The Zero Game

It’s hard to argue with that. Last year, Enemark was the number one recipient of campaign money from the timber, oil, and nuclear power industries. He’d clear-cut Oregon, hang billboards in the Grand Canyon, and vote to pave over his own garden with baby seal skins if he thought it’d get him some cash. “But even so, if I were a twenty-two-year-old just out of college, I still would’ve stuck my hand out for a quick Hi, Congressman. I’m telling you, Harris, eight years is enough – the fun’s long gone.”

Still standing at the urinal, Harris stops. His green eyes narrow, and he studies me with that same mischievous look that once got me thrown in the back of a police car when we were undergrads at Duke. “C’mon, Matthew, this is Washington, D.C. – fun and games are being played everywhere,” he teases. “You just have to know where to find them.”

Before I can react, his hand springs out and grabs the Lorax pin from my lapel. He glances at LaRue, then over to the Congressman’s jacket on the coat-rack.

“What’re you doing?”

“Cheering you up,” he promises. “Trust me, you’ll love it. No lie.”

There it is. No lie. Harris’s favorite turn of phrase – and the first sign of guaranteed trouble.

I flush my urinal with my elbow. Harris flushes his with a full-on grip. He’s never been afraid to get his hands dirty. “How much will you give me if I put it on his lapel?” he whispers, holding up the Lorax and moving toward Enemark’s coat.

“Harris, don’t…” I hiss. “He’ll kill you.”

“Wanna bet?”

There’s a hollow rumble of spinning toilet paper from within the stall. Enemark’s almost finished.

As Harris shoots me a smile, I reach for his arm, but he sidesteps my grip with his usual perfect grace. It’s how he operates in every political fight. Once he’s focused on a goal, the man’s unstoppable.

“I am the Lorax, Matthew. I speak for the trees!” He laughs as he says the words. Watching him slowly tiptoe toward Enemark’s jacket, I can’t help but laugh with him. It’s a dumb stunt, but if he pulls it off…

I take that back. Harris doesn’t fail at anything. That’s why, at twenty-nine years old, he was one of the youngest chiefs of staff ever hired by a Senator. And why, at thirty-five, there’s no one – not even the older guys – who can touch him. I swear, he could charge for some of the stuff that comes out of his mouth. Lucky me, old college friends get it for free.

“How’s the weather look, LaRue?” Harris calls to Mr. Shoeshine, who, from his seat near the tiled floor, has a better view of what’s happening under the stall.

If it were anyone else, LaRue would tattle and run. But it isn’t anyone else. It’s Harris. “Bright and sunny,” LaRue says as he ducks his head down toward the stall. “Though a storm’s quickly approaching…”

Harris nods a thank-you and straightens his red tie, which I know he bought from the guy who sells them outside the subway. As chief of staff for Senator Paul Stevens, he should be wearing something nicer, but the way Harris works, he doesn’t need to impress. “By the way, LaRue, what happened to your mustache?”

“Wife didn’t like it – said it was too Burt Reynolds.”

“I told you, you can’t have the mustache and the Trans Am – it’s one or the other,” Harris adds.

LaRue laughs, and I shake my head. When the Founding Fathers set up the government, they split the legislative branch into two sides: the House and the Senate. I’m here in the House, which is in the south half of the Capitol. Harris works in the Senate, which is all the way over on the north. It’s a whole different world over there, but somehow, Harris still remembers the latest update on our shoeshine guy’s facial hair. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Unlike the monsters who walk these halls, Harris doesn’t talk to everyone as a political maneuver. He does it because that’s his gift – as the son of a barber, he’s got the gift of gab. And people love him for it. That’s why, when he walks into a room, Senators casually flock around him, and when he walks into the cafeteria, the lunch lady gives him an extra ladle of chicken in his burrito.

Reaching Enemark’s gray suit jacket, Harris pulls it from the coat-rack and fishes for the lapel. The toilet flushes behind us. We all spin back toward the stall. Harris is still holding the jacket. Before any of us can react, the door to the stall swings open.

If we were brand-new staffers, this is where we’d panic. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and take a deep gulp of Harris’s calm. Old instincts kick in. As the door to the stall opens, I go to step in front of the Congressman. All I have to do is buy Harris a few seconds. The only problem is, Enemark’s moving too quickly.

Sidestepping me without even looking up, Enemark is someone who avoids people for a living. Leaving the stall, he heads straight for the coat-rack. If Harris is caught with his jacket…