Zero Game by Brad Meltzer

tractorfuls when we win. There’s gotta be over twenty-five grand in the pot. Think about the check you’ll send home after that.”
    Even Harris can’t argue with that one.
    There’s a crackle on the line. He takes me off speakerphone. “Just tell me one thing, Matthew—can you really make this happen?”
    I’m silent, working every possibility. He’s just as quiet, counting every consequence. It’s the opposite of our standard dance. For once, I’m confidence; he’s concern.
    “So can you pull this off?” Harris repeats.
    “I think so,” I tell him.
    “No, no, no, no, no . . . Forget ‘think so.’ I can’t afford ‘think so.’ I’m asking you as a friend—honestly, no bullshit.
Can you pull this off?
”
    It’s the first time I hear the tinge of panic in Harris’s voice. He’s not afraid to leap off the edge of the cliff, but like any smart politician, he needs to know what’s in the river below. The good thing is, in this one case, I’ve got the life preserver.
    “This baby’s mine,” I tell him. “The only one closer is Cordell himself.”
    The silence tells me he’s unconvinced.
    “You’re right,” I add sarcastically. “It’s too risky—we should walk away now.”
    The silence is even longer.
    “I swear to you, Harris. Cordell doesn’t care about table scraps. This is what I’m hired to do. We won’t lose.”
    “You promise?”
    As he asks the question, I stare out the window at the dome of the Capitol. “On my life.”
    “Don’t get melodramatic on me.”
    “Fine, then here’s pragmatic. Know what the golden rule of Appropriations is? He who has the gold makes the rule.”
    “And we got the gold?”
    “We got the gold.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “We’ll know soon enough,” I say with a laugh. “Now, you in?”
    “You already filled out the slip, didn’t you?”
    “But you’re the one who has to send it on.”
    There’s another crackle. I’m back on speakerphone. “Cheese, I need you to deliver a package,” he calls out to his assistant.
    There we go. Back in business.
    The clock hits 7:30 and there’s a light knock on my office door. “All clear?” Harris asks, sticking his head inside.
    “C’mon in,” I say, motioning him toward my desk. With everyone gone, we might as well speed things along.
    As he enters the office, he lowers his chin and flashes a thin grin. It’s a look I don’t recognize. Newfound trust? Respect?
    “You wrote on your face,” he says.
    “What’re you . . . ?”
    He smiles and taps his finger against his cheek. “Blue cheek. Very Duke.”
    Licking my fingers, I scrub the remaining ink from my face and ignore the joke.
    “By the way, I saw Cordell in the elevator,” he says, referring to my boss.
    “He say anything?”
    “Nothing much,” Harris teases. “He feels bad that all those years ago, you signed up for his campaign and drove him around to all those events without knowing he’d eventually turn into an asshole. Then he said he was sorry for dropping every environmental issue for whatever gets him on TV.”
    “That’s nice. I’m glad he’s big enough to admit it.” My face has a smile, but Harris can always see deeper. When we came here, Harris believed in the issues; I believed in a person. It’s the latter that’s more dangerous.
    Harris sits on the corner of my desk, and I follow his gaze to the TV, which, as always, is locked on C-SPAN. As long as the House is in session, the pages are still on call. And from the looks of it—with Wyoming Congresswoman Thelma Lewis gripping the podium and blathering away—we’ve got some time. Mountain standard time, to be precise. Right now, it’s 5:30 in Casper, Wyoming—prime news hour—which is why Lewis waited until late in the day to make her big speech, and why Members from New Mexico, North Dakota, and Utah are all in line behind her. Why fall in the woods if no one’s there to hear?
    “Democracy demographics,” I mutter.
    “If they were smart,