Read Chapter 32: The Federal Agent

The rain came in off the harbor in sheets, soaking the empty streets of Red Hook before dawn had properly broken. Jack stood at the window of the safe house, watching it hammer the cobblestones, his shoulder throbbing in a dull, wet rhythm that matched the weather.

Patrick was gone. Slipped out sometime in the night, leaving nothing but a folded blanket and the letter Jack had given him, still sitting on the table where he'd left it. The letter was still there. Which meant Patrick had taken the copy, or had memorized it, or had simply decided it wasn't worth carrying anymore. Jack didn't know which possibility he hated more.

A knock came at the door—three quick, then two. Foley's pattern. Jack crossed the room and opened it.

Foley stood in the rain, hat dripping, his face unreadable. "We got trouble."

"Define trouble."

"Federal trouble."

Jack let him in, closed the door. Foley shook the rain from his coat and pulled a folded newspaper from his inside pocket. He opened it to an inside page and handed it over.

Jack scanned it. A brief item, three paragraphs, buried near the back of the local section. *The Office of the Prohibition Unit has assigned Special Agent Walter Burke to oversee increased enforcement activity along the Brooklyn waterfront. Burke, a former Treasury investigator, brings fifteen years of experience in interstate commerce violations.*

"Burke," Jack said.

"Rumor's he's already been sniffing around the docks for a week. Asking questions about shipments. About who runs what."

Jack read the paragraph again. "He asking about me or Frank?"

"Both. He interviewed a couple of longshoremen night before last. Paid for their drinks at Maguire's. Got friendly."

Jack set the paper down. His mind moved fast, cataloguing. The Chicago guns had crossed into the district two days ago, hidden in a consignment of crated machinery. If Burke was already watching the docks, that shipment had come in under his nose. Maybe. Or maybe Burke had let it come through, wanting to see where it went.

"Where's he operating out of?"

"Room at the St. George. Has a car, a driver, and two deputies. Not a full field office." Foley paused. "He's alone out here, Jack. Not enough manpower for a real campaign."

"Or he's the tip of a spear." Jack worked his shoulder, grimacing. The wound had gone from a sharp sting to a deep, grinding ache that never stopped. "He's building a case. That's why he's alone. He's not looking to make arrests. He's looking to put someone in a federal penitentiary for twenty years."

"So what do we do?"

"We talk to him. Find out what he wants."

Foley looked dubious but nodded. "When?"

"Now. Before Frank gets to him first."

Burke's room at the St. George smelled of cheap soap and older cigarettes. The agent himself was a lean man in his forties with a clerk's glasses and a prizefighter's shoulders, an odd combination that Jack had learned to read as dangerous. He opened the door to Jack's knock without surprise, as if he'd been expecting someone to come calling.

"Mr. Malloy," Burke said. It wasn't a question.

"I prefer John," Jack said.

Burke stepped aside and let him in. The room was neat, utilitarian. A desk covered in papers, a typewriter, a telephone. Burke didn't offer him a seat, and Jack didn't take one.

"You're a hard man to find," Burke said, settling behind the desk. "Or you were. You've become easier lately. All that activity on the waterfront. The guns. The new faces."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Burke smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I've been doing this for fifteen years, Mr. Malloy. I've seen every kind of liar this country produces. The bold ones, the clever ones, the ones who believe their own stories so completely they almost make me believe it too." He leaned forward. "You're not any of those. You're the practical kind. The kind who sees arithmetic and adjusts. So let me save us both some time. I know about the shipment from Chicago. I know about your brother's return. I know about the trouble with Frank Malloy. What I don't know is whether you're smart enough to walk away."

Jack kept his face still. "Walk away from what?"

"From everything. The booze, the guns, the war you're planning. I don't care which Malloy brother comes out on top. By the time I'm done, neither of you will be standing."

"How much?"

Burke raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I said, how much. Everyone has a price. You've got a pension and a small salary. I've got the capacity to make you comfortable. We can call it a donation. To the Treasury. For the fight against crime." Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. The last of his reserves, save for what he needed for the Irishmen. He set it on the desk. "Five hundred. Now. More later."

Burke looked at the money. Then he pushed it back across the desk. "You've misread the arithmetic, Mr. Malloy. I'm not for sale."

"Everyone's for sale."

"Try me."

Jack scooped the bills off the desk and pocketed them. "Then what do you want?"

"I want you to understand the position you're in. Your brother Frank is moving product through Staten Island. You're moving product through Brooklyn. Soon one of you is going to make a move that brings the other down, and when that happens, there will be bodies. Federal bodies get attention. The kind of attention that brings a hundred agents and a grand jury and a very long trial where your whole life gets read into the record." Burke tapped the desk. "I'm not here to stop the drinking, Mr. Malloy. Prohibition is the most ignored law in the country. What I'm here to stop is the violence that follows it."

"Then go talk to Frank."

"I will. Tomorrow. But he's not the one standing in my room right now."

Jack studied the man. Burke stared back, unblinking. There was nothing there to exploit, no crack of greed or vanity or fear. The man was built out of duty and righteousness, the most dangerous materials a man could be made of.

"You're warning me," Jack said.

"I'm correcting your vision. You think you're at war with one enemy. You have two. And the second one can't be bribed, can't be shot, and doesn't take sides. If you go to war with Frank, I will bring the full weight of the federal government down on both of you."

"You can't cover the whole waterfront."

"No," Burke agreed. "But I can stand at the center of it, and I can watch." He stood up, a clear dismissal. "Consider this your one warning, Mr. Malloy. Whatever you're planning to do—to Frank, to anyone—remember that I'll be watching. And I won't blink first."

Jack left the room and took the stairs down to the lobby. The rain had stopped, leaving the street slick and dark. Foley waited in the car across the way.

Jack got in. "He didn't take the money."

Foley's face went tight. "Then we got a problem."

"We got two problems." Jack stared out the windshield at the wet street. "One federal agent who can't be bought. And one brother who will go to war the moment he thinks the law is distracted."

"So what do we do?"

Jack's shoulder pulsed with pain. His reserves were gone. The Chicago deal wasn't finalized. Frank was hunting Patrick. And now a federal agent with ten feet of backbone was standing between him and everything he'd built.

"Frank's operation moves through water. The federal man watches the docks. But there's a stretch of coast past Staten Island where the lights don't reach. Where no federal agent has ever stood, because there's nothing there to watch." Jack turned to Foley. "We need one last run. A big one. Enough money to buy every badge in Brooklyn and build a wall around whatever we do next."

"You'd be running straight into Frank's territory."

"Exactly." Jack's voice went low. "We'll go in with the Chicago guns. We'll make it look like we're running scared. And when Frank comes for us, we'll be ready for him."

Foley was quiet for a long moment. "You're not planning a run. You're planning a trap."

Jack said nothing. But Foley was right. He was planning a trap, the same kind of trap he'd walked into in the warehouse. The difference was, this time he knew the ground. This time he was the bait.

And this time, Frank wouldn't walk away.