The Zero Game

3

“So what do you think?” I ask as I rush into Harris’s office on the fourth floor of the Russell Senate Office Building. With its arched windows and tall ceilings, it’s nicer than the best office on the House side. The two branches of government are supposed to be equal. Welcome to the Senate.

“You tell me,” Harris says, looking up from some paperwork. “Think you can really put the land sale into the bill?”

“Harris, it’s what I do every day. We’re talking a tiny ask for a project no one would ever possibly look at. Even Congressman Grayson, who made the original request, couldn’t care less about it.”

“Unless he’s playing the game.”

I roll my eyes. “Will you please stop with that?” Since the day he invited me in, it’s been Harris’s most recurring wet dream: that it’s not just staff playing the game — it’s the Members playing as well.

“It’s possible,” he insists.

“Actually, it’s not. If you’re a Member of Congress, you’re not risking your credibility and entire political career for a few hundred bucks and a chess match.”

“Are you joking? These guys get blow jobs in the bathroom of the Capitol Grille. I mean, when they go out for drinks, they have lobbyists trolling the bar and picking out girls so they can leave the place unescorted. You think a few of them wouldn’t get in on the action? Think for a second, Matthew. Even Pete Rose bet on baseball.”

“I don’t care. Grayson’s project isn’t a four-star priority that reaches the Member level — it’s grunt work. And since it’s in my jurisdiction, it’s not getting in there unless I see it. I promise you, Harris — I already checked it out. We’re talking a teeny piece of land in the middle of South Dakota. Land rights belong to Uncle Sam; mineral rights below used to be owned by some long- defunct mining company.”

“It’s a coal mine?”

“This ain’t Pennsylvania, bro. Out in South Dakota, they dig for gold — or at least they used to. The company had been digging the Homestead mine since 1876 — true gold rush days. Over time, they applied for a patent to buy the land, but when they sucked out every last drop, the company went bankrupt and the land stayed with the government, which is still dealing with the environmental problems of shutting one of these suckers down. Anyway, a few years back, a company called Wendell Mining decides it can find more gold using newer technologies, so they buy the old company’s claims out of bankruptcy, contact the Bureau of Land Management, and arrange to buy the land.”

“Since when do we sell government land to private companies?”

“How do you think we settled the West, Kimosabe? Most of the time, we even gave it away for free. The problem here is, even though BLM has approved the sale, the Interior Department has them so buried in red tape, it’ll take years to finalize unless they get a friendly congressional push.”

“So Wendell Mining donated some money to local Congressman Grayson and asked him for a bump to the front of the line,” Harris says.

“That’s how it works.”

“And we’re sure about the land? I mean, we’re not selling some nature preserve to some big company who wants to put a mall and a petting zoo on it, are we?”

“Suddenly you’re back to being an idealist?”

“I never left, Matthew.”

He believes what he’s saying. He’s always believed it. Growing up outside Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, Harris wasn’t just the first in his family to go to college — he was the first in his whole town. As silly as it sounds, he came to Washington to change the world. The problem is, a decade later, the world changed him. As a result, he’s the worst kind of cynic — the kind who doesn’t know he’s a cynic.

“If it makes you feel better, I vetted it last year and revetted it months ago,” I tell him. “The gold mine’s abandoned. This town’s dying for Wendell Mining to take over. The town gets jobs, the company gets gold, and most important, once Wendell steps in, the company’s responsible for the hardest part, which is the environmental cleanup. Win, win, win, all around.”

Harris falls silent, picking up the tennis racket that he usually keeps leaning on the side of his desk. I’ve seen the town where Harris grew up. He’d never call himself poor. But I would. Needless to say, they don’t play tennis in Gibsonia. That’s a rich man’s game — but the day Harris got to D.C., he made it his own. To no one’s surprise, he was a complete natural. It’s the same reason he was able to run the Marine Corps Marathon even though he barely trained. Mind over matter. He’s almost there right now.

“So it all checks out?” he asks.

“Every last detail,” I say as my voice picks up speed. “No lie.”

For the first time since I entered his office, I see the quiet, charismatic grin in Harris’s eyes. He knows we’ve got a winner here. A huge winner if we play it smart.

“Okay…” Harris says, bouncing the tennis racket against the palm of his hand. “How much you got in your bank account?”