Zero Game by Brad Meltzer Page B

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.”

9
    Harris
    A LL 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