The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  “And you’re sure you don’t have any uptight Members who’ll read through the bill and take the gold mine out?” Harris asks.

  “Are you kidding? These people don’t read. Last year, the omnibus bill was over eleven hundred pages long. I barely read it, and that’s my job. More important, once it comes out of Conference, it’s a big stack of paper covered in Post-it notes. They put a few copies on the House side and some more on the Senate. That’s their only chance to examine it—an hour or so before the vote. Trust me, even the Citizens Against Government Waste—y’know, that group that finds the fifty-thousand-dollar study on Aborigine sweat the government funded—even they only find about a quarter of the fat we hide in there.”

  “You really gave fifty grand to study Aborigine sweat?” Harris asks.

  “Don’t laugh. Last month, when scientists announced a huge leap in the cure for meningitis, guess where the breakthrough came from?”

  “Aborigine sweat.”

  “That’s right—Aborigine sweat. Think about that next time you read about pork in the paper.”

  “Great—I’m on the lookout,” Harris says. “Now you have everything else?”

  Reaching into the jacket pocket of my suit, I pull out a white letter-sized envelope. Checking it for the seventh time today, I open the flap and stare at the two cashier’s checks inside. One’s for $4,000.00. The other’s for $8,225.00. One from Harris, the other from me. Both are made out to cash. Completely untraceable.

  “Right here in front of me,” I say as I seal the letter-sized envelope and slide it into a bigger manila mailer.

  “They still haven’t picked it up?” Harris asks. “It’s usually promptly at noon.”

  “Don’t stress yourself—they’ll be here . . .”

  There’s a soft, polite cough as the door to our office peeks open. “I’m looking for Matt . . . ?” an African-American page says as he clears his throat and steps inside.

  “. . . any second,” I tell Harris. “Gotta run—business calls.”

  I hang up the phone and wave the page inside. “I’m Matthew. C’mon in.”

  As the page approaches my desk, it’s the first time I notice he’s wearing a blue suit instead of the standard blazer and gray slacks. This guy isn’t a House page; he’s from the Senate. Even the pages dress nicer over there.

  “How’s everything going?” I ask.

  “Pretty good. Just tired of all the walking.”

  “It’s a real haul from the Senate, huh?”

  “They tell me where to go—I got no choice,” he laughs. “Now, you got a package for me?”

  “Right here.” I seal the oversized envelope, jot the word Private across the back, and reach across the desk to put it in his hands. Unlike the other page visits, this isn’t a drop-off. It’s a pickup. The day after the bidding, the dungeon-masters expect you to cover your bet.

  “So you know where this one’s going?” I ask, always searching for extra info.

  “Back to the cloakroom,” he says with a shrug. “They take it from there.”

  As he grabs the envelope, I notice a silver ring on his thumb. And another on his pointer finger. I didn’t think they let pages wear jewelry.

  “So what’s with the stuffed fox?” he adds, motioning with his chin toward the bookcase.

  “It’s a ferret. Courtesy of the NRA.”

  “The what?”

  “The NRA—y’know, National Rifle—”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . no, I thought you said something else,” he interrupts, rubbing his hand over his closely buzzed hair. The ring on his pointer finger catches the light perfectly. He smiles with a big, toothy grin.

  I smile right back. But it’s not until that moment that I realize I’m about to hand twelve thousand dollars to a complete stranger.

  “Be safe now,” he sings as he grabs the package and pivots toward reception.

  He disappears through the door. The bet’s officially on. And I’m left staring at the back of someone’s head. It’s not a good feeling, and not just because he’s carrying every dollar I own and all the savings of my best friend. It’s more primal than that—something I feel in the last vertebra of my spine. It’s like closing one eye when you’re looking at a 3-D image in a View-Master viewer—nothing’s necessarily wrong, but it’s also not quite right.

  I glance at Dinah, who’s still haggling on the phone. I’ve got another half hour before I have to resume the battle with Trish. Plenty of time for a quick run to the Senate cloakroom to check things out. I hop from my seat and race around my desk. Curiosity was good enough for the cat. Why shouldn’t it be good enough for me?

  “Where you going?” Dinah calls out as I rush for the door.

  “Lunch. If Trish starts bitching, tell her I won’t be long . . .”

  She gives me the okay sign, and I dart through reception. The page can’t have more than a thirty-second head start.

  Darting into the hallway, I turn a quick corner and make a right at the elevators. I spot him about a hundred feet ahead. His arms are swinging at his side. Not a worry in the world. As his shoes tap against the terrazzo floor, I assume he’s headed for the underground tram that’ll take him back to the Capitol. To my surprise, he makes a sharp right and disappears down a short flight of stairs. Keeping my distance, I make the same right and follow the stairs down past a pair of Capitol police officers. On my left, the officers herd arriving staff and visitors through the X-ray and metal detector. Straight ahead, the glass door that leads out to Independence Avenue swings shut. Underground is faster. Why’s he going outside?

  But as I shove my way through the door and hop down the outdoor steps, it makes a bit more sense. The sidewalk’s packed with fellow employees who are just now coming back from lunch. The September day is overcast, but the weather’s still warm. If he’s walking the halls all day, maybe he’s just after some fresh air. Besides, there’s more than one way to cut across to the Capitol.

  I keep telling myself that as he heads up the block. Five steps later, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a cell phone. Maybe that’s it—reception’s better outside—but as he presses the phone to his ear, he does the oddest thing of all. At the corner of Independence and South Capitol, all he has to do is make a left and cut across the street. Instead, he pauses a moment—and makes a right. Away from the Capitol.

  My Adam’s apple swells in my throat. What the hell is going on?

  6

  ON THE CORNER of Independence and South Capitol, the page turns back to see if anyone’s behind him. I duck behind a group of staffers, once again cursing my height. The page doesn’t even notice. I’m too far back to be seen. By the time I peek up again, he’s long gone. Around the corner.

  Racing full speed, I fly up toward the corner, my shoes pounding against the concrete. From here, Independence Avenue rises at a slight incline. It doesn’t even slow me down.

  I inch my head around the corner, and the page is halfway down South Capitol. He’s fast. Even though he’s on the phone, he knows where he’s going.

  Unsure what to do, I go with my first instinct. Whipping out my own phone, I dial Harris’s number. Nothing but voice mail, which means he’s either on the line or out to lunch. I call back again, hoping his assistant will pick up. He doesn’t.

  I try to tell myself it still makes sense. Maybe this is how the dungeon-masters play it—the last transfer gets dropped off campus. There’s gotta be someplace that’s the actual home base. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. But that doesn’t make the reality pill any easier to swallow. He’s got our money. I want to know where it’s going.

  At the end of the block, the page makes a left on C Street and disappears around another corner. I take off after him, carefully angling behind every staffer I can find. Anything to keep myself out of his direct line of sight.

  As he turns right on New Jersey Avenue, I’m at least 150 feet behind him. He’s still moving fast, yakking away on his phone. By now, fellow
staffers and the congressional office buildings are long gone. We’re in the residential section of Capitol Hill—brick townhouse squeezed next to brick townhouse. I walk on the other side of the pothole-filled street, pretending I’m looking for my parked car. It’s a lame excuse, but if he spins around, at least he won’t see me. The only problem is, the further we go, the more the neighborhood shape-shifts around us.

  Within two minutes, the brick townhouses and tree-lined streets give way to chain-link fences and broken bottles scattered across the concrete. An illegally parked car has a yellow metal boot on its front tire. A Jeep across the street has its back window smashed, creating an oval black hole at the center of the shattered glass. It’s the great irony of Capitol Hill—we’re supposed to run the country, but we can’t even keep up the neighborhood.

  Diagonally up the street, the page still has his cell pressed against his ear. He’s too far. I can’t hear a word. But I can see it in his stride. There’s a new glide in his walk. His whole body bounces to the right with each step. I try to imagine the polished kid who quietly coughed his way into my office barely five blocks ago. He’s long gone.

  Instead, the page bounces along, tapping the envelope—filled with our money—against his thigh. He moves without a hint of hesitation. To me, this is a rough neighborhood. To the page, this is home.

  Up ahead, the street rises slightly, then levels off just below the overpass for I-395 that runs perpendicular overhead. As the page nears the overpass, he once again glances back to see if anyone’s following. I duck behind a black Acura, slamming my shoulder into the side mirror. There’s a loud chirp. Oh, no. I shut my eyes tight. And the Acura’s alarm explodes, howling like a police siren.

  Hitting the sidewalk chest-first, I scramble on my elbows to the front of the car and pray he doesn’t stop. In this neighborhood, alarms go off all the time. Lying on my stomach, I rest my weight on my elbows, which already feel damp. A single sniff tells me I’m lying in a puddle of grease. My suit’s ruined. But right now, that’s the least of my problems. I count to ten and slowly crawl back to the sidewalk. The alarm’s still screaming. I’m on the passenger side, my head still ducked down. Last I saw him, he was diagonally up the street. I slowly pick my head up and take a quick peek. There’s no one there. I crane my neck in every direction. The page is gone. And so’s our money.

  In full panic, I’m tempted to run toward the overpass, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that the moment you rush in blindly, there’s always someone lying in wait. Instead, I stay crouched down, slowly chicken-walking up the block. There’re enough parked cars along the street to keep me hidden all the way up to the overpass, but it doesn’t calm me down a bit. My heart’s punching against my chest. My throat’s so dry, I can barely swallow. Car by car, I carefully inch toward the overpass. The closer I get, the more I hear the droning hum of traffic along 395—and the less I hear what’s right in front of me.

  There’s a metal clink to my left, and an empty beer can comes tumbling down the concrete incline underneath the overpass. I go to run, but then I spot the sharp flap of wings on the pigeon that set it in motion. The bird flies out from the overpass and disappears in the gray sky. Even with the clouds hovering above, it’s still bright as noon outside, but under the overpass, the shadows at the top of the incline are dark as a forest.

  I step out from behind a maroon Cutlass, and the No Parking sign takes away the last of my hiding spots. As I enter the underpass, I look up toward the shadows and tell myself no one’s there. The buzz of traffic whizzes by overhead. As each car hits the overpass, it’s a swarm of bees buzzing above. But I’m still all alone underneath. I look back down the block, retracing my steps. No one’s there. No one but me. In a sketchy neighborhood. Without anyone knowing where I am.

  What am I, insane? I spin around and walk away. He can keep the money, for all I care; it’s not worth my li—

  There’s a muffled clacking in the distance. Like dice on a gameboard. I twist back to follow the sound. Further down. On the other side of the overpass. I don’t see it at first. Then I hear it again. I dart behind one of the enormous concrete pillars that hold the highway overpass in place. Above my head, the bees continue to buzz. But down here, I focus on the sound of the dice, downhill from where I’m standing. From my angle, it’s still obscured. Heading deeper into the overpass, I rush from my pillar to one directly ahead. Another die moves across the board. Angling my head around the concrete column, I take my first full look. Outside the overpass, cars once again line the street. But what I’m looking for isn’t directly in front of me. It’s off to the left.

  Up the block, a dip in the sidewalk leads to a gravel driveway. In the driveway, there’s a rusted old industrial Dumpster. And right next to the Dumpster is the source of the noise. Dice against a gameboard. Or tiny stones being kicked by someone’s feet.

  Dead ahead, the page makes his way up the gravel driveway—and in one quick movement, takes off his suit jacket, yanks off his tie, and skyhooks both items up and into the open Dumpster. Without even a pause, he heads back to the sidewalk, looking happy to be free of the monkey suit. It doesn’t make sense.

  My Adam’s apple now feels like a softball in my throat. The page steps out of the driveway, once again kicking the stones at his feet. As he fades up the block, he’s still tapping the envelope against his thigh. And for the first time, I wonder if I’m even looking at a page.

  How could I be so stupid? I didn’t even get his name . . .

  . . . tag. His nametag. On his jacket.

  My eyes zip toward the Dumpster, then back to the page. At the end of the block, he makes a hard left and vanishes from sight. I give him a solid few seconds to double back. He doesn’t. That’s my cue. Even with his head start, there’s still time to catch up with him, but before I do . . .

  I spring out from behind the pillar, dash down the sidewalk, and leave the overpass behind. Rushing across the gravel driveway, I go straight for the Dumpster. It’s too tall to see inside. Even for me. On the side, there’s a groove that’s just deep enough to get a toehold. My suit’s already ruined. Up and over . . .

  With a sharp yank, I tug myself up to the top of the Dumpster. Scootching around, I let my feet dangle inside. It’s like the edge of a swimming pool. But scummier. And with a nauseating acidic stench. Taking one last look around, I spot a pink building with a neon sign that reads, Platinum Gentleman’s Club. No one else is in sight. In this neighborhood, all the action’s at night.

  I stare back down at the pool of Hefty bags and push off with a soft nudge.

  My feet pound through the plastic. I expect a crunch. Instead, I get a squish. My dress shoes fill with liquid. My socks suck it up like a sponge. Waist-deep in garbage, I tell myself it’s just beer.

  Wading toward the back corner of the Dumpster, I keep my arms above my shoulders, careful not to touch anything. Lunging forward, I snag the navy suit jacket, hold it above the trash, and go straight for the blue nametag.

  Senate Page

  Viv Parker

  What’s a girl’s name doing on a guy’s jacket?

  Unhooking the nametag from the lapel, I check to see if there’re any other markings on it. Nothing. Just a standard plastic—

  A car door slams in the distance. I turn at the noise. But I can’t see anything except the moldy interior walls of the trash bin. Time to get out. Holding the nametag in one hand and tossing the jacket over my shoulder, I grip the top ledge of the Dumpster with my long, spindly fingers. A slight jump gives me enough momentum to boost myself up. My feet scratch and slide against the wall, fighting for traction. With one final thrust, I press my stomach against the top ledge and seesaw into place. Tires screech in the distance, but I’m in no position to look up. Like an army recruit fighting to get over the obstacle course wall, I twist myself over the top and plummet feetfirst toward the ground, still facing the Dumpster. As my shoes collide with the cement, I hear an engine revving behind me. Dozens of stones clink acr
oss the concrete. It’s right there. Back toward the driveway. Tires once again screech, and I spin at the sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the car’s grille coming my way. Straight at me.

  The black Toyota plows into my legs and smashes me into the Dumpster. My face flies forward, slamming into the hood of the car. There’s an unearthly crackle like a dry log in a fireplace. My legs shatter. Oh, God. I scream out in pain. Bone turns to dust, and as the car shoves the Dumpster backwards, metal grinds against metal, with me in between. My legs . . . m-my pelvis is on fire. I think it’s snapped in two. The pain is scorching . . . I take that back. The pain fades. It all goes numb. Time freezes in a warped slow motion. My body’s in shock.

  “What’s wrong wit you?!” a male voice shouts from within the car.

  The blood pours from my mouth, raining across the hood of the Toyota. Please, God. Don’t let me pass out . . . In my left eye, I see nothing but bright red. It takes everything I have to pick my head up and look through the windshield. There’s only one person inside . . . holding on to the steering wheel. The page who took our money.

  “All you hadda do was sit there!” he screams, pounding the wheel with his fist. He yells something else, but it’s muffled . . . all garbled . . . like someone shouting when you’re underwater.

  I try to wipe the blood from my mouth, but my arm’s limp at my side. I stare through the windshield at the page, unsure how long he’s been yelling. Around me, everything goes silent. All I hear is my own broken panting—a wet wheeze crawling on its knees through my throat. I try to tell myself that as long as I’m breathing, I’ll be okay, right? But like my dad told me on our first camping trip, every animal knows when it’s about to die.

  Through the windshield, the page throws the car into reverse. The Toyota shifts below my chest. My long fingers scratch wildly for the windshield wipers . . . the grate on the hood . . . anything to grab on to. I don’t have a chance. He floors it, and the car flies backwards, sending me sliding off the hood. As my back crashes against the Dumpster, the car’s wheels spin, kicking a tornado of rocks and dust in my eyes and mouth. I try to stand but can’t feel anything. My legs collapse beneath me and my whole body crumples in the dirt.