Zero Game (13 page)

24

H
OW ARE YOU?
You okay?” Barry asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shoot back.

“With Matthew . . . I just figured . . . Where’re you calling from anyway?”

It’s the third question out of his mouth. I’m surprised it wasn’t the first.

“I’m home,” I tell him. “I just needed some time to— I just wanted to take some time.”

“I left you four messages.”

“I know . . . and I appreciate it—I just needed the time.”

“No, I completely understand.”

He doesn’t buy it for a second. But not because of what I said.

A few years back, some coworkers threw a surprise birthday party for Ilana Berger, press secretary for Senator Conroy. As old friends of Ilana from college, Matthew, Barry, and I were all invited, along with everyone in the Senator’s office, and seemingly everyone else on the Hill. Ilana’s friends wanted an
event.
Somehow, though, Barry’s invitation went to the wrong address. Forever worried about being left out, Barry was crushed. When we told him it must’ve been a mistake, he wouldn’t believe it. When we told him to call the party’s hosts, he refused. And when we called the hosts, who felt terrible that the invitation didn’t get there and immediately sent out a new one, Barry saw it as a pity fix. It’s always been Barry’s greatest flaw—he can walk down a crowded street completely unaided, but when it comes to personal interactions, the only thing he ever sees is himself sitting alone in the dark.

Of course, when it comes to Hill gossip, his radar’s still better than most.

“So I assume you heard about Pasternak?” he asks.

I stay quiet. He’s not the only one with radar. There’s a slight rise in his pitch. He’s got something to tell.

“Doctors said it was a heart attack. Can you believe it? Guy runs five miles every morning and wham—it stops pumping in a . . . in a heartbeat. Carol is heartbroken . . . his whole family . . . it’s like a bomb went off. If you gave them a call . . . they could really use it, Harris.”

I wait for him to get every last word out. “Can I ask you a question?” I finally say. “Do you have a dog in this race?”

“What?”

“Wendell Mining . . . the request Matthew was working on . . . Are you lobbying it?”

“Of course not. You know I don’t do that . . .”

“I don’t know anything, Barry.”

He offers a playful laugh. I don’t laugh back.

“Let me say it again for you, Harris—I’ve never once worked on Matthew’s issues.”

“Then what’re you doing in his office?!”

“Harris . . .”

“Don’t
Harris
me!”

“I know you’ve had two huge losses this week—”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Barry? Stop with the mental massage and answer the fucking question!”

There’s a long pause on the other line. He’s either panicking or in shock. I need to know which.

“Harris,” he eventually begins, his voice teetering on the first syllable. “I-I’ve been here ten years . . . these are my friends . . . this is my family, Harris . . .” As he says the words, I close my eyes and fight the swell of tears. “We lost Matthew. C’mon, Harris. This is Matthew . . .”

If he’s yanking on my heartstrings, I’ll kill him for this.

“Listen to me,” he pleads. “This isn’t the time to zip yourself in a cocoon.”

“Barry . . .”

“I want to come see you,” he insists. “Just tell me where you really are.”

My eyes pop open, staring down at the phone. When Pasternak first hired me all those years ago, he told me a good lobbyist is one who, if you’re sitting next to him on an airplane and his knee touches yours, it’s not uncomfortable. Asking where I am, Barry’s officially uncomfortable.

“I gotta run,” I tell him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Harris, don’t . . .”

“Good-bye, Barry.”

Slamming the phone in its cradle, I once again turn toward the window and study the sunlight as it ricochets off the roofline. Matthew always warned me about competitive friendships. I can’t argue with him anymore.

25

T
OWERING OVER
C
HEESE’S
desk, Janos carefully took a slight step back and painted on a semifriendly grin. From the anxious look on Harris’s assistant’s face, the FBI windbreaker was already more than enough. As Janos well knew, if you squeeze the egg too hard, it shatters.

“You think he’s okay?” Janos asked in his best concerned tone.

“He sounded okay in his message,” Cheese replied. “More tired than anything else. He’s had a rough week, y’know, which is obviously why he’s taking the week off.”

“So he called this morning?”

“Actually, I think it was late last night. Now tell me again why you need to speak to him.”

“We’re just following up on Matthew Mercer’s death. The accident happened on federal land, so they wanted us to talk to a few of his friends.” Reading the look on Cheese’s face, Janos added, “Don’t worry . . . it’s just standard follow-up . . .”

The front door to the office opened, and a young black girl in a navy suit stuck her head inside. “Senate page,” Viv announced, balancing three small red, white, and blue boxes. “Flag delivery?” she said.

“The who what?” Cheese asked.

“Flags,” she repeated, checking out both Cheese and Janos. “American flags . . . y’know, the ones they fly over the Capitol, then sell to people just because it went up a flagpole on the roof . . . Anyway, I’ve got three here for a . . .” She read the words from the top box, “. . . for someone named Harris Sandler.”

“You can just leave ’em here,” Cheese said, pointing to his own desk.

“And mess up your stuff?” Viv asked. She motioned through the glass partition at Harris’s messy work space. “That your boss’s pigpen?” Before Cheese could answer, Viv headed through the door in the partition. “He wants the flags . . . let him deal with them.”

“See, now that’s what we gotta see more of,” Cheese called out, slapping his own chest. “Respect for
the Kid!
”

Eyeing the girl carefully, Janos watched as Viv approached Harris’s desk. She had her back to him, and her body blocked most of what she was doing, but from what Janos could tell, it was just a routine drop-off. Without a word, she cleared a space for the flag boxes, set them on Harris’s desk, and in one smooth motion, spun back toward the rest of the office. Viv jumped when she saw Janos staring right at her. There it was. Contact.

“H-Hey,” she said with a smile as their eyes locked. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Janos replied dryly. “Everything’s perfect.”

“So can you fly
anything
over the Capitol?” Cheese asked. “Socks? Underwear? I’ve got this vintage
Barney Miller
T-shirt that would love to go for a whirl.”

“Who’s Barney Miller?” Viv asked.

Cheese grabbed his chest in mock pain. “Do you have any idea how much that physically hurt? I’m slayed. Seriously. I’m bleeding inside.”

“Sorry,” Viv laughed, moving toward the door.

Janos looked back at Harris’s desk, where the flag boxes were neatly stacked in place. Even then, he didn’t think much of it. But as he turned back to Viv—as he listened to her giggle and as he watched her bounce toward the door—he saw the last passing glance that she aimed his way. Then he realized it wasn’t at him. It was at his windbreaker.
FBI.

The door slammed, and Viv was gone.

“So what were we singing about again?” Cheese asked.

Still locked on the door, Janos didn’t answer. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to check out an FBI jacket . . . but add that to the way she walked in . . . going straight for Harris’s office . . .

“I know that look,” Cheese teased. “You’re rethinking that underwear-over-the-Capitol thing, aren’t you?”

“Have you ever seen her before?” Janos blurted.

“The page? No, not that I—”

“I have to go,” Janos said as he calmly turned toward the door.

“Just let me know if you need more help,” Cheese called out, but Janos was already on his way—out the door and up the hallway. She couldn’t have gotten . . .

There,
Janos thought, smiling to himself.

Reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, Janos felt his way along the small black box and flipped the switch. The electrical hum rumbled quietly in his hand.

26

F
LIPPING OPEN THE
first of the two notebooks, I thumb to the
G
s and continue to turn the pages until I finally reach the tab marked
Grayson.
Alphabetically organized by Member name, the subsections of the book have an in-depth analysis of every project that a Congressman asks for—including the transfer of a gold mine to a company called Wendell Mining.

Skimming past the original request that Grayson’s office submitted, I lick my finger and flip straight to the analysis. But as I speed-read the next three pages, I hear a familiar voice in my head. Oh, jeez. It’s unmistakable . . . the rambling at the beginning of a new thought . . . his overuse of the word
specifically . . .
even the way he rants a bit at the end. Without a doubt, these three pages were written by Matthew. It’s like he’s sitting right here next to me.

To his credit, the analysis is the same as what he originally said. The Homestead gold mine is one of the oldest in South Dakota, and both the town and state would benefit if Wendell Mining got the land and took over the mine. To drive the point home, there are three photocopied letters clipped into the notebook: one from the Bureau of Land Management, one from the Wendell Mining CEO, and a final gushing recommendation from the mayor of Leed, South Dakota, the town where the mine is located. Three letters. Three letterheads. Three new phone numbers to call.

The first call to BLM gets me voice mail. Same with the call to the CEO. That leaves only the mayor. Fine by me. I’m better with politicians any day.

Dialing the number, I let the phone ring in my ear and glance down at my watch. Viv should be back any . . .

“L-and-L Luncheonette,” a man with a cigarette-burned voice and Hollywood-cowboy drawl answers. “What c’n I do?”

“I’m sorry,” I stutter, glancing down at the bottom of the letter. “I was looking for Mayor Regan’s office.”

“And who should I say is calling?” the man asks.

“Andy Defresne,” I say. “From the House of Representatives. In Washington, D.C.”

“Well, why didn’t you say?” the man adds with a throaty laugh. “This is Mayor Regan.”

I pause, suddenly thinking of my dad’s barbershop.

“Not used to small towns, are ya?” the mayor laughs.

“Actually, I am.”

“From one?”

“Born and raised.”

“Well, we’re smaller,” he teases. “Guaranteed or your money back.”

God, he reminds me of home.

“Now, what c’n I do?” he asks.

“To be honest—”

“Wouldn’t expect anything but,” he interrupts, laughing wildly.

He also reminds me why I left.

“I just had a quick question about the gold mine that’s—”

“The Homestead.”

“Exactly. The Homestead,” I say, nervously tapping a finger against one of the spare keyboards in the room. “So, getting back . . . I’m working on Congressman Grayson’s request for the land sale . . .”

“Oh, don’t everybody love a fight.”

“Some do,” I play along. “Personally, I’m just trying to make sure we do the right thing and put local interests first.” He’s silent at that, enjoying the sudden attention. “Anyway, as we push for the request, we’re trying to think who else we should go to for support, so would you mind walking me through how the town might benefit from the sale of the mine taking place? Or better yet, is there anyone in particular who’s excited by the deal going through?”

As he’s done twice before, the mayor laughs out loud. “Son, to be honest, you got as much chance sucking bricks through a hose as you do finding someone who’ll benefit from this one.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“And maybe I don’t, either,” the mayor admits. “But if I were putting up my money for a gold mine, I’d at least want one that had some gold.”

My finger stops tapping against the keyboard. “Excuse me?”

“The Homestead mine. Place is empty.”

“You sure about that?”

“Son, the Homestead may’ve broke ground in 1876, but the last ounce of gold was mined almost twenty years ago. Since then, seven different companies have tried to prove everyone wrong, and the last one went bust so ugly, they took most of the town with ’em. That’s why the land’s been sitting with the government. There used to be nine thousand of us here in town. Now we’re a hundred and fifty-seven. You don’t need an abacus to do that math.”

As he says the words, the storage room is dead silent, but I can barely hear myself think. “So you’re telling me there’s no gold in that mine?”

“Not for twenty years,” he repeats.

I nod even though he can’t see me. It doesn’t make any sense. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor—maybe I’m just dense, but if there’s no chance of finding gold, then why’d you write that letter?”

“What letter?”

My eyes drop to the desk, where Matthew’s old notebook holds a letter endorsing the land transfer to Wendell Mining. It’s signed by the mayor of Leed, South Dakota.

“You are Mayor Tom Regan, right?”

“Yep. Only one.”

I study the signature at the bottom of the letter. Then I reread it again. There’s a slight smudge on the
R
in
Regan
that makes it look just messy enough that it’d never get a second glance. And right there, for the first time since this all started, I start to see the ripple in the mirror.

“You still there, son?” the mayor asks.

“Yeah . . . no . . . I’m here,” I say. “I just . . . Wendell Mining . . .”

“Let me tell you about Wendell Mining. When they first came sniffing here, I personally called MSHA to—”

“Em-sha?”

“Mine Safety and Health Administration—the safety boys. When you’re mayor, you gotta know who’s coming to your town. So when I talked to my buddy there, he said these guys at Wendell may’ve bought the original mining claims to the land, and filed all the right paperwork, and even put enough money in someone’s pocket to get a favorable mineral report—but so help me, when we looked up their track record, these boys’ve never operated a single mine in their lives.”

A sharp pain in my stomach burns, and the fire quickly spreads. “You sure about that?”

“Son, did Elvis love bacon? I’ve seen this one a hundred and nineteen times before. A company like Wendell has a little bit of money, and a lotta bit of greed. If anyone would bother to ask me my opinion, I’d tell ’em that the last thing we need around here is to get everyone’s hopes up and then see ’em squashed once again. You know how it is in a small town . . . when those trucks showed up—”

“Trucks?” I interrupt.

“The ones that showed up last month. Isn’t that what you’re calling about?”

“Y-Yeah. Of course.” Matthew transferred the gold mine barely three days ago. Why were trucks there a month ago? “So they’re already mining?” I ask, completely confused.

“God knows what they’re doing . . . I went up there myself—y’know, just to make sure they’re doing things right with the union . . . Let me tell you right now, they don’t have a single piece of mining equipment up there. Not even a pelican pick. And when I asked them about it . . . let me just say . . .
crickets
aren’t as jumpy. I mean, those boys shooed me away like a fly on the wrong end of a horse.”

My hand holds tight to the receiver. “You think they’re doing something other than mining?”

“I don’t know what they’re doing, but if it were up to me—” He cuts himself off. “Son, can you hold on one second?” Before I can answer, I hear him in the background. “Aunt
Mollie,
” he calls out, suddenly excited. “What can I get you, dear?”

“Just the regular,” a woman with the sweetest hometown twang replies. “No jelly on the toast.”

Behind me, someone pounds
shave-and-a-haircut
against the door. “It’s me,” Viv calls out. I stretch the phone cord and undo the lock.

Viv steps inside, but the tap dance in her step is gone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you get the—”

She pulls my electronic organizer from the waist of her pants and tosses it straight at me. “There—you happy?” she asks.

“What happened? Was it not where I said it was?”

“I saw an FBI agent in your office,” she blurts.

“What?”

“He was there—talking to your assistant.”

I slam down the phone on the mayor. “What’d he look like?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“No—forget
I don’t know.
What’d he look like?” I insist.

She reads my panic easily but, unlike last time, doesn’t brush it off. “I didn’t see him that long . . . buzzed salt-and-pepper hair . . . I guess a creepy smile . . . and eyes that kinda, well . . . kinda look like a hound dog if that makes any sense . . .”

My throat locks up, and my eyes flash over to the door. More specifically, the doorknob. It’s unlocked.

I dart full speed at the door, ready to twist the lock shut. But just as I’m about to grab it, the door bursts toward me, slamming into my shoulder. Viv screams, and a thick hand slides through the crack.