Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [159]
“What? If he were a dungeon-master, wouldn’t he know all the other players?”
Barry stops laughing, realizing I’m not in on the joke. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Be honest, Harris—you haven’t figured it out?”
I try my best to act informed. “Of course—I got most of it . . . Which part are you talking about?”
His foggy eye looks right at me. “There is no game. There never was one.” His eye doesn’t move. “I mean, you know it was all bullshit, right? Smoke and mirrors.”
As his words creep through the receiver and into my ear, my whole body goes numb. The world feels like my personal gravity’s just doubled. Sinking down—almost through—the seat of my orange plastic chair, I weigh a thousand pounds.
“What a punchline, huh?” Barry asks. “I almost fell over when they first told me. Can you imagine—all this time spent looking at coworkers, trying to figure out who else is placing bets, and the only people actually playing the game are you and Matthew?”
“Two minutes,” the guard behind Barry announces.
“It’s brilliant when you think about it,” Barry adds. “Pasternak talks it up; you believe him because you trust him . . . then they send in a few pages, fill out some taxi receipts, and you guys think you’re in on the biggest secret Capitol Hill has to offer. It’s like those flight simulator rides at Disney World, where they show the movie on-screen and shake your car a bit—you think you’re flying up and down a roller coaster, but you really haven’t moved an inch.”
I force a laugh, my body still frozen.
“Man, just the thought of it,” Barry adds, his voice picking up steam. “Dozens of staffers placing bets on unimportant legislation without anyone knowing? Please, what a dream—like anyone here could even keep their mouth shut for longer than ten seconds,” he teases. “Gotta give Pasternak his credit, though. You thought you were playing a great joke on the system, and the entire time, he’s playing the joke on you.”
“Yeah . . . no . . . it’s definitely amazing.”
“It was humming like clockwork, too—until everything with Matthew. Once that happened, Pasternak wanted out. I mean, he may’ve signed up to convince you—that’s part of any lobbyist’s job—but he didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“That’s . . . That’s not what I heard,” I bluff.
“Then you heard wrong. The only reason he put this together was for the exact same reason anyone does anything in this town: Ever have a small country for a client? Small countries bring in small fortunes, which small businesses are in desperate need of—especially when billings are down thirty-six percent this year alone. After the first year of failing to get the gold mine transferred, Pasternak eventually decided to go with the more inventive backdoor. Say hello to the Game—the most harmless way ever to sneak an earmark into a bill. But then Matthew got curious, and Janos came in, and, well . . . that’s when the train jackknifed off the tracks . . .”
The guard looks over at us.
We’re almost out of time, but Barry doesn’t show the slightest sign of slowing down. After all this time in jail, he’s finally having fun.
“You gotta love the name, too—the Zero Game—so melodramatic. But it is true: In any equation, when you multiply by zero, you always wind up with nothing, right?”
I nod, dumbfounded.
“So who told you anyway?” he asks. “FBI, or did you figure it out yourself?”
“No . . . myself. I . . . uh . . . I got it myself.”
“Good for you, Harris. Good man.”
Stuck in my seat, I just sit there, looking at him. It’s like finding out a year of your life has been a staged production number. And I’m the only putz still in costume.
“Time,” the guard says.
Barry keeps talking. “I’m so glad you—”
“I said, Time,” the guard interrupts. He pulls the receiver from Barry’s ear, but I still hear his final thought.
“I knew you’d appreciate it, Harris! I knew it! Even Pasternak would be happy for that—!”
There’s a loud click in my ear as the guard slaps the phone in its cradle. He pinches the back of Barry’s