Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [54]
“What’s the name of the company, sir?”
“Great . . . that’s great. Wendell Mining,” I tell him. “Wendell Mining.”
I hear the clicking of his keyboard, and I stop my pacing. Staring out below the dust-covered vertical blinds, I have a clear view of the narrow pathway and marble railing that run along the west front of the building. The morning sun’s beating down on the copper roof, but it pales to the heat I’m feeling right now. I wipe a puddle of sweat from the back of my neck and unbutton the top of my shirt. The suit and tie were enough to get me back in the building without a second glance, but if I don’t get some answers soon . . .
“Sorry,” Gary says. “They’re not coming up.”
“Whattya mean, they’re not coming up? I thought every lobbyist had to disclose their clients . . .”
“They do. But this time of year . . . we’re barely halfway through the pile.”
“What pile?”
“The disclosure forms—that the lobbyists fill out. We get over seventeen thousand forms each registration period. Know how long that takes to scan in and update our database?”
“Weeks?”
“Months. The deadline was just a few weeks ago in August, so we’ve still got a ton that aren’t in.”
“So it’s possible there’s a lobbyist working on their issue . . .”
“This is Congress, sir. Anything’s possible.”
I roll my tongue inside my cheek. I hate government humor.
“They add about seven hundred names to the database each day,” Gary continues. “Best bet is to just give us a call back later in the week, and we can check if it’s in there.”
I remember that this is the second year Wendell Mining made the request. “What about last year?” I ask.
“Like I said, nothing came up—which means they either didn’t have someone, or that person didn’t register.”
That part actually makes sense. When it comes to getting earmarks, the smaller companies try to do it by themselves. Then, when they fail, they get smart and cough up the beans for a pro. If Wendell had someone pulling for them, the name’ll eventually show up in this database. “Listen, I appreciate th—”
There’s a loud knock on the door. I go silent.
“Sir, are you there?” Gary asks through the receiver.
The person knocks again. This time to the tune of shave-and-a-haircut.
“It’s me, you shut-in!” Viv calls out. “Open up!”
I leap for the door and undo the lock. The phone cord is pulled so far, it knocks over the stack of keyboards, which go crashing to the floor as the door swings open.
“Mission accomplished, Mr. Bond. What’s next?” Viv sings, cradling the two notebooks as if she were still in high school. That’s when it hits me. She is still in high school. Sliding inside, she whips past me with a frenetic new bounce in her step. I’ve seen the same thing on staffers the first day they get on the Senate Floor. Power rush.
Gary’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Sir, are you—?”
“I’m here . . . sorry,” I say, turning back to the phone. “Thanks for the help—I’ll give you a call next week.”
As I hang up, Viv dumps the notebooks across the desk. I was wrong before. I thought she was the girl who sits silently in the back of the class—and while that part’s true, I’m quickly starting to realize that she’s also the girl who, when she gets around people she knows, never shuts up.
“I guess you didn’t have any problems,” I say.
“You should’ve seen it! I was unstoppable—I’m telling you, it was like being in the Matrix. They’re all standing there dumbfounded, then I weave around in super-slow-mo . . . dodging their bullets . . . working my voodoo . . . Oh, they didn’t know what hit ’em!”
The jokes are coming too fast. I know a defense mechanism when I see one. She’s afraid. Even if she doesn’t know it.
“Viv . . .”
“You woulda been proud of me, Harris . . .”
“Did Dinah say anything?”
“You kidding? She was blinder than the blind guy . . .”
“The blind guy?”
“All I need now is a code name . . .”
“Barry was there?”
“. . . something cool, too—like Senate Grrl . . .”
“Viv . . .”
“. . . or Black Cat . . .”
“Viv!”
“. . . or . . . or Sweet Mocha. Howbout that? Sweet