Zero Game Read Free Page A

finally blurt.
    “I told you there’s still fun going on,” Harris says, looking up at the small TV and checking out C-SPAN. Just another day at work.
    “I gotta tell Rosey this one . . .” LaRue says, rushing out of the room. “Harris, they’re gonna catch you sooner or later.”
    “Only if they outthink us,” Harris replies as the door again slams shut.
    I continue to laugh. Harris continues to study C-SPAN. “You notice Enemark didn’t wash his hands?” he asks. “Though that didn’t stop him from shaking yours.”
    I look down at my own open palm and head for the sink.
    “Here we go . . . Here’s the clip for the highlight reel . . .” Harris calls out, pointing up at C-SPAN.
    On-screen, Congressman Enemark approaches the podium with his usual old-cowboy swagger. But if you look real close—when the light hits him just right—the Lorax shines like a tiny star on his chest.
    “I’m Congressman William Enemark, and I speak for the people of Colorado,” he announces through the television.
    “That’s funny,” I say. “I thought he spoke for the trees . . .”
    To my surprise, Harris doesn’t smile. He just scratches at the dimple in his chin. “Feeling better?” he asks.
    “Of course—why?”
    He leans against the inlaid mahogany wall and never takes his eyes off the TV. “I meant what I said before. There really are some great games being played here.”
    “You mean games like this?”
    “Something like this.” There’s a brand-new tone in his voice. All serious.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Oh, jeez, Matthew, it’s right in front of your face,” he says with a rare glimpse of rural Pennsylvania accent.
    I give him a long, hard look and rub the back of my sandy-blond hair. I’m a full head taller than him. But he’s still the only person I look up to in this place. “What’re you saying, Harris?”
    “You wanted to bring the fun back, right?”
    “Depends what kinda fun you’re talking about.”
    Pushing himself off the wall, Harris grins and heads for the door. “Trust me, it’ll be more fun than you’ve had in your entire life. No lie.”

2
    Six Months Later
    I USUALLY HATE S EPTEMBER. With the end of the August recess, the halls are once again crowded, the Members are frozen in preelection bad moods, and worst of all, with the October 1st deadline that’s imposed on all Appropriations bills, we’re clocking hours twice as grueling as any other time of the year. This September, though, I barely notice.
    “Who wants to taste a food item less healthy than bacon?” I ask as I leave the polished institutional hallways of the Rayburn House Office Building and shove open the door to room B-308. The clocks on the wall shout back with two loud electronic buzzes. The signal for a vote on the House Floor. The vote’s on. And so am I . . .
    Wasting no time, I make a quick left at the hand-woven Sioux quilt that hangs on the wall and head straight for our receptionist, a black woman who always has at least one pencil sticking in the bun of her prematurely gray hair. “Here you go, Roxanne—lunch is served,” I call out as I drop two wrapped hot dogs onto her paperwork-covered desk. As a professional staffer for the Appropriations Committee, I’m one of four people assigned to the subcommittee on Interior. And the only one, besides Roxanne, who eats meat.
    “Where’d you get these?” she asks.
    “Meat Association event. Didn’t you say you were hungry?”
    She looks down at the dogs, then up at me. “What’s up with you lately? You on
nice
pills or something?”
    I shrug my shoulders and stare at the small TV behind her desk. Like most TVs in the building, it’s on C-SPAN for the vote. My eyes check the tally. Too early. No yeas, no nays.
    Following my gaze, Roxanne turns around to the TV. I stop right there. No . . . there’s no way. She can’t possibly know.
    “You okay?” she asks, reading my now-pale complexion.
    “With all this dead cow in my gut?