“Don’t worry,” he had said calmly. “They’ll send a signal.”
“A signal? What kinda signal?”
“You’ll see — a signal. That way, when instructions go out, you know to be in your office.”
“But what if I don’t see it? What if I’m on the Floor… or somewhere else in the Capitol? What if the signal goes out and I’m not here when they send it?”
“Trust me, this is one signal you won’t miss,” Harris insisted. “No matter where you are…”
Glancing back over Trish’s shoulder, I eye the TV. Now that the vote’s over, the camera goes back to the Speaker’s rostrum — the multilevel platform the President uses to deliver his State of the Union address. Right now, though, I’m more focused on the small mahogany oval table that’s just in front of it. Every day, the House stenographers sit there, clicking away. Every day, they keep track of everything uttered on the House Floor. And every day, like clockwork, the only objects on that desk are two empty water glasses and the two white coasters they rest on. For two hundred years — according to the rumor — Congress puts out two glasses, one for each side. Every single day. Today, however, is different. Today, if you count the glasses, there’s just one. You can’t miss it. One glass and one coaster.
There’s our code. That’s the signal. One empty water glass, broadcast all day long for the entire world to see.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and all four of us turn at the sound. A young kid wearing gray slacks, a cheap navy blazer, and a blue-and-red-striped tie enters the room. He can’t be more than sixteen, and if the uniform doesn’t give him away, the rectangular nametag on his lapel does. Set off against a black background, the stark white letters read:
He’s one of a few dozen — a high school page who delivers mail and fetches water. The only person on the totem pole lower than an intern.
“I–I’m sorry…” he begins, realizing he’s interrupting. “I’m looking for Matthew Mercer…”
“That’s me,” I say with a wave.
Rushing over, he barely makes eye contact as he hands me the sealed envelope. “Thanks,” I tell him, but he’s already out of the room.
Regular mail can be opened by a secretary. So can interoffice. FedEx requires a return address. And a messenger service would add up to a small fortune if you used it on a regular basis. But the House and Senate pages barely leave a footprint. They’re here every single day, and while all they do is run errands back and forth, they’re the easiest thing to miss. Ghosts in blue blazers. No one sees them come; no one sees them go. And best of all, since the pages get their instructions verbally, there’s no physical record of where a particular package goes.
An empty water glass tells me to be at my desk. A sealed envelope carried by a page tells me what I’m doing next. Welcome to game day.
“Trish, can’t you just meet us in the middle?” Ezra begs as Trish shakes her head.
Refusing to get into it, I angle my chair away from the group and examine the envelope. As always, it’s blank. Not even my name or room number. And if I’d asked the page where he got it from, he’d say someone in the cloakroom asked him to do a favor. After six months, I’m done trying to figure out how the inner workings of the game happen.
Wedging my thumb under the flap of the envelope, I give it a sharp jab and tear it open. Inside, as usual, the notice is the same: a single sheet of paper with the royal blue letterhead of the CAG, the Coalition Against Gambling. The letterhead’s an obvious joke, but it’s the first reminder that this is purely for fun. Underneath, the letter begins,
As usual, I go straight to the last item on the list. All the rest are bullshit — a way to throw people off in case a stranger gets his hands on it — but the last one on there… that’s the one that actually counts.
As I read the words, my mouth tips open. I don’t believe it.
“Everything alright?” Trish asks.
When I don’t answer, all three of them turn my way. “Matthew, you still breathing over there?” she repeats.
“Y-Yeah… no… of course,” I say with a laugh. “Just another note from Cordell.”
My three colleagues instantly leap back to their verbal fistfight. I look down at the letter. And for the third time, I reread the words and try to contain my grin.
An earmark. A single Interior earmark. I can actually feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. This isn’t just any issue. It’s
For once in my life, I can’t lose.
3
“So what do you think?” I ask as I rush into Harris’s office on the fourth floor of the Russell Senate Office Building. With its arched windows and tall ceilings, it’s nicer than the best office on the House side. The two branches of government are supposed to be equal. Welcome to the Senate.
“You tell me,” Harris says, looking up from some paperwork. “Think you can really put the land sale into the bill?”
“Harris, it’s what I do every day. We’re talking a tiny ask for a project no one would ever possibly look at. Even Congressman Grayson, who made the original request, couldn’t care less about it.”
“Unless he’s playing the game.”
I roll my eyes. “Will you please stop with that?” Since the day he invited me in, it’s been Harris’s most recurring wet dream: that it’s not just staff playing the game — it’s the Members playing as well.
“It’s possible,” he insists.
“Actually, it’s not. If you’re a Member of Congress, you’re not risking your credibility and entire political career for a few hundred bucks and a chess match.”
“Are you joking? These guys get blow jobs in the bathroom of the Capitol Grille. I mean, when they go out for drinks, they have lobbyists trolling the bar and picking out girls so they can leave the place unescorted. You think a few of them wouldn’t get in on the action? Think for a second, Matthew. Even Pete Rose bet on baseball.”
“I don’t care. Grayson’s project isn’t a four-star priority that reaches the Member level — it’s grunt work. And since it’s in my jurisdiction, it’s not getting in there unless I see it. I promise you, Harris — I already checked it out. We’re talking a teeny piece of land in the middle of South Dakota. Land rights belong to Uncle Sam; mineral rights below used to be owned by some long- defunct mining company.”
“It’s a coal mine?”
“This ain’t Pennsylvania, bro. Out in South Dakota, they dig for gold — or at least they used to. The company had been digging the Homestead mine since 1876 — true gold rush days. Over time, they applied for a patent to buy the land, but when they sucked out every last drop, the company went bankrupt and the land stayed with the government, which is still dealing with the environmental problems of shutting one of these suckers down. Anyway, a few years back, a company called Wendell Mining decides it can find more gold using newer technologies, so they buy the old company’s claims out of bankruptcy, contact the Bureau of Land Management, and arrange to buy the land.”
