The Zero Game

Turning my chair just enough so Dinah can’t see, I open the envelope and peer inside. I swear, I feel my testicles tighten. I don’t believe it. It’s not the amount, which is now up to three thousand dollars. It’s the brand-new cab number: 189. The handwriting is squat and blocky. There’s another player in the game. And he’s clearly not afraid to spend some cash.

My phone screams, and I practically leap from my chair. Caller ID says it’s Harris.

“How we doing?” he asks as soon as I pick up.

“Not bad, though the language still isn’t there yet.”

“You got someone in the room?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, keeping my back to Dinah. “And a new section I’ve never seen before.”

“Another player? What’s the number?”

“One-eighty-nine.”

“That’s the guy who won yesterday – with the baseball bill.”

“You sure?”

It’s a dumb question. Harris lives and breathes this stuff. He doesn’t get it wrong.

“Think we should worry?” I ask.

“Not if you can deliver.”

“Oh, I’ll deliver,” I insist.

“Then don’t stress. If anything, I’m happy,” Harris adds. “With two bidders out there, the pot’s that much bigger. And if he won yesterday, he’s cocky and careless. That’s the perfect time to swipe his pants.”

Nodding to myself, I hang up the phone and stare down at the cab receipt with the block writing.

“Everything okay?” Dinah asks from her desk.

Scribbling as fast as I can, I up the bet to four thousand dollars and slide the receipt into the envelope. “Yeah,” I say as I head for the metal Out box up front. “Just perfect.”

The envelope comes back within an hour, and I ask the page to wait so he can take it directly to Harris. Roxanne’s done enough interoffice delivery service. Better to mix it up so she doesn’t get suspicious. Clawing my way into the envelope, I search for the signal that we’ve got the top bid. Instead, I find another receipt. Cab number 189. Fare of five hundred dollars. Five grand – plus everything else we already put in.

For one picosecond, I hesitate, wondering if it’s time to fold. Then I remind myself we’re holding all the aces. And the jokers. And the wild cards. 189 may have the cash, but we’ve got the whole damn deck. He’s not scaring us off.

I grab a blank receipt from the envelope and write in my cab number. In the blank next to Fare, I jot $600.00. That’s a pretty rich cab ride.

Exactly twelve minutes after the page leaves my office, my phone rings. Harris just got his delivery.

“You sure this is smart?” he asks the instant I pick up. From the echo, I’m back on speakerphone.

“Don’t worry, we’re fine.”

“I’m serious, Matthew. This isn’t Monopoly money we’re playing with. If you add up the separate bets, we’re already in for over six thousand. And now you wanna add another six grand on top of that?”

When we were talking about limits last night, I told Harris I had a little over eight thousand dollars in the bank, including all my down-payment money. He said he had four grand at the most. Maybe less. Unlike me, Harris sends part of his paycheck to an uncle in Pennsylvania. His parents died a few years back, but… family’s still family.

“We can still cover it,” I tell him.

“That doesn’t mean we should put it all on black.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Harris insists. “I just… maybe it’s time to catch our breath and walk away. No reason to risk all our money. We can just bet the other side, and you’ll make sure the project never gets in the bill.”

That’s how it works – if you don’t have the high bid, you and the rest of the low bidders shift to the other side and try to stop it from taking place. It’s a great way to even the odds: The person with the best chance of making it happen faces off against a group that, once combined, has an amazing amount of muscle. There’s only one problem. “You really want to split the winnings with everyone else?”

He knows I’m right. Why give everyone a free ride?

“If you want to ease the stakes, maybe we can invite someone else in,” I suggest.

Right there, Harris stops. “What’re you saying?”

He thinks I’m trying to find out who’s above him on the list.

“You think it’s Barry, don’t you?” he asks.

“Actually, I think it’s Pasternak.”

Harris doesn’t reply, and I grin to myself. Pasternak may be the closest thing he has to a mentor, but Harris and I go back to my freshman year. You can’t lie to old friends.

“I’m not saying you’re right,” he begins. “But either way, my guy’s not gonna go for it. Especially this late. I mean, even assuming 189 is teaming up with his own mentor, that’s still a tractorful of cash.”

“And it’ll be two tractorfuls when we win. There’s gotta be over twenty-five grand in the pot. Think about the check you’ll send home after that.”

Even Harris can’t argue with that one.

There’s a crackle on the line. He takes me off speakerphone. “Just tell me one thing, Matthew – can you really make this happen?”