Read Chapter 2: A Wharf Rat's Proposal

The air in Murphy’s Taproom was thick with sweat and cheap smoke, but Jack Malloy didn’t mind. He’d been breathing dock air for eight years; this was practically perfume. He slid a crumpled stack of bills across the sticky bar—twenty dollars, more than most of these men made in a week—and nodded at the barman.

“Whiskey for every man at the rail,” Jack said, loud enough to turn heads. “And keep the glasses full till the money’s gone.”

For a heartbeat, the room went quiet. Then a roar went up like a wave breaking. Men he’d known since boyhood clapped him on the back, grinning with yellow teeth and asking if he’d hit a jackpot. Jack just smiled, shrugged, and didn’t answer. Let them think he’d won a card game. Better that than the truth.

He saw Frank Delaney in the corner, nursing a beer like it was his last friend in the world. Frank was built like a wharf piling—broad, unshakeable—and had been Jack’s shadow since they were kids stealing apples from the grocer’s cart. Jack pushed through the crowd and dropped onto the bench across from him.

“You’re spending like a rich man,” Frank said, eyes narrowing. “Or a stupid one.”

“Maybe both.” Jack raised his glass. Frank didn’t lift his. “You heard about Tommy Kessler’s kid? Got his hand crushed in a winch yesterday. Foreman say it’s his own fault, dock’s not paying a cent.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. “Tommy’s been there fifteen years. They’ll squeeze him out by Christmas.”

“Not if I can help it.” Jack drank. “Let’s get him on our crew. He’s a good man with a bad break.”

“Our crew?” Frank’s brow furrowed. “We’re dockworkers, Jack. We got sweaty backs and empty pockets. That’s the crew.”

Jack leaned in, lowering his voice. “What if it wasn’t?”

The door to the taproom banged open, and a lanky kid stumbled in—Danny O’Brien, sixteen, fresh off the boats. His face was red, and there was a split on his lip that was still bleeding. Behind him, a beefy foreman named Callahan filled the doorway, grinning like he’d won a prize.

“Get back to work, you little runt!” Callahan barked, his voice carrying over the noise. “Or I’ll dock your pay for the whole shift.”

Danny’s eyes darted around the room, looking for a friendly face. They landed on Jack. For a moment, neither of them moved. Jack remembered being that kid—terrified, broke, one wrong word away from being thrown off the docks entirely.

“Mr. Callahan,” Jack said, rising slowly. His voice was calm, almost pleasant, but the room started to quiet again. “I think the boy’s shift is over.”

Callahan’s beefy face twisted. He was a head taller than Jack and twice as wide, with knuckles like walnuts from a lifetime of cracking skulls. “Malloy. Heard you been throwing money around. Must have come into something.”

“Must have,” Jack agreed. He stepped between Callahan and Danny. “He’s with me now. You got a problem with him, you got a problem with me.”

The room held its breath. Frank was on his feet now, quiet, a step behind Jack. Callahan looked at the two of them—Jack lean and coiled, Frank a wall of muscle—and something flickered behind his piggy eyes. Discretion won.

“Fine,” Callahan spat. “But he don’t set foot on my dock tomorrow. You want him, you carry his weight.” He shoved past Jack, knocking his shoulder hard, and stormed out.

Jack didn’t flinch. He turned to Danny, who was trembling. “You alright?”

“Yeah. I—thanks, Jack.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re on my crew now. Show up at five, work hard, keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

Danny nodded, eyes wide.

Frank watched the exchange, arms crossed. When Danny shuffled off to find a seat, Frank sidled up to Jack. “You got a crew now? That’s the second time you said that tonight.”

“Third,” Jack said, grinning. He signaled the barman for another round. “Let’s talk somewhere quieter.”

---

They took a table in the back, away from the noise. Jack nursed his whiskey, watching the bubbles rise and pop. Frank sat across from him, arms folded, waiting.

“You remember The *Meridian*?” Jack asked.

“The freighter we unloaded Tuesday. Yeah. Why?”

“There was a crate in hold three. Mislabeled as machine parts. But it wasn’t parts.” Jack paused. “It was whiskey. Twenty cases of it. Canadian, the good stuff.”

Frank’s eyes went wide, then narrow. “You’re telling me you stole a smuggler’s haul?”

“I didn’t steal it. I found it. Found it, sold it to Gus at the Green Lamp, and pocketed a hundred fifty dollars. That’s what’s buying the drinks tonight.”

Frank leaned back, whistling low. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Jack. That’s someone else’s cargo. Someone with money and guns.”

“Maybe.” Jack’s voice was steady. “But here’s the thing, Frank. I been working the docks since I was fifteen. I know every ship, every captain, every crooked dockmaster in this port. I know which crews look the other way for a few bucks and which ones’ll kill you for the same. And I know that liquor is pouring into this town every single night. The cops are too busy taking bribes to stop it. The gangs are too busy killing each other to organize it. There’s a void, Frank. And someone’s going to fill it.”

Frank stared at him for a long moment. “You’re talking about building an operation.”

“I’m talking about building an empire,” Jack said. “But I can’t do it alone. I need a man I trust with my life. A man who knows the water, knows the docks, knows when to talk and when to break a jaw. That’s you, Frank. You’ve been with me since we were kids. I’m asking you to be with me now.”

Frank was quiet. His fingers traced the rim of his glass. Then he shook his head slowly. “Jack, you got guts. You always did. But guts get you buried. You got a hundred fifty dollars and a wild idea. The men who run this racket—they got warehouses, trucks, police on the payroll, and enough firepower to sink a battleship. You walk in on their turf, you’re not a competitor. You’re a target.”

“I’m not walking in on their turf,” Jack said. “I’m finding my own. The big fish fight over the cities. They don’t watch the little inlets, the fishing boats, the midnight landings. That’s where we start. Small, quiet, cheap. We build slow. We don’t make noise. And when we’re big enough that they can’t crush us, we make our move.”

Frank drummed his fingers on the table. He looked at Jack’s face—young, hungry, but not stupid. Frank had seen Jack talk their way out of fights, talk their way into better shifts, talk a stubborn dockmaster into giving them double pay for a rush job. Jack had a gift. Frank just wasn’t sure it was a blessing.

“The source,” Frank said finally. “The man who put that whiskey on the *Meridian*. You don’t know who he is.”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“And Gus at the Green Lamp? He’s not going to buy stolen goods forever. He’s got his own suppliers to answer to.”

“Gus is a businessman. He’ll buy from whoever’s cheaper and more reliable. That’s going to be us.”

Frank took a long breath, then let it out. “I’m not saying yes,” he said. “But I’m not saying no. Show me you can find that source. Show me you can get product without getting us killed. Then we’ll talk.”

Jack grinned and raised his glass. “That’s all I ask.”

They drank. Outside, the fog rolled in off the Atlantic, thick as wool, hiding the harbor and everything that moved in it. Jack felt the weight of the money in his pocket, the burn of the whiskey in his throat, and the thrill of a plan coming together.

But as he set down his glass, the taproom door opened again. A man in a long dark coat stepped in, scanning the room. His eyes passed over Jack, over Frank, over the crowd of dockworkers—and stopped on Danny, sitting alone at the far end.

The man’s face was unreadable, but his hand rested casually inside his coat.

Jack’s smile faded. “Frank,” he said softly. “You know that man?”

Frank followed his gaze. His jaw tightened. “No. But I know that coat. That’s a police detective’s coat. The kind they wear when they don’t want people to know they’re police.”

Jack watched as the man walked—not toward Danny, but toward the bar, ordering a whiskey like any other customer. Still, his eyes kept drifting back to the kid.

“What does a plainclothes cop want with Danny O’Brien?” Frank murmured.

Jack didn’t answer. But he knew one thing for certain: whatever he was stepping into, he was already in deeper than he’d planned.