“Unless he’s playing the game.”
I roll my eyes. “Will you please stop with that?” Since the day he invited me in, it’s been Harris’s most recurring wet dream: that it’s not just staff playing the game — it’s the Members playing as well.
“It’s possible,” he insists.
“Actually, it’s not. If you’re a Member of Congress, you’re not risking your credibility and entire political career for a few hundred bucks and a chess match.”
“Are you joking? These guys get blow jobs in the bathroom of the Capitol Grille. I mean, when they go out for drinks, they have lobbyists trolling the bar and picking out girls so they can leave the place unescorted. You think a few of them wouldn’t get in on the action? Think for a second, Matthew. Even Pete Rose bet on baseball.”
“I don’t care. Grayson’s project isn’t a four-star priority that reaches the Member level — it’s grunt work. And since it’s in my jurisdiction, it’s not getting in there unless I see it. I promise you, Harris — I already checked it out. We’re talking a teeny piece of land in the middle of South Dakota. Land rights belong to Uncle Sam; mineral rights below used to be owned by some long- defunct mining company.”
“It’s a coal mine?”
“This ain’t Pennsylvania, bro. Out in South Dakota, they dig for gold — or at least they used to. The company had been digging the Homestead mine since 1876 — true gold rush days. Over time, they applied for a patent to buy the land, but when they sucked out every last drop, the company went bankrupt and the land stayed with the government, which is still dealing with the environmental problems of shutting one of these suckers down. Anyway, a few years back, a company called Wendell Mining decides it can find more gold using newer technologies, so they buy the old company’s claims out of bankruptcy, contact the Bureau of Land Management, and arrange to buy the land.”
“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.