Zero Game (9 page)

How the hell did this happen? I look around and catch my reflection in the chrome handlebars of the kid’s bicycle. It’s like staring into a spoon. The whole world’s warped. I can’t get out of this myself—not without some help.

Racing up the stairs and out the back door, I run five blocks without stopping. Still not sure it’s far enough, I flip open my phone and dial the number for information.

“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

Y
OU 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

C
AN 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 to keep a low profile, but at least four people turn and pretend to look away. Now I know who the reporters are.

When I first met Lowell Nash, I was a second-year staffer in charge of the pen-signing machine; he was the chief of staff who wrote my recommendation for Georgetown Law’s night division. Three years later, when he went into private practice, I returned the favor by steering a few big donors his way as clients. Two years back, he returned the favor by having his law firm raise fifty thousand dollars for the Senator’s reelection campaign. Last year, when the President nominated him as Deputy Attorney General, I returned the favor again by making sure the Senator—a longtime member of the Judiciary Committee—made the confirmation process as smooth as possible. That’s how Washington works. Favors returning favors.

Lowell’s now the number two person at Justice—one of the highest law enforcement positions in the country. I’ve known him for over a decade. The favor was last in his court. I need it returned.

“Congressman,” he says with a nod.

“Mr. President,” I nod back. It’s not entirely impossible. At forty-two years old, Lowell’s the youngest black man ever to hold his position. That alone gives him a national profile. Like the headline in
Legal Times
read:
THE NEXT COLIN POWELL?
Playing to the article, he keeps his hair cut short and always sits at perfect attention. He’s never been in the military, but he knows the value of looking the part. Like I said, Lowell’s on his way—that is, barring some personal disaster.

“You look like crap,” he says, folding his black overcoat across the back of the chair and tossing his keys next to my matching phones.

I don’t respond.

“Just tell me what happened . . .”

Again, no response.

“C’mon, Harris—talk to me,” he pleads.

It’s hard to argue. That is what I came for. Eventually, I look up. “Lowell, I need your help.”

“Personal or professional help?”

“Law enforcement help.”

He folds his hands on the table with his pointer fingers extended up, church-steeple-style.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“Pasternak’s dead.”

He nods. News travels fast in this town. Especially when it’s your old boss. “I heard it was a heart attack,” he adds.

“That’s what they’re saying?”

This time, he’s the one to stay quiet. He turns back toward the reporters, taking a quick scan of the restaurant, then twists back to me. “Tell me about Matthew,” he eventually says.

I start to explain but cut myself off. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know Matthew.

Lowell and I lock eyes. He quickly looks away.

“Lowell, what’s going on?”

“Burger—rare,” the waitress interrupts, plopping my plate down in front of me with a clang. “Anything for you?” she asks Lowell.

“I’m great . . . thanks.”

She gives me one last chance to make good and offer her a smile. When I don’t, she drills me with a silent sneer and heads off to another table.

“Lowell, this isn’t—” I stop and fight myself to bring it to a whisper. “Lowell, enough with the anxious silent-guy act—this is my life . . .”

He still won’t face me. He’s staring at the tabletop, fidgeting with the keys on his key ring.

“Lowell, if you know something—”

“They marked you.”

“What?”

“You’re marked, Harris. If they find you, you’re dead.”

“What’re you talking about? Who’s
they?
How do you know them?”

Lowell looks over his shoulder. I thought he was studying the reporters. He’s not. He’s studying the door.

“You should get out of here,” he says.

“I . . . I don’t understand. Aren’t you gonna help me?”

“Don’t you get it, Harris? The game is—”

“You know about the game?”

“Listen to me, Harris. These people are animals.”

“But you’re my friend,” I insist.

His eyes drop back to his key ring, which has a small plastic picture frame on it. He rubs his thumb against the frame, and I give it a closer look. The photo inside the frame is of his wife and four-year-old daughter. They’re at the beach with the surf crashing behind them. “We’re not all perfect, Harris,” he eventually says. “Sometimes, our mistakes hurt more than just ourselves.”

My eyes stay glued to the key ring. Whatever they have on Lowell . . . I don’t even want to know.

“You should leave,” he says for the second time.

The hamburger in front of me goes completely uneaten. Whatever appetite I had is gone. “Do you know the guy who killed Matthew and Pasternak?”

“Janos,” he says as his voice cracks. “The man should be in a cage.”

“Who does he work for? Are they law enforcement?”

His hands begin to shake. He’s starting to unravel. “I’m sorry about your friends . . .”

“Please, Lowell . . .”

“Don’t ask me anymore,” he begs. Over his shoulder, the same four reporters turn around.

I close my eyes and rest my palms flat against the table. When I open them up, Lowell’s staring at his watch. “Go now,” he insists.
“Now.”

I give him one last chance. He doesn’t take it.

“I’m sorry, Harris.”

Standing from my seat, I ignore the trembling in my legs and take a step toward the front door. Lowell grabs me by the wrist. “Not out the front,” he whispers, motioning toward the back.

I pause, unsure whether to trust him. It’s not like I have a choice. For the second time today, I dart for the kitchen and push my way through the swinging door.

“You can’t go back there,” the waitress snips at me.

I ignore her. Sure enough, beyond the sinks, there’s an open door in the back. I sprint outside, hurtle up the concrete steps and keep running, making two sharp rights down the poorly lit alley. A black rat scrambles in front of me, but it’s the least of my worries. Whoever these people are—how the hell could they move so fast? A biting pain pinches me at the base of my neck, and the world swirls for the slightest of seconds. I need to sit down . . . gather my thoughts . . . find a place to hide. My brain flips through the short list of people I can count on. But after watching Lowell’s reaction, it’s clear that whoever Janos is working for, they’re drilling through my life. And if they can get to someone as big as Lowell . . .

Straight ahead, a passing ambulance whips up Vermont Avenue. The sirens are deafening as they reverberate through the canyon of the brick alleyway. Instinctively I reach for one of my phones. I pat all my pockets. Damn . . . don’t tell me I left them in the—

I stop and turn around. The table of the restaurant. No. I can’t go back.

Double-checking to be sure, I stuff my hand inside the breast pocket of my jacket. There’s actually something there, but it’s not a phone.

I open my palm and reread the name off the blue plastic nametag:

Senate Page

Viv Parker

The white letters practically glow in front of me. In the distance, the siren of the ambulance fades. It’s gonna be a long night ahead, but as I turn the corner and run up Vermont Avenue, I know exactly where I’m going.

15

O
UTSIDE STAN’S RESTAURANT,
Lowell Nash slowly scanned the sidewalks up and down Vermont Avenue. He stared at the shadows in the doorways of every storefront. He even studied the homeless man sleeping on the bus-stop bench across the street. But as he turned the corner onto L Street, he couldn’t spot a twitch of movement. Even the air hung flat in the night. Picking up speed, he rushed toward his car, which was parked halfway up the block.

Again Lowell checked the sidewalks, the doorways, and the bus-stop benches. If his recent notoriety taught him anything, it was never to take chances. Approaching the silver Audi, he scrambled for his car key, pressed a button, and heard the doors unlock. He gave one last glance to his surroundings, then slipped inside and slammed the door shut.

“Where the hell is he?” Janos asked from the passenger seat.

Lowell yelled out loud, jumping so fast, he banged his funny bone against the car door.

“Where’s Harris?” Janos demanded.

“I was . . .” He grabbed his funny bone, holding it in pain. “Aaah . . . I was wondering the same about you.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. He finally got up and left.”

“He was already here?”

“And gone,” Lowell replied. “Where were you?”

Janos’s forehead wrinkled in anger. “You said ten o’clock,” he insisted.

“I said nine.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I swear, I said nine.”

“I heard you say—” Janos cut himself off. He studied Lowell carefully. The sting from the funny bone was long past, but Lowell was still crouched over, cradling his elbow and refusing to make eye contact. If Janos could see Lowell’s expression, he’d also see the panic on Lowell’s face. Lowell may be weak, but he wasn’t an asshole. Harris was still a friend.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Janos warned.

Lowell quickly looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Never . . . I’d never do that . . .”

Janos narrowed his glance, studying him carefully.

“I swear to you,” Lowell added.

Janos continued to stare. A second passed. Then two.

Janos’s arm sprang out like a wildcat, palming Lowell by the face and slamming his head back into the driver’s-side window. Refusing to let go, Janos pulled back and smashed him against the glass again. Lowell grabbed Janos’s wrist, fighting to break his grip. Janos didn’t stop. With a final shove, he put all his weight behind it. The window finally cracked from the impact, leaving a jagged vein zigzagging across the glass.

Slumped down in his seat, Lowell held his head from the pain. He felt a trickle of blood skating down the back of his neck. “A-Are you nuts?”

Without saying a word, Janos opened the door and stepped into the warm night air.

It took Lowell twenty minutes to get his bearings. When he got home, he told his wife some kid on Sixteenth Street threw a rock at the car.