Zero Game (7 page)

8

S
TANDING IN THE
gravel driveway, Janos stared down at Matthew Mercer’s broken body, which sagged lifelessly against the Dumpster. More than anything else, Janos couldn’t help but notice the awkward bend in Matthew’s thighs. And the way his right hand was still stretching upward, reaching for something it would never grasp. Janos shook his head at the mess. So stupid and violent. There were better ways than this.

As the afternoon sun beat down on the bald spot in his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Janos stuffed his hands in the pockets of his blue and yellow FBI windbreaker. A few years back, the Justice Department announced that nearly 450 of the FBI’s own pistols, revolvers, and assault rifles were officially missing. Whoever stole the guns clearly thought they were valuable, Janos thought. But in his mind, not nearly as valuable as a single windbreaker, nabbed as the crowd celebrated a homerun during an Orioles game. Even the Capitol Police won’t stop a friendly neighborhood FBI agent.

“Where you been?” a voice shouted behind him.

Slowly glancing over his shoulder, Janos had no problem spotting the rusty black Toyota. With the incredibly dented grille. As the car pulled up to the curb, Janos crossed around to the driver’s side and leaned into the window, which was missing its side mirror. Flicking his tongue against his top teeth, he didn’t say a word.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the young black man said, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The confidence he’d worn as a page was gone.

“Let me ask you a question, Toolie—do you consider yourself a smart person?”

Travonn “Toolie” Williams nodded hesitantly. “Y-Yeah . . . I guess so.”

“That’s why we hired you, isn’t it? To be smart? To look the part?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, why else hire a nineteen-year-old?”

Toolie shrugged his shoulders, unsure how to answer. He didn’t like Janos. Especially when he had that look.

Janos stared through the inside of the car and out the passenger-side window at Matthew. Then he looked back at Toolie.

“Y-You didn’t tell me he’d follow . . .” Toolie began. “I didn’t know what the hell to—!”

“Did you get the money?” Janos interrupted.

Toolie quickly reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the envelope with the two cashier’s checks. His arm was shaking as he handed it over.

“It’s all there, just like you wanted. I even avoided the office in case someone followed.”

“That sure worked out great,” Janos said. “Now where’s your jacket?”

Toolie reached into the backseat and handed over the navy suit jacket. Janos noticed it was soaked with blood, but decided not to ask. The damage was done.

“Anything else I should know about?” Janos asked.

Toolie shook his head.

Janos nodded slightly, then patted Toolie on the shoulder. Things were looking up. Reading the positive reaction, Toolie sat up in his seat and finally took a breath. Janos reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small black box that looked like a thick calculator. “Ever seen one of these?” Janos asked.

“Naw, whut is it?”

On the side of the box, Janos flipped a switch, and a slight electrical hum punctured the air, like a radio being turned on. Next to the switch, he turned a dial, and two half-inch needles clicked into place on the base of the device. They looked like tiny antennas. Just enough to pierce through clothing, Janos thought.

Gripping the black box like a walkie-talkie, Janos cocked his arm backward—and in one sharp movement, pounded the device against the center of Toolie’s chest.

“Ow!” Toolie yelled as the tips of the two needles bit into his skin. With a hard shove, he pushed Janos and the device away from his chest. “What the hell’re you doin’, asshole?”

Janos looked down at the black box and turned the On switch to Off. “You’ll see . . .”

To his own surprise, Toolie let out a loud, involuntary grunt.

Seeing the smile on Janos’s face, Toolie looked down at his own chest. Ignoring the buttons, he ripped his shirt open, then stretched the collar of his undershirt down until he could see his own bare chest. There were no marks. Not even a pinprick.

That’s why Janos liked it. Completely untraceable.

Outside the car, Janos glanced down at his watch. Thirteen seconds was the minimum. But fifteen was average.

“What’s going on?!” Toolie screamed.

“Your heart’s trying to beat 3,600 times a minute,” Janos explained.

As Toolie grabbed at the left side of his chest, Janos cocked his head sideways. They always grabbed the left side, even though the heart’s not there. Everyone gets that wrong, he thought. That’s just where we feel it beating. Indeed, as Janos knew all too well, the heart was actually in the direct center.

“I’ll kill you!” Toolie exploded. “I’ll kill you, muthaf—”

Toolie’s mouth drooped open, and his entire body rag-dolled against the steering wheel like a puppet when you remove the hand.

Fifteen seconds on the nose, Janos thought, admiring his homemade device. Just amazing. Once you know it takes AC power to fibrillate the heart, all you need are eight double-A batteries and a cheap converter from Radio Shack. With the flip of a switch, you convert 12 volts DC to 120 volts AC. Add two needles that are spread far enough to be on either side of the heart, and . . . sizzle . . . instant electrocution. The last thing any coroner will check for. And even if they do, as long as you’re in and out fast enough to avoid electrical burns, there’s nothing there to find.

Janos pulled two rubber gloves from his pants pocket, slid them on, and carefully scanned the area. Fences . . . other cars . . . Dumpster . . . strip club. All clear. At least Toolie picked the right neighborhood. Still, it was always better to disappear as fast as possible. Opening the driver’s-side door, Janos grabbed the back of Toolie’s head in a tight fist and, with a hard shove, smashed Toolie’s face against the steering wheel. Then he pulled back and did it again. And again—until Toolie’s nose split open and the blood started flowing.

Letting Toolie’s head slump back against the seat, Janos reached for the steering wheel and cranked it slightly to the right. He leaned into the car, resting an elbow on Toolie’s shoulder and staring out the windshield—just to make sure he was perfectly lined up.

Back by the Dumpster, he found a broken cinder block, which he lugged back to the car. More than enough weight. Shifting the Toyota into neutral, he reached below the dash and pressed the cinder block against the gas. The engine growled to life, revving out of control. Janos let it build for a few seconds. Without the speed, it wouldn’t look right. Almost there, he told himself . . . The car was shaking, practically knocking Toolie over. Perfect, Janos thought. With a fast slap, he threw the car into drive, jumped backwards, and let his aim do the rest. The tires spun against the pavement, and the car took off like a slingshot. Up the curb . . . off the road . . . and right into a telephone pole.

Barely pausing to watch the result, Janos headed back to the Dumpster and knelt next to Matthew’s already pale body. From his own wallet, Janos took five hundred dollars, rolled it into a small wad, then stuffed it in Matthew’s front pocket. That’ll explain what he’s doing in the neighborhood. White boys in suits only come down here for drugs. As long as the money’s on him, the cops’ll know it wasn’t a jump-and-run. And with the car bow-tied around the telephone pole, the rest of the picture blooms into place. Kid gets hit on the sidewalk. Driver panics and, as he flees, does just as bad a job on himself. No one to hunt for. No one to investigate. Just another hit-and-run.

Flipping open his cell phone, Janos dialed a number and waited for his boss to pick up. No question, that was the worst part of the job. Reporting in. But that’s what happens when you work for someone else.

“All clean,” Janos said as he bent down to pull the cinder block out of the car.

“So where you off to now?”

Wiping his hands, Janos looked down at the room number next to Harris’s name. “Russell Building. Room 427.”

9

Harris

A
LL SET
?”

“Harris, you sure this is right?” Senator Stevens asks me.

“Positive,” I reply, checking the call sheet myself. “Edward—not Ed—Gursten . . . wife is Catherine. From River Hills. Son is named Dondi.”

“Dondi?”

“Dondi,” I repeat. “You met Edward flying first class last year.”

“And is he a Proud American?”

Proud American
is the Senator’s code word for a donor who raises over ten grand.

“Extremely proud,” I say. “You ready?”

Stevens nods.

I dial the final number and grab the receiver. If I were a novice, I’d say,
Hi, Mr. Gursten, I’m Harris Sandler . . . Senator Stevens’s chief of staff. I have the Senator here for you . . .
Instead, I hand the phone to the Senator just as Gursten picks up. It’s perfectly timed and a beautiful touch. The donor thinks the Senator himself called, instantly making them feel like old buddies.

As Stevens introduces himself, I toss a piece of hamachi in my mouth. Sushi and solicitations—typical Stevens lunch.

“So, Ed . . .” Stevens sings as I shake my head. “Where’ve you been my last dozen flights? You back in the cheap seats?” His pitch is off, but it still works like a dream. Personal calls from a Senator always hit home. And by
home,
I mean
in the wallet.

“You were here? In D.C.?” Stevens asks. “Next time you’re around, you should give me a call and we can try to grab lunch . . .”

Translation:
We don’t have a chance of grabbing lunch. If you’re lucky, we’ll get five minutes together. But if you don’t raise your donation this year, you may only get a senior staffer and some gallery passes.

“. . . we’ll get you into the Capitol—make sure you don’t have to wait on any of those lines . . .”

My staff will give you an intern who’ll take you on exactly the same tour of the Capitol that you’d get on the public tour, but you’ll feel far more important this way
. . .

“I mean, we have to take care of our friends, don’t we?”

I mean, how’s about helping us out with some coin, fat man?

Stevens hangs up the phone with a verbal pledge that “Ed” will raise fifteen grand. I pass the Senator some yellowtail and dial the next number.

Years ago, political money came from powerful WASPs you met at a dinner party in a tastefully decorated second home. Today, it comes from a well-vetted call sheet in a fluorescent-lit room that sits directly atop a sushi restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. The office has three desks, two computers, and ten phone lines. Old money versus new marketing. It’s not even close. There’s not a Congressman on the Hill who doesn’t make these calls. Some do three hours a day; others do three a week. Stevens is the former. He likes his job. And the perks. And he’s not about to lose them. It’s the first rule of politics: You can do anything you want, but if you don’t raise the cash, you won’t be doing it for long.

“Who’s next?” Stevens asks.

“Virginia Rae Morrison. You know her from Green Bay.”

“We went to school together?”

“She was a neighbor. When you were nine,” I explain, reading from the sheet. When it comes to fundraising, federal law says you can’t make calls from your government office or a government phone—which is why every day, this close to elections, half of Congress leaves the Capitol to make calls from somewhere else. The average Member goes three blocks away to the phone rooms in Republican and Democratic campaign headquarters. Smarter Members hire a fundraising consultant to help build a personal database of reliable supporters and potential donors. And a dozen or so mad-genius Members kiss the ring and hire Len Logan, a fundraising expert so organized, the “Comments” sections of his call sheets have details like: “She just finished treatment for breast cancer.”

“Yup, yup—I got her,” Stevens says as the phone rings in my ear.

“Hello . . .” a female voice answers.

The Senator slides me the yellowtail; I slide him the receiver. We’ve got it running smoother than a ballet.

“Hey, there, Virginia, how’s my favorite fighter?”

I nod, impressed. Don’t reintroduce yourself if you’re supposed to be old friends. As Stevens takes a two-minute gallop down memory lane, one of my two cell phones vibrates in my pocket. The one in my right pocket is paid for by the Senator’s office. The one in my left is paid by me. Public and private. According to Matthew, in my life, there’s no distinction. What he doesn’t understand is, if you love your job like I do, there shouldn’t be.

Checking to see that Stevens is still busy, I reach for my left pocket and check the tiny screen on my phone.
Caller ID blocked.
That’s everyone I know.

“Harris,” I answer.

“Harris, it’s Cheese,” my assistant says, his voice shaking. I already don’t like the tone. “I-I don’t know how to . . . It’s Matthew . . . he . . .”

“Matthew what?”

“He got hit by a car,” Cheese says. “He’s dead. Matthew’s dead.”

Every muscle in my body goes limp, and it feels as if my head’s floating away from my shoulders.
“What?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“From who? Who said it?” I ask, going for the source.

“Joel Westman, who got it from his cousin in the Capitol Police. Apparently, someone in Carlin’s office forgot their parking pass and had to park out by stripperland. On their way back, they saw the bodies . . .”

“There was more than one?”

“Apparently, the scumbag who hit him took off in a panic. Smacked into a pole and died instantly.”

Shooting to my feet, I run my hand through my hair. “Why didn’t . . . I can’t believe this . . . When’d it happen?”

“No idea,” Cheese stutters. “I just . . . I just got the call. Harris, they said Matthew might’ve been trying to buy drugs.”

“Drugs? Not a chance . . .”

The Senator looks my way, wondering what’s wrong. Pretending not to notice, I do the one thing you never do to a Senator. I turn my back to him. I don’t care. This is Matthew . . . my friend . . .

“Everything alright?” the Senator calls out as I stumble for the doorknob.

Without answering, I throw the door open and rush from the room. Straight into the stairwell.

“The weird part is, some guy from the FBI was here looking for you,” Cheese adds.

The walls of the stairway close in from every side. I tear at my tie, unable to breathe.

“Excuse me?”

“Said he had a few questions,” Cheese explains. “Wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.”

My sweat-soaked palm slides against the handrail, and my footing gives way. I slide down the top few stairs. A well-placed grasp prevents the fall.

“Harris, you there?” Cheese asks.

Jumping down the last three steps, I shove my way outside, gasping for fresh air. It doesn’t help. Not when my friend’s dead. My eyes well up with tears, and the words ricochet through my skull. My friend’s dead. I can’t believe he’s—

“Harris, talk to me . . .” Cheese adds.

I tighten my jaw and try to bury the tears in my throat. It doesn’t work. Checking the street, I scout for a cab. Nothing’s in sight. Without even thinking, I start jogging up the block. Better to get information. Back by Union Station, the cab line’s too long. No time to waste.

“Harris . . .” Cheese asks for the third time.

“Just tell me where it happened.”

“Listen, don’t do anything rash—”

“Where’d the damn accident happen?!”

“D-Down on New Jersey. By the strip club.”

“Cheese, listen to me. Don’t tell anyone what happened. This isn’t office gossip—it’s a friend. Understand?”

Before he can answer, I shut my phone, turn the corner, and pick up the pace. My jog accelerates into a run, which accelerates into a full-on sprint. My tie flaps over my shoulder, waving in the wind. A noose around my neck. I should be so lucky.

Rushing toward the overpass on New Jersey Avenue, I see flashing lights spinning in the distance. But the moment I realize they’re yellow instead of red, I know I’m too late. Up by the gravel driveway, the driver’s-side door of a flatbed tow truck slams shut, and the engine coughs itself awake. On the back of the flatbed is a black Toyota with a smashed-in front end. The driver hits the gas, and the tow truck rumbles deeper into southeast D.C.

“Wait!” I shout, chasing it up the block.
“Please, wait!”
I don’t have a chance. Even I’m not that fast. But on the back of the truck, the front of the Toyota’s still facing me. I keep running full-speed, staring hard at the grille, which taunts me with its jack-o’-lantern grin. It’s a twisted smile, with a deep indentation on the driver’s side. Like it hit something. Then I catch the dark smudge toward the bottom of the grille. Not just something. Someone.

Matthew
. . .

“Wait . . . waaaait!”
I scream until my throat begins to burn. It still doesn’t bury the pain. Nothing does. It’s like a corkscrew in my chest, tightening with every second that passes. I’m still running as fast as I can, looking around at the world, searching for something . . . anything that’ll make sense. It never does. My toes curl. My feet sting. And the corkscrew continues to tighten.

The tow truck kicks back a black cloud of exhaust and fades up the block. I run out of gas just beyond the gravel driveway—where the truck picked up the Toyota.

Two weeks ago, a seventeen-year-old Asian delivery boy was the victim of a hit-and-run a few blocks from my house. The cops kept police tape around the scene for almost six hours so they could get paint samples from the other vehicles the car collided with. Bent over and covered in sweat, I scan up and down the block. There’s not a strand of police tape in sight. Whoever worked this scene . . . whoever cleaned it up . . . they found all the answers they needed right here. No suspects. No loose ends. Nothing to worry about.

Lost in a haze, I kick a loose pebble from the street. It skips across the pavement and clinks against the sidewalk. Just shy of the telephone pole. There’s some glass from the headlights scattered at the base and some torn-up grass patches from where they dragged the car out. Otherwise, the pole’s untouched. I crane my neck up. Maybe off by ten degrees.

Tracing it backward, it’s not hard to follow. Tire tracks in the gravel show me where the Toyota’s wheels started to spin. From there, the trail goes straight up the driveway. Dead-ending at the Dumpster.

I kick another pebble through the gravel, but as it hits the Dumpster, the metal sound is different from before. Hollow. Completely empty.

There’s a dent in the base of the Dumpster, and a dark puddle right below it. I tell myself not to look, but . . . I have to. Lowering my chin, I squint with a hesitant peek. I expect it to be red, like some bad slasher sequel. It’s not. It’s black. Just a shallow black stain. All that remains.

My stomach cartwheels, and a snakebite of acid slithers up my throat. I clench my teeth to fight the vomit. My head again floats from my shoulders, and I stagger backwards, grasping for balance. It doesn’t come. Crashing on my ass, I slam against the gravel driveway, my hands slicing across the rocks. I swear, I can’t move. I roll on my side, but all it does is bring me back to the dent in the Dumpster. And the black stain. And the crush of rocks surrounding it. I’m not sure why I came. I thought it’d make me feel better. It doesn’t. With my cheek against the ground, I’ve got an ant’s-eye view of the thin crawl space below the Dumpster. If I were small enough, I’d hide underneath, tucked behind the gum wrappers, empty beer bottles, and . . . and the one thing that’s clearly out of place . . . It’s really buried back there—I only see it when the sun hits it just right . . .

Cocking my head sideways, I slide my arm under the Dumpster and pull out the bright blue plastic nametag with the white writing:

Senate Page

Viv Parker

My mouth sags open. My fingers go numb. There’s some dirt on the lettering, but it brushes right off. The nametag shines—it hasn’t been out here long. I look back at the dent and the dark stain. Maybe just a few hours.

Oh, damn.

There was only one reason for Matthew to interact with a Senate page. Today was the day. Our stupid fucking bet . . . If they were both out here, maybe someone—

My phone rings in my pocket, and I jerk backwards from the vibration against my leg.

“Harris,” I answer, flipping the phone open.

“Harris, it’s Barry—where are you?”

I look around the empty lot, wondering the same thing myself. Barry may be blind, but he’s not stupid. If he’s calling me here, he . . .

“Just heard about Matthew,” Barry says. “I can’t believe it. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

“Who told you?”

“Cheese. Why?”

I shut my eyes and curse my assistant.

“Harris, where are you?” Barry adds.

It’s the second time he’s asked that question. For that reason alone, he’s not getting an answer.

Climbing to my feet, I brush the dust from my pants. My head’s still spinning. I can’t do this now . . . but . . . I have to. I need to find out who else knows. “Barry, have you told anyone else about this?”

“No one. Almost no one. Why?”

He knows me too well. “Nothing,” I tell him. “What about Matthew’s office mates—they heard yet?”

“Actually, that’s who I just hung up with. I called to pass the word, but Dinah . . . Trish from the Senate . . . they already knew. Somehow, they got the news first.”

I look down at the page’s nametag in the palm of my hand. In all the time we were playing the game, it was never important who we were betting against. That was the fun of it. But right now, I’ve got a bad feeling it’s the only thing that matters.

“Barry, I gotta go.”

I press the End button and dial a new number. But before I can finish, there’s a soft crunch of gravel behind the Dumpster. I race around to the back of it, but no one’s there.

Keep it together, I tell myself.

I take a deep breath and let it wash down to my abdomen. Just like my dad used to do when the bills came. My finger once again dives for the keypad. Time to go to the source. And when it comes to the game, the only source I know is the person who brought me in.