Zero Game Read Online Free PDF Page B

clock on the wall. Two o’clock.
Exactly at two.
That’s what Harris said when I first asked him how we know when the next bet is.
    “Don’t worry,” he had said calmly. “They’ll send a signal.”
    “A signal? What kinda signal?”
    “You’ll see—a signal. That way, when instructions go out, you know to be in your office.”
    “But what if I don’t see it? What if I’m on the Floor . . . or somewhere else in the Capitol? What if the signal goes out and I’m not here when they send it?”
    “Trust me, this is one signal you won’t miss,” Harris insisted. “No matter where you are . . .”
    Glancing back over Trish’s shoulder, I eye the TV. Now that the vote’s over, the camera goes back to the Speaker’s rostrum— the multilevel platform the President uses to deliver his State of the Union address. Right now, though, I’m more focused on the small mahogany oval table that’s just in front of it. Every day, the House stenographers sit there, clicking away. Every day, they keep track of everything uttered on the House Floor. And every day, like clockwork, the only objects on that desk are two empty water glasses and the two white coasters they rest on. For two hundred years—according to the rumor—Congress puts out two glasses, one for each side. Every single day. Today, however, is different. Today, if you count the glasses, there’s just one. You can’t miss it. One glass and one coaster.
    There’s our code. That’s the signal. One empty water glass, broadcast all day long for the entire world to see.
    There’s a soft knock on the door, and all four of us turn at the sound. A young kid wearing gray slacks, a cheap navy blazer, and a blue-and-red-striped tie enters the room. He can’t be more than sixteen, and if the uniform doesn’t give him away, the rectangular nametag on his lapel does. Set off against a black background, the stark white letters read:
    House of Representatives Page
    Nathan Lagahit
    He’s one of a few dozen—a high school page who delivers mail and fetches water. The only person on the totem pole lower than an intern.
    “I-I’m sorry . . .” he begins, realizing he’s interrupting. “I’m looking for Matthew Mercer . . .”
    “That’s me,” I say with a wave.
    Rushing over, he barely makes eye contact as he hands me the sealed envelope. “Thanks,” I tell him, but he’s already out of the room.
    Regular mail can be opened by a secretary. So can interoffice. FedEx requires a return address. And a messenger service would add up to a small fortune if you used it on a regular basis. But the House and Senate pages barely leave a footprint. They’re here every single day, and while all they do is run errands back and forth, they’re the easiest thing to miss. Ghosts in blue blazers. No one sees them come; no one sees them go. And best of all, since the pages get their instructions verbally, there’s no physical record of where a particular package goes.
    An empty water glass tells me to be at my desk. A sealed envelope carried by a page tells me what I’m doing next. Welcome to game day.
    “Trish, can’t you just meet us in the middle?” Ezra begs as Trish shakes her head.
    Refusing to get into it, I angle my chair away from the group and examine the envelope. As always, it’s blank. Not even my name or room number. And if I’d asked the page where he got it from, he’d say someone in the cloakroom asked him to do a favor. After six months, I’m done trying to figure out how the inner workings of the game happen.
    Wedging my thumb under the flap of the envelope, I give it a sharp jab and tear it open. Inside, as usual, the notice is the same: a single sheet of paper with the royal blue letterhead of the CAG, the Coalition Against Gambling. The letterhead’s an obvious joke, but it’s the first reminder that this is purely for fun. Underneath, the letter begins,
Here are some upcoming issues we’d like to focus on . . .
Just below that is a numbered