The Zero Game

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

TOWERING OVER CHEESE’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.”