Nature of the Game by James Grady

one of the metal strips. “This is a pick, small, but it’ll work. Lock-picking is a two-tooled job. You need a tension bar to pressure the bolt while you use the pick to manipulate the tumblers.”
    Jud stuck the jagged end of one of the picks crossways in a vise slot of the pen, tighted the grip.
    â€œThe picks double as tension bars.” He handed the apparatus to Nick. “I made it myself.”
    If you didn’t , thought Nick, turning the machine over in his finger, who did? Why do you have this?
    â€œI’ll teach you how to pick locks,” said Jud. “If you want.”
    â€œSure!” said Nick.
    Jud smiled. “I need the pen.”
    The secret tool rested lightly in Nick’s hand, real metal of the kind that before tonight—before Jud—he’d only touched in his imagination or spun into his books. Reluctantly, he passed the pen to the man across the table. Jud turned his toys back into innocence just as the waiter delivered two steaming burrito dinners. Nick declined another beer, then so did Jud.
    â€œWhat did you do in the White House?” asked Nick.
    â€œDuring Watergate? I stayed out of jail.”
    Jud laughed; Nick joined him.
    â€œWho’d believe this world?” said Jud.
    â€œSeriously,” said Nick. “What about the Secret Service?”
    â€œWant to see my résumé?”
    Nick blinked. “Ah, sure.”
    From the gym bag came a printed sheet, with Jud’s suit-and-tied picture in the middle. Nick skimmed the lines: Army, Special Forces, Secret Service. Phrases like “technical security.”
    â€œThat’s a piece of paper,” said Jud, folding it into the bag. “I used it once. Have you ever seen one of these?”
    Jud passed a hand-sized, red-covered folder to Nick.
    Who frowned, said, “A passport.”
    â€œA diplomatic passport,” corrected Jud.
    Nick leaned out of reach, opened the folder.
    â€œIt’s me, isn’t it?” said Jud. He held out his hand.
    Nick flipped pages. Entrance and exit stamps. Someplace called—
    Gently, Jud lifted the folder from Nick’s fingers.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” said Nick as the passport dropped into the red gym bag.
    A stunning blonde with a whiny coat-and-tied man in horn-rimmed glasses brushed past their table.
    â€œNo, that’s interesting,” whispered Jud. He chuckled. Kept an arctic smile on the couple as they sat across the room.
    â€œWomen,” said Jud. “They’re such bullshit, aren’t they?”
    So they talked about women, how beautiful they were and why the great ones always seemed to end up with jerks. The waiter laid the bill on the table. Jud reached for it, but Nick beat him.
    â€œI’ll call it an educational expense,” said Nick.
    â€œSubmit it to Murphy.” Jud smiled when he said the columnist’s name.
    â€œThis will come out of my other professional pocket. To charge it to Peter, you’d have to help me on some story.”
    â€œAh,” said Jud.
    Outside, streetlights and neon made M Street glow. Amplified rock music thumped from a guaranteed-totally-nude go-go bar. Nick raised his hand toward a cab but Jud stopped him.
    â€œWe agreed I’d give you a ride home.”
    â€œThought I’d save you the trouble.”
    â€œNo trouble,” said Jud.
    They walked to a van parked by Murphy’s office. The vehicle smelled of oil and rust. Machine parts clanked in bins as they motored toward Capitol Hill. They passed the White House, the Treasury building. The glistening dome of the Capitol came into sight, a view that always quickened Nick’s heart. The same scene was on his high school government textbook.
    As the van climbed up the Hill, Nick realized Jud hadn’t asked where he lived.
    â€œThat your place?” said Jud, pointing to the apartment building six blocks off congressional turf. He pulled over.
    â€œYes,” said