. “Just tell me one thing, Matthew—can you really make this happen?”

  I’m silent, working every possibility. He’s just as quiet, counting every consequence. It’s the opposite of our standard dance. For once, I’m confidence; he’s concern.

  “So can you pull this off?” Harris repeats.

  “I think so,” I tell him.

  “No, no, no, no, no . . . Forget ‘think so.’ I can’t afford ‘think so.’ I’m asking you as a friend—honestly, no bullshit. Can you pull this off?”

  It’s the first time I hear the tinge of panic in Harris’s voice. He’s not afraid to leap off the edge of the cliff, but like any smart politician, he needs to know what’s in the river below. The good thing is, in this one case, I’ve got the life preserver.

  “This baby’s mine,” I tell him. “The only one closer is Cordell himself.”

  The silence tells me he’s unconvinced.

  “You’re right,” I add sarcastically. “It’s too risky—we should walk away now.”

  The silence is even longer.

  “I swear to you, Harris. Cordell doesn’t care about table scraps. This is what I’m hired to do. We won’t lose.”

  “You promise?”

  As he asks the question, I stare out the window at the dome of the Capitol. “On my life.”

  “Don’t get melodramatic on me.”

  “Fine, then here’s pragmatic. Know what the golden rule of Appropriations is? He who has the gold makes the rule.”

  “And we got the gold?”

  “We got the gold.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” I say with a laugh. “Now, you in?”

  “You already filled out the slip, didn’t you?”

  “But you’re the one who has to send it on.”

  There’s another crackle. I’m back on speakerphone. “Cheese, I need you to deliver a package,” he calls out to his assistant.

  There we go. Back in business.

  The clock hits 7:30 and there’s a light knock on my office door. “All clear?” Harris asks, sticking his head inside.

  “C’mon in,” I say, motioning him toward my desk. With everyone gone, we might as well speed things along.

  As he enters the office, he lowers his chin and flashes a thin grin. It’s a look I don’t recognize. Newfound trust? Respect?

  “You wrote on your face,” he says.

  “What’re you . . . ?”

  He smiles and taps his finger against his cheek. “Blue cheek. Very Duke.”

  Licking my fingers, I scrub the remaining ink from my face and ignore the joke.

  “By the way, I saw Cordell in the elevator,” he says, referring to my boss.

  “He say anything?”

  “Nothing much,” Harris teases. “He feels bad that all those years ago, you signed up for his campaign and drove him around to all those events without knowing he’d eventually turn into an asshole. Then he said he was sorry for dropping every environmental issue for whatever gets him on TV.”

  “That’s nice. I’m glad he’s big enough to admit it.” My face has a smile, but Harris can always see deeper. When we came here, Harris believed in the issues; I believed in a person. It’s the latter that’s more dangerous.

  Harris sits on the corner of my desk, and I follow his gaze to the TV, which, as always, is locked on C-SPAN. As long as the House is in session, the pages are still on call. And from the looks of it—with Wyoming Congresswoman Thelma Lewis gripping the podium and blathering away—we’ve got some time. Mountain standard time, to be precise. Right now, it’s 5:30 in Casper, Wyoming—prime news hour—which is why Lewis waited until late in the day to make her big speech, and why Members from New Mexico, North Dakota, and Utah are all in line behind her. Why fall in the woods if no one’s there to hear?

  “Democracy demographics,” I mutter.

  “If they were smart, they’d wait another half hour,” Harris points out. “That’s when the local news numbers really kick in and—”

  Before he can finish, there’s a knock on my door.

  “Matthew Mercer?” a female page with brown bangs asks as she approaches with an envelope.

  Harris and I share a fast glance. This is it.

  She hands me the envelope, and I struggle to play it cool.

  “Wait . . . aren’t you Harris?” she blurts.

  He doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

  “At orientation . . . you gave that speech.”

  I roll my eyes, not surprised. Every year, Harris is one of four staffers asked to speak at the orientation for the pages. To most, it’s a suck job. Not to Harris. The other three speakers drone on about the value of government. Harris gives them the locker room speech from Hoosiers and tells them they’ll be writing the future. Every year, the fan club grows.

  “That was really amazing what you said,” she adds.

  “I meant every word,” Harris tells her. And he did.

  I can’t take my eyes off the envelope. “Harris, we should really . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” the page says. She can’t take her eyes off him. And not because of the speech. Harris’s square shoulders . . . his dimpled chin . . . even his strong black eyebrows—he’s always had a classic look—like someone you see in an old black-and-white photograph from the 1930s, but who somehow still looks good today. All you have to add are the deep green eyes . . . He’s never had to work it.

  “Listen, you . . . you have a great one,” the page adds, still staring as she leaves.

  “You, too,” Harris says.

  “Can you shut the door behind you?” I call out.

  The door slams with a bang, and Harris yanks the envelope from my hands. If we were in college, I’d tackle him and grab it back. Not anymore. T
oday, the games are bigger.

  Harris slides his finger along the flap and casually flips it open. I don’t know how he keeps his composure. My blond hair is already damp with sweat; his black locks are dry as hay.

  Searching for calm, I turn toward the Grand Canyon photo on the wall. The first time my parents took me there, I was fifteen years old—and already six feet tall. Staring down from the south rim of the canyon was the first time in my life I felt small. I feel the same way next to Harris.

  “What’s it say?” I demand.

  He peeks inside and stays totally silent. If the bet’s been raised, there’ll be a new receipt inside. If we’re top dog, our old slip of paper is the only thing we’ll find. I try to read his face. I don’t have a prayer. He’s been in politics too long. The crease in his forehead doesn’t twitch. His eyes barely blink.

  “I don’t believe it,” he finally says. He pulls out the taxi receipt and cups it in the palm of his hand.

  “What?” I ask. “Did he raise it? He raised it, didn’t he? We’re dead . . .”

  “Actually,” Harris begins, looking up to face me and slowly raising an excited eyebrow, “I’d say we’re very much alive.” In his hand he flashes the taxi receipt like a police badge. It’s my handwriting. Our old bet. For six thousand dollars.

  I laugh out loud the moment I see it.

  “It’s payday, Matthew. Now, you ready to name that tune . . . ?”

  5

  MORNING, ROXANNE,” I call out as I enter the office the following day. “We all set?”

  “Just like you asked,” she replies without looking up.

  Crossing into the back room, I find Dinah, Connor, and Roy in their usual positions at their desks, already lost in paperwork and Conference notes. This time of year, that’s all we do—build the twenty-one-billion-dollar Rosemary’s Baby.

  “They’re waiting for you in the hearing room,” Dinah points out.

  “Thanks,” I say as I snatch my notebooks from my desk and head for the oversized beige door that leads next door.

  It’s one thing to bet on the fact that I can sneak this item past the Senate folks and into the bill. It’s entirely another to make it happen.

  “Nice to be on time,” Trish scolds as I enter the room.

  I’m the last of the four horsemen to arrive. It’s intentional. Let ’em think I’m not anxious about the agenda. As usual, Ezra’s on my side of the oval table; Trish and Georgia, our Senate counterparts, are on the other. On the right-hand wall, there’s a black-and-white Ansel Adams photograph of Yosemite National Park. The photo shows the clear glass surface of the Merced River dominated by the snow-covered mountain peak of Half Dome overhead. Some people need coffee; I need the outdoors. Like the Grand Canyon picture in my office, the image brings instant calm.

  “So, anything new?” Trish asks, wondering what I’ve got up my sleeve.

  “Nope,” I reply, wondering the same about her. We both know the pre-Conference tango. Every day, there’s a new project that one of our bosses “forgot” to put in the bill. Last week, I gave her three hundred thousand dollars for manatee protection in Florida; she returned the favor by giving me four hundred thousand to fund a University of Michigan study of toxic mold. As a result, the Senator from Florida and the Congressman from Michigan now have something to brag about during the elections. Around here, the projects are known as “immaculate conceptions.” Political favors that—poof—appear right out of thin air.

  I’ve got a mental list of every project—including the gold mine—that I need to squeeze in by the time pre-Conference is done. Trish has the same. Neither of us wants to show our hand first. So for two hours, we stick to the script.

  “FDR’s presidential library,” Trish begins. “Senate gave it six million. You gave it four million.”

  “Compromise at five mil?” I ask.

  “Done.”

  “Over to Philadelphia,” I say. “What about the new walkways for Independence Hall? We gave it nine hundred thousand; the Senate, for some reason, zeroed it out.”

  “That was just to teach Senator Didio to keep his mouth shut. He took a crack at my boss in Newsweek. We’re not gonna stand for that.”

  “Do you have any idea how vindictive and childish that is?”

  “Not half as vindictive as what they do in Transpo. When one of the Senators from North Carolina pissed off that subcommittee Chairman, they cut Amtrak’s funding so the trains wouldn’t stop in Greensboro.”

  I shake my head. Gotta love appropriators. “So you’ll give full funding to the Liberty Bell?”

  “Of course,” Trish says. “Let freedom ring.”

  By noon, Trish is looking at her watch, ready for lunch. If she’s got a project in her pants, she’s playing it extra cool—which is why, for the first time today, I start wondering if I should put mine out there first.

  “Meet back here at one?” she asks. I nod and slam my three-ring binder shut. “By the way,” she adds as I head back to my office, “there’s one other thing I almost forgot . . .”

  I stop right there and spin around. It takes every muscle in my face to hide my grin.

  “It’s this sewer project in Marblehead, Mass,” Trish begins. “Senator Schreck’s hometown.”

  “Oh, crap,” I shoot back. “That reminds me—I almost forgot about this land sale I was supposed to ask you about for Grayson.”

  Trish cocks her head like she believes me. I do the same for her. Professional courtesy.

  “How much is the sewer?” I ask, trying hard not to push.

  “Hundred and twenty thousand. What about the land sale?”

  “Doesn’t cost a thing—they’re trying to buy it from us. But the request is coming from Grayson.”

  She barely moves as I say Grayson’s name. If memory serves, she had a run-in with him a few years back. It wasn’t pretty. Rumors said he made a pass. But if she wants revenge, she’s not showing it.

  “What’s on the land now?” she asks.

  “Dust . . . rabbit turds . . . all the good stuff. What they want is the gold mine underneath.”

  “They taking cleanup responsibility?”

  “Absolutely. And since they’re buying the land, we’ll actually be getting money on this one. I’m telling you, it’s a good deal.”

  She knows I’m right. Under current mining law, if a company wants to dig for gold or silver on public land, all they have to do is stake a claim and fill out some paperwork. After that, the company can take whatever they want for free. Thanks to the mining lobby—who’ve managed to keep the same law on the books since 1872—even if a company pulls millions in gold from government property, they don’t have to give Uncle Sam a single nugget in royalties. And if they buy the land at old mining rates, they get to keep the land when they’re done. Like Trish said, let freedom ring.

  “And what’s BLM say?” she asks, referring to the Bureau of Land Management.

  “They already approved it. The sale’s just caught up in red tape—that’s why they want the language to give it a push.”

  Standing behind the oval table, Trish shifts her jaw off center, trying to put a dollar value on my ask. Feeling like spectators, Ezra and Georgia do the same.

  “Let me call my office,” Trish finally says.

  “There’s a telephone in the meeting room,” I say, pointing her and Georgia next door.

  As the side door slams behind them, Ezra packs up his own notebooks. “Think they’ll go for it?” he asks.

  “Depends how bad she wants her sewer, right?”

  Ezra nods, and I turn back to the black-and-white Yosemite photo on the wall. Following my eyes, Ezra does the same. We stare silently at it for at least thirty seconds.

  “I don’t get it,” Ezra finally blurts.

  “Get what?”

  “Ansel Adams—the whole über-photographer thing. I mean, all the guy did was take some black-and-white photos of the outdoors. Why the big fuss?”

  “It’s not just the pho
to,” I explain. “It’s the idea.” With my open palm facing the photo, I circle the entire snowcapped peak. “Just the mere image of a completely wide-open space . . . There’s only one place that could’ve been taken. It’s America. And the idea of protecting huge swaths of land from development just so people could stare and enjoy it—that’s an American ideal. We invented it. France, England . . . all of Europe—they took their open spaces and built castles and cities on them. Over here, although we certainly do our share of development, we also set aside huge chunks and called them national parks. I mean, Europeans say the only American art form is jazz. They’re wrong. That purple mountain’s majesty—that’s the John Coltrane of the outdoors.”

  Ezra cocks his head slightly to take a better look. “I still don’t see it.”

  Turning my head, I wait for the side door to open. It stays shut. I already feel the drips of sweat trickling from my armpits down my rib cage. Trish has been gone too long.

  “You doing okay?” Ezra asks, reading my complexion.

  “Yeah . . . just hot,” I say, unbuttoning the top of my shirt. If Trish is playing the game, we’re in severe . . .

  Before I can finish, the doorknob clicks and the side door swings open. As Trish reenters the room, I try to read the look on her face. I might as well be trying to read Harris. Cradling her three-ring binder like a girl in junior high, she shifts her weight from one leg to another. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ignore the numbers floating through my brain. Twelve thousand dollars. Every nickel I’ve saved for the past few years. And the twenty-five-grand reward. It all comes down to this.

  “I’ll trade you the sewer for the gold mine,” Trish blurts.

  “Done,” I shoot back.

  We both nod to consummate the deal. Trish marches off to lunch. I march back to my office.

  And just like that, we’re standing in the winner’s circle.

  “That’s it?” Harris asks, his voice squawking through my receiver.

  “That’s it,” I repeat from my almost empty office. Everyone’s at lunch but Dinah, who, like the phone beast she is, is on a call with someone else. I still watch what I say. “When the Members vote for the bill—which they always do since it’s filled with goodies for themselves—we’re all done.”