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The
Zero Game by Brian Meltzer Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Zooms Brian
Meltzer’s new novel, The
Zero Game, presents a behind the scenes, fast-paced thriller set in Six
Months Later I usually hate September. With the end of the August recess, the
halls are once again crowded, the Members are frozen in preelection
bad moods, and worst of all, with the October 1st deadline that’s imposed on
all Appropriations bills, we’re clocking hours twice as grueling as any other
time of the year. This September, though, I barely notice. “Who wants to taste a food item less
healthy than bacon?” I ask as I leave the polished institutional hallways of
the Wasting no time, I make a quick left at
the hand—woven Sioux quilt that hangs on the wall and head straight for our
reception~ 1st, a black woman who always has at least one pencil sticking in
the bun of her prematurely gray hair. “Here you go, Roxanne-lunch is served,”
I call out as I drop two wrapped hot dogs onto her paperwork-covered desk. As
a professional staffer for the Appropriations Committee, I’m one of four
people assigned to the subcommittee on Interior. And the only one, besides
Roxanne, who eats meat. “Where’d you get these?” she asks. “Meat Association event, Didn’t you say
you were hungry?” She looks down at the dogs, then up at
me. “What’s up with you lately? You on nice pills or something?” I shrug my shoulders and stare at the
small TV behind her desk. Like most TVs in the building, it’s on C-SPAN for
the vote. My eyes check the tally. Too early. No yeas, no nays. Following my gaze, Roxanne turns around
to the TV. I stop right there. No. . . there’s no way. She can’t possibly know. “You okay?” she asks, reading my now-pale
complexion. “With all this
dead cow in my gut? Absolutely,” I say, patting my stomach. “So, is Trish
here yet?” “In the hearing room,” Roxanne says.
“But before you go in, someone’s at your desk.” Crossing into the large suite that
houses four separate desks, I’m thoroughly confused. Roxanne knows the rules:
With all the paperwork lying around, no one’s allowed in back, especially
when we’re in preconference—which means, whoever’s
back here is someone big “Matthew?” a voice calls out with a
salty …
or someone I know. “Come give your favorite lobbyist a
juicy hug,” Barry Holcomb says from the chair next to my desk. As always, his
blond hair is as perfectly cut as his pinstriped suit—both of which come
courtesy of bigshot clients like the music
industry, the big telecom boys, and, if I remember correctly, the Meat
Association. “I smell hot dogs,” Barry teases,
already one step ahead. “I’m telling you, free food always works.” In the world of Capitol Hill, there’re
two kinds of lobbyists: those who swoop in from the top and those who burrow
in from below. If you swoop in from the top, it’s because you have direct
connections to the Members. If you burrow from below, it’s because you’re
connected to staff——or in this case, because you went to the same college,
celebrated your last two birthdays together, and tend to see each other out
for a beer at least once a month. The odd thing is, since he’s a few years
older, Barry’s always been more Harris’s friend than mine-—which means this call
is more business than social. “So what’s happening?” he asks. There
it is. As a lobbyist at Pasternak & Associates, Barry knows he’s got two things to offer his
clients: access and information, Access is why he’s sitting here. Now he’s
focused on the latter. “Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “Any idea when you’ll have the bill
done?” I look around at the three other desks
in the room. All empty. it’s a good thing. My other
three office mates already have their own reasons to hate me——ever since
Cordell took over the Interior Approps subcommittee
and replaced their former colleague with me, I’ve been the odd man out. I
don’t need to add to it by letting them catch me back here with a lobbyist.
Of course, Barry may he the sole exception. Sitting just below the But Barry doesn’t see it. He doesn’t
see anything. Justice is blind. And due to a case of congenital glaucoma, so
is one of the Hill’s best-known young lobbyists. As
I cross around to my desk, Barry’s vacant blue eyes stare into the distance,
but his head turns as he traces my steps. Trained since birth, he absorbs the
sounds. My arms swinging against my body. The in-and-out of my breath. Even
the crushed hush as my foot hits the carpet. In college, he had a golden
retriever named Reagan, which was great for meeting girls. But on the Hill,
after being slowed down by strangers who were constantly asking to pet the
dog, Barry branched out on his own These days, if it weren’t for the white
cane, he’d be just another guy in a snazzy suit. Or, as Barry likes to put
it: Political vision has nothing to do with eyesight. “We’re
hoping October first,” I tell him. “We’re almost done with the Park Service.” “How
‘bout your office mates? They moving as happily
along?” What he really wants to know is, are the
negotiations going just as well? Barry’s no fool. The four of us who share
this office divvy up all the accounts—or sections—of the Interior bill, each
doing our own specialty. At last count, the bill had a bridget
of twenty-one billion dollars. When you divide it by four. that means we’re in charge of spending over five billion
dollars. Each. So why’s Barry so interested? Because we control the purse
strings. Indeed, the whole purpose of the Appropriations Committee is to
write the checks for all discretionary money spent by the government. It’s
one of the dirtiest little secrets on Capitol Hill: Congressmen can pass a
bill, but if it needs funding, it’s not going anywhere without an
Appropriator. Case in point: Last year, the President signed a bill that
allows free immunizations for low-income children. But unless Appropriations
sets aside money to pay for the vaccines, the President may’ve gotten a great
media event, but no one’s getting a single shot And that, as the old joke
goes, is why there’re actually three parties in Congress: Democrats, Republicans~ and Appropriators. Like I
said it’s a dirty secret---but one Barry is all too aware of right about
now. “So everyone’s good?” he asks. “Why complain1 right?” Realizing
the clock’s ticking, I
flip on the TV that sits on my filing cabinet, As C-SPAN blooms into view,
Barry turns at the sound. I once again
check the vote count. “What’s the tally?” he asks. I spin around at the question. “What’d you
say?” Barry pauses. His left eye is glass;
his right one is pale blue and completely foggy. The combination makes it near
impossible to read hic expression. But the tone in his voice is innocent
enough. “The tally,” he repeats. ‘What’s the vote count?” I smile to myself1 still
watching him closely. To be honest, if he were playing the game, I wouldn’t be
surprised. I take that back. I would be. Harris said you can only invite one
other person in. Harris invited me. If Barry’s in, someone else invited him. Convinced it’s just my imagination1
I check the totals on C-SPAN. Al! I care about are the yeas and nays.
On-screen, the white letters are superimposed over a shot of the still mostly
empty House Floor: thirty-one yeas, eight nays. “Thirteen minutes left. Thirty-one to
eight:’ I tell Barry. “It’ll be a slaughter:’ ‘No surprise:’ he says, focused on the
TV. “Even a blind man could’ve seen that:’ I laugh at the joke—one of Barry’s old
favorites. But I can’t stop thinking about what Harris said. It’s the best
part of the game—not knowing who else is playing. “Listen,
Barry, can we catch up later?”! ask as! grab my conference notes. “I’ve got Trish waiting...” “No stress:’ he says, never wanting to
push. Good lobbyists know better than that. “I’ll call you in an hour or so.” “That’s fine——though I may still be in
the meeting.” “Let’s make it two hours. Does three
o’clock work?” Again, I take it back. Even when he
doesn’t want to, Barry can’t help but push. It was the same way in college.
Every time we’d get ready to go to a party; we’d get two calls from Barry.
The first was to check what time we were leaving. The second was to recheck
what time we were leaving. Harris always called it overcompensation for the
blindness;! called it
understandable insecurity. Whatever the real reason, Barry’s always had to
work a little harder to make sure he’s not left out. “So
I’ll speak to you at three:’ he says, hopping up and heading out. I tuck my
notebooks under my arm like a football and plow toward the door that connects
with the adjoining hearing room. Inside, my eyes skip past the enormous oval
conference table and even the two black sofas against the back wall that we
use for overflow. Instead, like before, I find the small TV in the back and—
“You’re
late,” Trish interrupts from the conference table. I spin midstep,
almost forgetting why I’m here. “Would it help if I brought hot dogs?”! stutter. “I’m a vegetarian.” Harris would have a great comeback. I
offer an awkward grin. Leaning back in her chair, she’s got her arms crossed,
completely uncharmed. At thirty-six years old,
Trish Brennan has at least six years more experience than me, and is the type
of person who says you’re late even when she’s early. Her reddish hair, dark
green eyes, and light freckles give her an innocent look that’s surprisingly
attractive. Of course, right now, the hottest thing in the room is the small
TV in the back. I have to squint to see it. Forty-two yeas, ten nays. Still
looking good. As
I pull out the chair directly across from her at the conference table, the
front door of the hearing room swings open and the last two staffers finally
arrive. Georgia Rudd and Ezra BenShmuel. Already
prepped for battle, Ezra’s got a sparse poorman’s-environmentalist
beard (my-first-beard, Trish calls it) and a blue dress shirt rolled
up to his elbows. Each
armed with an oversized redwell accordion file, they quickly head to different sides of the table.
Ezra on my side, Georgia next to Trish. All four horsemen are here. When it
comes to Conference, I represent the House majority; Ezra does the House
minority. Across the table, Trish and Georgia do the respective same for the
Senate. And regardless of the fact that Ezra and I are in different political
parties, even House Republicans and Democrats can set aside their
differences for our common enemy: the Senate. My
pager vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check the message. It’s
from Harris. You watching? he asks in digital black letters. I
glance over Trish’s shoulder, toward the TV in the hack. Eighty-four yeas,
forty-one nays. Crap.
I need the nays to stay under 110. If they’re at forty-one this early in the
vote, we’ve got problems. What
do we do? I type back
on the pager’s tiny keyboard, hiding my hands under the desk so the Senate
folks can’t see what I’m doing. Before I can send it, my pager shakes with a
new message. Don’t
panic just yet, Harris
insists. He knows me too well. “Can
we please get this going?” Trish asks. It’s the sixth day in a row we’ve been
trying to stomp each other into the ground, and Irish knows there’s still
plenty to go. “Now, where’d we leave off?” “ “I’ll
give you three hundred and fifty thousand~’ Trish offers, hoping I’ll he
satisfied by half. “Done,”
I tell her, grinning to myself. If she’d pushed, I would’ve settled for an
even two hundred. “The
Trish
smiles. That’s why she was kissing tush on the last
one. The six million in here was put there by her boss, Senator Ted Apelbaum, who also happens to he
the Chairman of the subcommittee-----the Senate equivalent of my boss,
Cordell, In local slang, the Chairs are known as Cardinals. That’s where the
argument ends. What Cardinals want, Cardinals get. In
quiet rooms around the Capitol, the scene is the same. Forget the image of
fat-cat Congressmen horse-trading in cigar-smoke--filled backrooms, This is
how the sausage is made, and this is how My pager again vibrates in my lap.
Harris’s message is simple: Panic. I take another look at the TV. One
hundred seventy-two yeas, sixty-four nays. Sixty-four? I don’t believe it. They’re
over halfway there. How? I type back. Maybe they have tile votes, Harris replies almost instantly. Can’t be, I send back. For the next two minutes, Trish
lectures about why seven million dollars is far too much to spend on “…don’t you agree, Matthew?” Trish
asks. I stay locked on C-SPAN. “Matthew!” Trish calls out. “You with
us or not?” “Wha?” I say,
finally turning toward her. Tracing my gaze back to its last location,
Trish looks over her shoulder and spots the TV. “That’s what you’re so caught
up in?” she asks. “Some lame vote for baseball?” She doesn’t get it. Sure, it’s a vote
for baseball, but it isn’t just any vote. It actually dates back to 1922,
when the Supreme Court ruled that baseball was a sport—not a business—and
therefore was allowed a special exemption from antitrust rules. Football,
basketball, all the rest have to comply—but baseball, the Supreme Court
decided, was special. Today, Congress is trying to strengthen that exemption,
giving owners more control over how big the league gets. For Congress, it’s a
relatively simple vote: If you’re from a state with a baseball team, you vote
for baseball (even the Reps from rural When you do the math—and account for
political favors by powerful owners—that leaves a clear majority voting for
the bill, and a maximum of 100 Members voting against it—105 if they’re
lucky. But right now, there’s someone in the Capitol who thinks he can get
110 nays. There’s no way, Harris and I decided. That’s why we bet against it. “We all ready to hit some issues?”
Trish asks, still plowing her way through the Conference list. In the next
ten minutes, we allocate three million to repair the seawall on Ellis
Island, two and a half million to renovate the steps on the Jefferson
Memorial, and thirteen million to do a structural upgrade on the bicycle
trail and recreation area next to the Golden Gate Bridge. No one puts up much
of a fight. Like baseball—you don’t vote against the good stuff. My pager once again dances in my
pocket. Like before, I read it under the table. 97, Harris’s message says. I can’t believe they’re getting this
far. Of course, that’s the fun of playing the game. In fact, as Harris explained it when he
first extended the invitation, the game itself started years ago as a
practical joke. As the story goes, a junior Senate staffer was bitching about
picking up a Senator’s dry cleaning, so to make him feel better, his buddy on
staff snuck the words dry cleaning into a draft of the Senator’s next
speech:. . . although
sometimes regarded as dry, cleaning our environment should clearly be a top
priority. . . It was always
meant to be a cheap gag—something that’d be taken out before the speech was
given. Then one of the staffers dared the other to keep it in. “I’ll
do it,” the staffer threatened. “No, you won’t,” his friend shot back. “Wanna bet?” Right there, the game was born. And
that afternoon, the distinguished Senator strolled onto C-SPAN and told the
entire nation about the importance of “dry, cleaning.” In the beginning, they always kept it
to small stuff: hidden phrases in an op-ed, an acronym in a commencement
speech. Then it got bigger. A few years ago, on the Senate Floor, a Senator
who was searching for his handkerchief reached into his jacket pocket and
proceeded to wipe his forehead with a pair of women’s silk panties. He
quickly laughed it off as an honest mistake made by his laundry service. But
it wasn’t an accident. That was the first time the game broke
the envelope—and what caused the organizers to create the current rules.
These days, it’s simple: The bills we bet on are ones where the outcome’s
clearly decided. A few months back, the Clean Diamond Act passed by a vote of
408 to 6; last week, the Hurricane Shelters Act passed by 401 to 10; and
today, the Baseball for America Act was expected to pass by approximately 300
to 100. A clear landslide. And the perfect bill to play on. When I was in high school, we used to
try to guess if Jennifer Luftig would he wearing a
bra. In grad school, we made bingo cards with the names of the kids who
talked the most, then waited for them to open their mouths. We’ve all played
our games. Can you get twelve more votes? Can you get the Vermont Congressmen
to vote against it? Can you get the nays up to 110, even when 100 is all that’s reasonably possible? Politics has always
been called a game for grown-ups. So why is anyone surprised people would
gamble on it? Naturally, I was skeptical at first, but
then I realized just how innocent it really was. We don’t change the laws, or
pass bad legislation, or stroke our evil goatees and overthrow democracy as
we know it. We play at the margins; that’s where it’s safe—and where it’s
fun. It’s like sitting in a meeting and betting how many times the annoying
guy in your office uses the word “I.” You can goad him and make your best
attempts to alter it, but in the end, the results are pretty much the same.
In the world of Capitol Hill, even though we’re split between Ds and Rs, 99 percent of our legislation is passed by
overwhelming majorities. It’s only the few controversial bills that make the
news. The result is a job that can easily lapse into a repetitive, monotonous
grind—that is, unless you find a way to make it interesting. My pager once again shudders in my
fist. 103, Harris
sends. “Okay, what about the ‘White House?”
Trish asks, still working her list. This is the one she’s been saving for. In
the House, we allocated seven million for structural improvements to the
‘White House complex. The Senate—thanks to Trish’s boss—zeroed the program
out. “C’mon, Trish~’ Ezra begs. “You can’t
just give ‘em goose egg.” Trish raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see. . It’s typical Senate. The only reason
Trish’s boss is playing the jerk is because the President has been pushing
for a settlement in a racial discrimination lawsuit against the Library of
Congress. Trish’s boss, Senator Apelbaum, is one of
the few people involved in the negotiation. This close to the elections, he’d
rather stall, keep the lawsuit quiet, and keep it out of the press. This is
the Senator’s way of pushing back. And from the smug look on Trish’s face, she’s loving every minute of it. “Why don’t we just split the
difference?” Ezra says, knowing our usual mode of compromise. “Give it three
and a half million, and ask the President to bring his library card next
time.” Both
plot and dialogue are well-crafted in The
Zero Game, and the pleasure of reading this thriller will remain with you
for some time. Steve
Hopkins, March 23, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Zero Game.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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