Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“Ow!” Toolie yelled as the tips of the two needles bit into his skin. With a hard shove, he pushed Janos and the device away from his chest. “What the hell’re you doin’, asshole?”

Janos looked down at the black box and turned the On switch to Off. “You’ll see…”

To his own surprise, Toolie let out a loud, involuntary grunt.

Seeing the smile on Janos’s face, Toolie looked down at his own chest. Ignoring the buttons, he ripped his shirt open, then stretched the collar of his undershirt down until he could see his own bare chest. There were no marks. Not even a pinprick.

That’s why Janos liked it. Completely untraceable.

Outside the car, Janos glanced down at his watch. Thirteen seconds was the minimum. But fifteen was average.

“What’s going on?!” Toolie screamed.

“Your heart’s trying to beat 3,600 times a minute,” Janos explained.

As Toolie grabbed at the left side of his chest, Janos cocked his head sideways. They always grabbed the left side, even though the heart’s not there. Everyone gets that wrong, he thought. That’s just where we feel it beating. Indeed, as Janos knew all too well, the heart was actually in the direct center.

“I’ll kill you!” Toolie exploded. “I’ll kill you, muthaf-”

Toolie’s mouth drooped open, and his entire body rag-dolled against the steering wheel like a puppet when you remove the hand.

Fifteen seconds on the nose, Janos thought, admiring his homemade device. Just amazing. Once you know it takes AC power to fibrillate the heart, all you need are eight double-A batteries and a cheap converter from Radio Shack. With the flip of a switch, you convert 12 volts DC to 120 volts AC. Add two needles that are spread far enough to be on either side of the heart, and… sizzle… instant electrocution. The last thing any coroner will check for. And even if they do, as long as you’re in and out fast enough to avoid electrical burns, there’s nothing there to find.

Janos pulled two rubber gloves from his pants pocket, slid them on, and carefully scanned the area. Fences… other cars… Dumpster… strip club. All clear. At least Toolie picked the right neighborhood. Still, it was always better to disappear as fast as possible. Opening the driver’s-side door, Janos grabbed the back of Toolie’s head in a tight fist and, with a hard shove, smashed Toolie’s face against the steering wheel. Then he pulled back and did it again. And again — until Toolie’s nose split open and the blood started flowing.

Letting Toolie’s head slump back against the seat, Janos reached for the steering wheel and cranked it slightly to the right. He leaned into the car, resting an elbow on Toolie’s shoulder and staring out the windshield — just to make sure he was perfectly lined up.

Back by the Dumpster, he found a broken cinder block, which he lugged back to the car. More than enough weight. Shifting the Toyota into neutral, he reached below the dash and pressed the cinder block against the gas. The engine growled to life, revving out of control. Janos let it build for a few seconds. Without the speed, it wouldn’t look right. Almost there, he told himself… The car was shaking, practically knocking Toolie over. Perfect, Janos thought. With a fast slap, he threw the car into drive, jumped backwards, and let his aim do the rest. The tires spun against the pavement, and the car took off like a slingshot. Up the curb… off the road… and right into a telephone pole.

Barely pausing to watch the result, Janos headed back to the Dumpster and knelt next to Matthew’s already pale body. From his own wallet, Janos took five hundred dollars, rolled it into a small wad, then stuffed it in Matthew’s front pocket. That’ll explain what he’s doing in the neighborhood. White boys in suits only come down here for drugs. As long as the money’s on him, the cops’ll know it wasn’t a jump-and-run. And with the car bow-tied around the telephone pole, the rest of the picture blooms into place. Kid gets hit on the sidewalk. Driver panics and, as he flees, does just as bad a job on himself. No one to hunt for. No one to investigate. Just another hit-and-run.

Flipping open his cell phone, Janos dialed a number and waited for his boss to pick up. No question, that was the worst part of the job. Reporting in. But that’s what happens when you work for someone else.

“All clean,” Janos said as he bent down to pull the cinder block out of the car.

“So where you off to now?”

Wiping his hands, Janos looked down at the room number next to Harris’s name. “Russell Building. Room 427.”

Harris

“All set?”

“Harris, you sure this is right?” Senator Stevens asks me.

“Positive,” I reply, checking the call sheet myself. “Edward — not Ed — Gursten… wife is Catherine. From River Hills. Son is named Dondi.”

“Dondi?”

“Dondi,” I repeat. “You met Edward flying first class last year.”

“And is he a Proud American?”

Proud American is the Senator’s code word for a donor who raises over ten grand.

“Extremely proud,” I say. “You ready?”

Stevens nods.

I dial the final number and grab the receiver. If I were a novice, I’d say, Hi, Mr. Gursten, I’m Harris Sandler… Senator Stevens’s chief of staff. I have the Senator here for you.. . Instead, I hand the phone to the Senator just as Gursten picks up. It’s perfectly timed and a beautiful touch. The donor thinks the Senator himself called, instantly making them feel like old buddies.

As Stevens introduces himself, I toss a piece of hamachi in my mouth. Sushi and solicitations — typical Stevens lunch.

“So, Ed…” Stevens sings as I shake my head. “Where’ve you been my last dozen flights? You back in the cheap seats?” His pitch is off, but it still works like a dream. Personal calls from a Senator always hit home. And by home , I mean in the wallet .

“You were here? In D.C.?” Stevens asks. “Next time you’re around, you should give me a call and we can try to grab lunch…”

Translation: We don’t have a chance of grabbing lunch. If you’re lucky, we’ll get five minutes together. But if you don’t raise your donation this year, you may only get a senior staffer and some gallery passes .

“… we’ll get you into the Capitol — make sure you don’t have to wait on any of those lines…”

My staff will give you an intern who’ll take you on exactly the same tour of the Capitol that you’d get on the public tour, but you’ll feel far more important this way …

“I mean, we have to take care of our friends, don’t we?”

I mean, how’s about helping us out with some coin, fat man?

Stevens hangs up the phone with a verbal pledge that “Ed” will raise fifteen grand. I pass the Senator some yellowtail and dial the next number.

Years ago, political money came from powerful WASPs you met at a dinner party in a tastefully decorated second home. Today, it comes from a well-vetted call sheet in a fluorescent-lit room that sits directly atop a sushi restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. The office has three desks, two computers, and ten phone lines. Old money versus new marketing. It’s not even close. There’s not a Congressman on the Hill who doesn’t make these calls. Some do three hours a day; others do three a week. Stevens is the former. He likes his job. And the perks. And he’s not about to lose them. It’s the first rule of politics: You can do anything you want, but if you don’t raise the cash, you won’t be doing it for long.

“Who’s next?” Stevens asks.

“Virginia Rae Morrison. You know her from Green Bay.”