The Zero Game

“Since when do we sell government land to private companies?”

“How do you think we settled the West, Kimosabe? Most of the time, we even gave it away for free. The problem here is, even though BLM has approved the sale, the Interior Department has them so buried in red tape, it’ll take years to finalize unless they get a friendly congressional push.”

“So Wendell Mining donated some money to local Congressman Grayson and asked him for a bump to the front of the line,” Harris says.

“That’s how it works.”

“And we’re sure about the land? I mean, we’re not selling some nature preserve to some big company who wants to put a mall and a petting zoo on it, are we?”

“Suddenly you’re back to being an idealist?”

“I never left, Matthew.”

He believes what he’s saying. He’s always believed it. Growing up outside Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, Harris wasn’t just the first in his family to go to college — he was the first in his whole town. As silly as it sounds, he came to Washington to change the world. The problem is, a decade later, the world changed him. As a result, he’s the worst kind of cynic — the kind who doesn’t know he’s a cynic.

“If it makes you feel better, I vetted it last year and revetted it months ago,” I tell him. “The gold mine’s abandoned. This town’s dying for Wendell Mining to take over. The town gets jobs, the company gets gold, and most important, once Wendell steps in, the company’s responsible for the hardest part, which is the environmental cleanup. Win, win, win, all around.”

Harris falls silent, picking up the tennis racket that he usually keeps leaning on the side of his desk. I’ve seen the town where Harris grew up. He’d never call himself poor. But I would. Needless to say, they don’t play tennis in Gibsonia. That’s a rich man’s game — but the day Harris got to D.C., he made it his own. To no one’s surprise, he was a complete natural. It’s the same reason he was able to run the Marine Corps Marathon even though he barely trained. Mind over matter. He’s almost there right now.

“So it all checks out?” he asks.

“Every last detail,” I say as my voice picks up speed. “No lie.”

For the first time since I entered his office, I see the quiet, charismatic grin in Harris’s eyes. He knows we’ve got a winner here. A huge winner if we play it smart.

“Okay…” Harris says, bouncing the tennis racket against the palm of his hand. “How much you got in your bank account?”

4

At exactly 9:35 the following morning, I’m sitting alone at my desk, wondering why my delivery’s late. On C- SPAN, a rabbi from Aventura, Florida, says a short prayer as everyone on the Speaker’s rostrum bows his head. When he’s done, the gavel bangs and the camera pulls out. On the stenographers’ table, the two water glasses are back. Anyone on the Floor could’ve moved them. They’re out there all day long. On my phone, I’ve got seven messages from lobbyists, fourteen from staff, and two from Members — all dying to know if we’ve funded their project. Everything’s back to normal — or as normal as a day like this gets.

I pick up the phone and dial the five-digit extension for our receptionist out front. “Roxanne, if there’re any packages that come in-”

“I heard you the first thirty-four times,” she moans. “I’ll send ’em right back. What’re you waiting for anyway, pregnancy results?”

I don’t bother to answer. “Just make sure-”

“Thirty-five! That’s officially thirty-five times,” she interrupts. “Don’t worry, sweetie — I won’t let you down.”

Ten minutes later, she’s good to her word. The door from reception opens, and a young female page sticks her head in. “I’m looking for-”

“That’s me,” I blurt.

Stepping into the room with her blue blazer and gray slacks, she hands me the sealed manila envelope — and checks out the office.

“That’s not real, is it?” she asks, pointing to the stuffed ferret on a nearby bookcase.

“Thank the NRA lobbyists,” I tell her. “Isn’t it far more practical than sending flowers like everyone else?”

With a laugh, she heads for the door. I look down at the envelope. Yesterday was spent dealing the cards. Today it’s time to ante up.

Ripping open the flap, I turn the envelope upside down and shake. Two dozen squares of paper rain down on my desk. Taxi Receipt, it reads in thick black letters across the top of each one. I shuffle the pile into a neat stack and make sure every one of them is blank. So far, so good.

Grabbing a pen, I eye the section marked Cab Number and quickly scribble the number 727 into the blank. Cab 727. That’s my ID. After that, I put a single check mark in the top right-hand corner of the receipt. There’s the ante: twenty-five dollars if you want to play. I don’t just want to play, though. I want to win, which is why I start with a serious bet. In the blank marked Fare, I write $10.00. To the untrained eye, it’s not much. But to those of us playing, well… that’s why we add a zero. One dollar is ten dollars; five dollars is actually fifty. That’s why they call it the Zero Game. In this case, ten bucks is a solid Benjamin Franklin — the opening bid in the auction.

Reaching into my top drawer, I pull out a fresh manila envelope, open the flap, and sweep the taxicab receipts inside. Time for some interoffice mail. On the front of the envelope, I write Harris Sandler — 427 Russell Bldg. Next to the address, I add the word Private, just to be safe. Of course, even if Harris’s assistant opens it — even if the Speaker of the House opens it — I’m not dropping a bead of sweat. I see a hundred-dollar bet. Anyone else sees a ten-dollar taxi receipt — nothing to look twice at.

Stepping into our reception area, I toss the envelope into the rusty metal basket we use as an Out box. Roxanne does most of our interoffice stuff herself. “Roxanne, can you make sure to take this out in the next batch?”

She nods as I turn back to my desk. Just another day.

“Is it there yet?” I ask twenty minutes later.

“Already gone,” Harris answers. From the crackle in his voice, he’s got me on speakerphone. I swear, he’s not afraid of anything.

“You left it blank, right?” I ask.

“No, I ignored everything we discussed. Good-bye, Matthew. Call me when you have news.”

As he’s about to hang up, I hear a click in the background. Harris’s door opening. “Courier’s here,” his assistant calls out.

With a slam, Harris is gone. And so are the taxi receipts. From me to my mentor, from Harris to his. Leaning back in my black vinyl rolling chair, I can’t help but wonder who it is. Harris has been on the Hill since the day he graduated. If he’s an expert at anything, it’s making friends and connections. That narrows the list to a tidy few thousand. But if he’s using a courier, he’s going off campus. I stare out the window at a perfect view of the Capitol dome. The playing field expands before my eyes. Former staffers are everywhere in this town. Law firms… PR boutiques… and most of all…

My phone rings, and I check the digital screen for caller ID.

… lobbying shops.

“Hi, Barry,” I say as I pick up the receiver.

“You’re still standing?” he asks. “I heard you guys were negotiating till ten last night.”

“It’s that time of year,” I tell him, wondering where he got the info. No one saw us leave last night. But that’s Barry. No sight, but somehow he sees it all. “So what can I help you with?”