The Zero Game

“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.