Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [19]
“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, they’d wait another half hour,” Harris points out. “That’s when the local news numbers really kick in and—”
Before he can finish, there’s a knock on my door.
“Matthew Mercer?” a female page with brown bangs asks as she approaches with an envelope.
Harris and I share a fast glance. This is it.
She hands me the envelope, and I struggle to play it cool.
“Wait . . . aren’t you Harris?” she blurts.
He doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“At orientation . . . you gave that speech.”
I roll my eyes, not surprised. Every year, Harris is one of four staffers asked to speak at the orientation for the pages. To most, it’s a suck job. Not to Harris. The other three speakers drone on about the value of government. Harris gives them the locker room speech from Hoosiers and tells them they’ll be writing the future. Every year, the fan club grows.
“That was really amazing what you said,” she adds.
“I meant every word,” Harris tells her. And he did.
I can’t take my eyes off the envelope. “Harris, we should really . . .”
“I’m sorry,” the page says. She can’t take her eyes off him. And not because of the speech. Harris’s square shoulders . . . his dimpled chin . . . even his strong black eyebrows—he’s always had a classic look—like someone you see in an old black-and-white photograph from the 1930s, but who somehow still looks good today. All you have to add are the deep green eyes . . . He’s never had to work it.
“Listen, you . . . you have a great one,” the page adds, still staring as she leaves.
“You, too,” Harris says.
“Can you shut the door behind you?” I call out.
The door slams with a bang, and Harris yanks the envelope from my hands. If we were in college, I’d tackle him and grab it back. Not anymore. Today, the games are bigger.
Harris slides his finger along the flap and casually flips it open. I don’t know how he keeps his composure. My blond hair is already damp with sweat; his black locks are dry as hay.
Searching for calm, I turn toward the Grand Canyon photo on the wall. The first time my parents took me there, I was fifteen years old—and already six feet tall. Staring down from the south rim of the canyon was the first time in my life I felt small. I feel the same way next to Harris.
“What’s it say?” I demand.
He peeks inside and stays totally silent. If the bet’s been raised, there’ll be a new receipt inside. If we’re top dog, our old slip of paper is the only thing we’ll find. I try to read his face. I don’t have a prayer. He’s been in politics too long. The crease in his forehead doesn’t twitch. His eyes barely blink.
“I don’t believe it,” he finally says. He pulls out the taxi receipt and cups it in the palm of his hand.
“What?” I ask. “Did he raise it? He raised it, didn’t he? We’re dead . . .”
“Actually,” Harris begins, looking up to face me and slowly raising an excited eyebrow, “I’d say we’re very much alive.” In his hand he flashes the taxi receipt like a police badge. It’s my handwriting. Our old bet. For six thousand dollars.
I laugh out loud the moment I see it.
“It’s payday, Matthew. Now, you ready to name that tune . . . ?”
5
MORNING, ROXANNE,” I call out as I enter the office the following day.