by Brad Meltzer
“The world is against me!” he shouts, leaning toward the glass. “Look where I’m sitting! You’re telling me I’m wrong?!”
I shake my head, refusing to get into it. Whatever perceived slights he thinks he’s the victim of, they’ve clearly whittled away at his reality.
“Don’t judge me, Harris. Not all of us are lucky enough to lead your charmed life.”
“So now it’s my fault?”
“I asked you for help over the years. You never gave it. Not once.”
“So I made you do all this?”
“Just tell me why you’re here. If it’s not me, and it’s not to catch up—”
“Pasternak,” I blurt.
A wide smile creeps up his cheeks. Sitting back in his seat, Barry crosses his arms and tucks the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Like he’s putting the Barry mask back on. He’s no longer fidgeting with his wristband. “It’s gnawing at you, isn’t it?” he asks. “You and I . . . we always had the competitive friendship. But you and Pasternak . . . ? He was supposed to be your mentor. The one person you turned to when you had an emergency and had to break the glass. Is that what’s got you tossing and turning all night—wondering how your personal radar could be so completely wrong?”
“I just want to know why he did it.”
“Of course you do. Sauls bit his bullet . . . I’m on my way to biting mine . . . but Pasternak—that’s the one that’ll frustrate you the rest of your life. You don’t get to punch him, or yell at him, or have the big final confrontation scene with the bittersweet ending. It’s the curse of being an overachiever—you can’t handle a problem that can’t be solved.”
“I don’t need it solved; I just want an answer.”
“Same difference, Harris. The thing is, if you expect me to suddenly scratch your back . . . well . . . you know how the cliché goes . . .”
Forever the lobbyist, Barry makes his point clear without ever saying the actual words. He’s not giving any info unless he gets something in return. God, I hate this town.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Nothing now,” he replies. “Let’s just say you owe me one.”
Even in an orange jumpsuit and behind six inches of glass, Barry still needs to believe he has the upper hand.
“Fine. I owe you one,” I tell him. “Now what about Pasternak?”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he knew who was really driving the train. Sure, he took advantage of you with the game, but that was just to get the mining request in the bill.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? It was an unimportant request for a defunct gold mine in South Dakota. He knew Matthew would never say yes to it—not unless he had a good enough reason,” Barry says. “From there, Pasternak just took the game and put in the fix.”
“So Pasternak was one of the dungeon-masters?”
“The what?”
“The dungeon-masters—the guys who pick the bets and collect the cash. Is that how the mine request got in the game? He was one of the guys who ran it?”
“How else would it get there?” Barry asks.
“I don’t know . . . it just . . . all those months we were playing . . . all the people we were betting against—Pasternak was always trying to figure out who else was in on it. When the taxi receipt would come in, he’d go through each one, hoping to read handwritings. He even made a list of people who were working on particular issues . . . But if he was a dungeon-master . . .” I cut myself off as the consequences sink in.
Barry cocks his head to the side. His cloudy eye’s staring straight at me; his glass eye’s off to the left. Out of nowhere, he starts to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“What? If he were a dungeon-master, wouldn’t he know all the other players?”
Barry stops laughing, realizing I’m not in on the joke. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Be honest, Harris—you haven’t figured it out?”
I try my best to act informed. “Of course—I got most of it . . . Which part are you talking about?”
His foggy eye looks right at me. “There is no game. There never was one.” His eye doesn’t move. “I mean, you know it was all bullshit, right? Smoke and mirrors.”
As his words creep through the receiver and into my ear, my whole body goes numb. The world feels like my personal gravity’s just doubled. Sinking down—almost through—the seat of my orange plastic chair, I weigh a thousand pounds.
“What a punchline, huh?” Barry asks. “I almost fell over when they first told me. Can you imagine—all this time spent looking at coworkers, trying to figure out who else is placing bets, and the only people actually playing the game are you and Matthew?”
“Two minutes,” the guard behind Barry announces.
“It’s brilliant when you think about it,” Barry adds. “Pasternak talks it up; you believe him because you trust him . . . then they send in a few pages, fill out some taxi receipts, and you guys think you’re in on the biggest secret Capitol Hill has to offer. It’s like those flight simulator rides at Disney World, where they show the movie on-screen and shake your car a bit—you think you’re flying up and down a roller coaster, but you really haven’t moved an inch.”
I force a laugh, my body still frozen.
“Man, just the thought of it,” Barry adds, his voice picking up steam. “Dozens of staffers placing bets on unimportant legislation without anyone knowing? Please, what a dream—like anyone here could even keep their mouth shut for longer than ten seconds,” he teases. “Gotta give Pasternak his credit, though. You thought you were playing a great joke on the system, and the entire time, he’s playing the joke on you.”
“Yeah . . . no . . . it’s definitely amazing.”
“It was humming like clockwork, too—until everything with Matthew. Once that happened, Pasternak wanted out. I mean, he may’ve signed up to convince you—that’s part of any lobbyist’s job—but he didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“That’s . . . That’s not what I heard,” I bluff.
“Then you heard wrong. The only reason he put this together was for the exact same reason anyone does anything in this town: Ever have a small country for a client? Small countries bring in small fortunes, which small businesses are in desperate need of—especially when billings are down thirty-six percent this year alone. After the first year of failing to get the gold mine transferred, Pasternak eventually decided to go with the more inventive backdoor. Say hello to the Game—the most harmless way ever to sneak an earmark into a bill. But then Matthew got curious, and Janos came in, and, well . . . that’s when the train jackknifed off the tracks . . .”
The guard looks over at us.
We’re almost out of time, but Barry doesn’t show the slightest sign of slowing down. After all this time in jail, he’s finally having fun.
“You gotta love the name, too—the Zero Game—so melodramatic. But it is true: In any equation, when you multiply by zero, you always wind up with nothing, right?”
I nod, dumbfounded.
“So who told you anyway?” he asks. “FBI, or did you figure it out yourself?”
“No . . . myself. I . . . uh . . . I got it myself.”
“Good for you, Harris. Good man.”
Stuck in my seat, I just sit there, looking at him. It’s like finding out a year of your life has been a staged production number. And I’m the only putz still in costume.
“Time,” the guard says.
Barry keeps talking. “I’m so glad you—”
“I said, Time,” the guard interrupts. He pulls the receiver from Barry’s ear, but I still hear his final thought.
“I knew you’d appreciate it, Harris! I knew it! Even Pasternak would be happy for that—!”
There’s a loud click in my ear as the guard slaps the phone in its cradle. He pinches the back of Barry’s neck and yanks him from his seat. Stumbling
across the room, Barry heads back to the steel door.
But as I sit alone at the glass partition, staring through to the other side, there’s no question Barry has it right. Pasternak said it the first day he hired me. It’s the first rule of politics: The only time you get hurt is when you forget it’s all a game.
About the Author
BRAD MELTZER is the author of the New York Times bestsellers The Tenth Justice, Dead Even, The First Counsel, and The Millionaires. A graduate of the University of Michigan and Columbia Law School, he currently lives in Maryland with his wife and son. When he was nineteen, he was an intern on Capitol Hill.
To find out more about The Zero Game and the author, please visit www.bradmeltzer.com.
Contents
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Epilogue
About the Author
