Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [37]
“What city?” the female recorded voice asks.
“Washington, D.C.”
“What listing?”
“The U.S. Department of Justice.”
I press the phone to my ear as they give me the number. Seven digits later, I have to go through three secretaries before I get through.
They pulled their big gun. Time for me to pull mine.
As always, he picks up on the first ring. “I’m here,” he answers.
“It’s Harris,” I tell him. “I need some help.”
“Just tell me where and when. I’m already on my way . . .”
13
YOU LOST HIM?”
“Just for the moment,” Janos said into his cell phone as he rounded the block outside Bullfeathers. “But he won’t—”
“That’s not what I asked. What I asked was: Did. You. Lose. Harris?”
Janos stopped midstep, standing in the middle of the street. A man in a maroon Oldsmobile punched his horn, screaming for him to move. Janos didn’t budge. Turning his back toward the Oldsmobile, he gripped the phone and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said into his cell. “Yes, Mr. Sauls. I lost him.”
Sauls let the silence sink in.
Asshole, Janos thought to himself. He’d seen this last time he worked with Sauls. Big people always felt the need to make big points.
“Are we done?” Janos asked.
“Yes. We’re done for now,” Sauls replied.
“Good—then stop worrying. I had a long talk with your inside man. I know where Harris lives.”
“You really think he’s dumb enough to go home?”
“I’m not talking about his house,” Janos said into the phone. “I’ve studied him for six months. I know where he lives.”
As Janos finally stepped toward the sidewalk, the man in the Oldsmobile let go of his horn and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward, then skidded to a stop right next to Janos. The man inside lowered the passenger-side window about halfway. “Learn some manners, dickface!” he yelled from inside.
Craning down toward the car, Janos calmly leaned his arm against the half-open window, which gave slightly from the pressure. His jacket slid open just enough for the man to see Janos’s leather shoulder holster and, more important, the nine-millimeter Sig pistol held within it. Janos raised the right corner of his mouth. The man in the Oldsmobile hit the gas as fast as he could. As the wheels spun and the car took off, Janos kept his arm pressed tightly in place, letting his ring scrape against the Oldsmobile as it zipped away.
14
CAN I GET YOU anything?” the waitress asks.
“Yeah . . . yeah,” I say, looking up from the menu, which she thinks I’ve been reading for far too long. She’s only partially right. I have been sitting here for fifteen minutes, but the only reason the menu’s up is to hide my face.
“I’ll take a Stan’s Famous,” I tell her.
“Howdaya like it?”
“Rare. No cheese . . . and some grilled onions . . .”
The quote on the menu says, “the best damn drink in town,” but the only reason I picked Stan’s Restaurant is because of its clientele. Located down the block from the offices of the Washington Post, Stan’s always has a few reporters and editors lurking around. And since most of the deadlines have already passed, the bar’s practically packed. I learned my lesson. If something goes wrong, I want witnesses with access to lots of ink.
“Can I take that from you?” the waitress asks, reaching for the menu.
“Actually, I’d rather hold on to it . . . if that’s okay.”
She smiles and cocks her head at me. “God, your eyes are so green.”
“Th-Thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, catching herself. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “My wife says the same thing.”
She looks down at my hand but doesn’t spot a ring. Annoyed, she walks away. This trip isn’t about making new friends—it’s about seeing old ones . . .
I glance at my wrist and study the front door. I asked him to meet me at nine. Knowing his schedule, I figured he’d be here at nine-fifteen. It’s almost nine-thirty. I pick up my phone just to—
The door swings open, and he strolls inside with the limp he got from an old skiing injury. He keeps his head down, hoping