Read Chapter 27: The Long Game

The cot smelled of blood and salt. Jack lay on his back in the back room of a fish cannery on the south wharf, the wound in his side packed with iodine-soaked gauze that burned like a brand every time he breathed. Molly had done the stitching herself, needle and catgut from a veterinary shop three blocks over, her hands steady while his shook.

“You move too much,” she said now, not looking up from the tin cup of broth she was stirring over a spirit lamp. “You’ll tear the stitches.”

“I’m not moving,” Jack said. He was lying. He’d been clenching and unclenching his fists under the blanket for the past hour, working the anger through his fingers so it didn’t climb into his throat and choke him.

Foley sat on an upturned crate by the door, cleaning a revolver he’d taken off one of Frank’s men during the fight. He hadn’t spoken more than ten words since they’d carried Jack off the warehouse floor. The other two men—Riley and a kid named Stokes—were outside, keeping watch with a scattergun and a bottle of rye that Jack knew they wouldn’t open unless things went truly sideways.

“Duffy’s wife,” Jack said. His voice cracked. He swallowed. “Someone’s got to tell her.”

Foley’s hands stopped moving on the revolver. “I’ll go.”

“No. She’ll ask questions. She’ll want to know how.” Jack closed his eyes. The warehouse played behind his lids in red and black—Frank standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. Not even smiling. Just watching, like Jack was a bug he’d pinned and was deciding whether to pull the legs off.

“I’ll tell her it was the docks,” Foley said. “An accident. A crate fell.”

“Crates don’t put four bullets in a man.”

Foley set the revolver down. “What do you want me to tell her, Jack? The truth? That her husband died because you knelt to a rat and walked into a trap you should’ve seen coming from a mile off?”

Molly turned. “Foley.”

“He asked,” Foley said, but his voice had gone quieter. He picked the revolver back up and started working the action again. “I’ll tell her he died working for you. That you’ll make it right.”

Jack didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Foley was right, and that was the worst part. He’d known the meeting was a trap. He’d walked in anyway, hoping Frank’s ego would let him gloat first. Hoping the letter would buy him time. Instead, he’d bought Duffy a grave.

The broth was ready. Molly brought it over and sat on the edge of the cot, holding the cup to his lips. He drank. It was chicken, thin and salty, and it settled in his gut like a stone.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to end this.” He said it flat, no heat. “Frank’s got machine guns now. He’s got the police in his pocket because of that tip. He’s got the letter. I can’t outfight him on the waterfront anymore.”

“So what then?”

Jack took another sip of broth. “Chicago.”

Foley’s head came up. “You’re talking about Capone’s people.”

“Frank’s been moving liquor through the deep-water dock, but he’s not paying the Syndicate their cut. Didn’t think I knew that. But Danny told me before I sent him off—Frank skimmed two shipments that were supposed to go north for the Outfit. They don’t know yet. Or they do, and they’re waiting for the right time to collect.”

“You want to hand Frank’s territory over to Chicago?” Foley’s voice was flat. “That’s not winning. That’s trading one brother for another.”

“Frank’s not my brother anymore.” Jack said it slowly, testing the words. “He put four bullets in Duffy. He would’ve put more in me. The only thing that matters now is that he doesn’t get to walk away from what he’s done.”

Molly set the cup down. “What about the letter? If Chicago finds out about Patrick—”

“They won’t. I’m not telling them about the letter. I’m telling them about the territory, the route, the dock access. All of it. Frank thinks he’s untouchable because he’s got the cops and the machine guns. But he doesn’t have Chicago. And Chicago doesn’t have a deep-water landing on the coast that can move a thousand cases a night.”

“You’re going to offer them a partnership,” Molly said.

“I’m going to offer them Frank’s head on a plate. The territory’s just the sauce on the side.” Jack shifted on the cot and winced. The gauze was already red at the edges. “I need a wire.”

“You need to rest.”

“I need a wire,” Jack repeated. “Foley. Go to the telegraph office on B Street. Send it to the number I give you. Code.”

Foley stood, tucking the revolver into his waistband. “You sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. And Foley—when you come back, bring Stokes with you. I’ve got another message to send. To France.”

Foley’s jaw tightened, but he nodded and went out.

Molly waited until the door shut before she spoke. “Patrick.”

“He’s been over there for two years. He thinks I’m building a shipping company. He thinks Frank’s still in the hardware business.” Jack laughed, a dry, ugly sound. “I’ve been writing him letters for two years about freight rates and warehouse leases. If I’m going to bring Chicago in, it’s all going to come out anyway. The truth. The whole ugly shape of it. I’d rather he hear it from me than from Frank’s lawyer or a newspaper headline.”

“He’ll hate you for it.”

“He should.” Jack looked at the ceiling, at the rust-stained beams and the faint drip of water somewhere near the eaves. “I’ve done things he wouldn’t recognize me for. I’ve done things I don’t recognize myself for. But he’s my brother, and I’m not going to let him walk into this blind and get shot because I was too much of a coward to tell him the truth.”

Molly was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “You tell him Frank killed his half-brother, and he’s going to get on a boat. He’s going to come back here and put himself in the middle of this war.”

“I know.”

“And when he finds out about the letter—the one Frank’s holding over you—he’s going to realize you had something to do with Patrick’s death. With the cover-up. With the whole lie.”

“I know.”

“Jack.” She took his hand. Her fingers were cold. “He’s the only family you have left that’s worth anything. If you send that wire, you might lose him forever.”

Jack turned his hand over and held hers. “If I don’t send it, Frank will use the letter to destroy me. And when he does, Patrick will still find out. From Frank. And it’ll be worse. It’ll be Frank’s version, twisted, made to hurt. I won’t let Frank do to Patrick what he did to me. I won’t let him poison the one thing I’ve got left that’s clean.”

Molly didn’t argue. She just sat there, holding his hand, watching the lamp gutter low.

An hour later, Foley came back with Stokes and a slip of paper. “Wire’s sent. Chicago. Marked urgent. You want to tell me what you said to them?”

“I told them I’ve got a problem that’s worth more than they’re losing to Frank right now. I told them that problem has a name and an address and a route that can move their product faster than anything they’ve got down south. And I told them I’m willing to talk.”

“They’ll want a meeting.”

“Good. I want a meeting.” Jack pushed himself up against the wall, ignoring the flare in his side. “Set it for two weeks. Dublin’s, the bar on Fifth. Tell them to come at night, come armed, and tell them I’ll be sitting at the back table where I can see every door.”

Foley nodded. “And the other wire?”

Jack was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Give me the paper.”

Stokes handed over a blank telegraph form and a pencil. Jack took it and wrote, his handwriting shaky from the wound and the medication. He wrote the way he’d written every letter to Patrick for the past two years—careful, deliberate, trying to make the words carry more than ink and paper could hold. But this one was different. This one wasn’t about freight rates.

He wrote, *Come home. There are things you need to know. Things I should have told you a long time ago. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I need you to hear it from me before anyone else gets the chance to tell you. Come home, Pat. I’m sorry.*

He folded it and handed it to Foley. “Send it to the last address I have for him. The one in Marseille.”

Foley took the paper without a word and went out again.

Jack sank back onto the cot, and this time the pain was enough to close his eyes. He could feel Molly watching him, could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on the room. But for the first time since the warehouse, his mind was clear. Frank had the machine guns. Frank had the police. Frank had the letter.

But Jack was still breathing.

And now Chicago knew where to find him.

The long game had begun. It would cost him territory, maybe his crew, maybe his brother. But if it cost Frank everything—every dock, every barrel, every breath—then Jack would pay it and call it cheap.

The lamp flickered. Molly’s hand found his again.

He didn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the wound pulse in his side like a second heart, and he thought about his brother on a boat crossing the ocean, coming home to a war he didn’t know existed.

When Patrick got the wire, he’d come. Jack knew that the way he knew the tide would come in. And when Patrick landed, Jack would have to face him. Or bury him.

One way or another, the brothers Malloy were going to meet again.