Read Chapter 4: The Loan Shark's Due

The rumble of the longshoreman’s hook against the hull was a rhythm Jack knew better than his own heartbeat. He finished his shift on the *Elizabeth Anne* and clocked out, the clang of the time clock still ringing in his ears as he walked the two blocks to McBride’s Saloon. He wasn’t there for a drink. He was there for the quiet corner booth where Eddie O’Malley sat, nursing a glass of amber liquid that was probably tea, considering the man’s reputation for never touching the stuff.

Eddie didn’t look up when Jack slid into the seat across from him. He just tapped a finger on a folded piece of paper lying on the sticky wood. “You’re late, Malloy. I was beginning to think you’d gotten cold feet.”

Jack’s palms were clammy against the worn denim of his trousers. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times between crates and hawsers. Frank’s voice, low and worried, kept cutting through the memorized script. *Don’t go to the O'Malleys. There’s no such thing as a small loan from them. It’s a leash, not a lifeline.*

He ignored it. “I’m not cold. I’m thorough. You got the terms?”

Eddie finally looked up. He had the pale, glassy eyes of a man who’d spent too many years in basements lit by a single bulb. He smiled, but it was a thin, unpleasant line. “Thorough. Good. I like that. Five hundred dollars. That’s a lot of money for a dock rat.”

“I know what it is.”

“Ten percent a week,” Eddie continued, sliding the paper across the table. It was a single sheet, typewritten and dense. “You’re not borrowing from a bank, Jack. We don’t do paperwork for the IRS, but we do keep our own ledger. You miss a payment, and the interest compounds.”

Jack scanned the text. The numbers blurred. He knew the terms. Frank had told him what to look for. He looked anyway, his finger tracing down to the final paragraph, the one that made his stomach lodge itself somewhere in his throat.

“Collateral,” the paper read. “The property at 14 Killian Street, Provincetown, upon which the borrower resides.”

His father’s house. The roof he’d patched, the porch he’d painted, the garden his mother had kept until she got too sick to kneel. The only piece of solid ground Jack Malloy had ever stood on.

“The house is all I have,” Jack said, his voice coming out flatter than he intended. “That’s not cash.”

Eddie shrugged, the gesture one of absolute indifference. “Funny thing about houses, Jack. They’re cash. Just not yours. You sign that, and you own a boat. A fast one, I hear. The *Sea Sprite*. Cigarette boat, tops out at close to forty knots. Can outrun anything the Coast Guard’s got patrolling these waters.” He leaned in, his breath stale and sour. “You fail to pay, and I own a house. Simple as that. But you’re not gonna fail, are you? You’re a smart kid. You found a way to make a hundred and fifty in one night. Imagine what you’ll do with five hundred.”

The hundred and fifty dollars had burned a hole in Jack’s pocket for a week. He’d spent most of it on cheap beer for the boys on the docks, buying loyalty one pint at a time. It had worked. He now had a small crew of men who looked to him, men who would warn him if a federal agent sniffed around the piers. Men like Danny O’Brien, whose wide eyes and nervous energy were a liability, but also an asset. A kid that scared made a good lookout.

He thought of Danny now, and he thought of the *Sea Sprite*, cutting through the black water, loaded to the gunwales with rye. He thought of Gus at the Green Lamp, who’d paid top dollar for a single case, and how he’d pay double for a steady supply. Jack couldn’t get that supply without capital. And the O'Malleys were the only bank open at this hour.

He pulled a fountain pen from his inside pocket—a gift from his father on his graduation day, the only piece of finery either of them had ever owned—and pressed it to the paper. The ink bled into the cheap stock. He wrote *Jack T. Malloy* in a scrawl that looked more confident than he felt.

Eddie’s hand was on the paper the second the pen left it, snapping it up and folding it away into his coat. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Malloy. The cash is at the bar. Conor’s got it in a satchel. The boat’s docked at Pier 9, slip three. She’s all yours.”

Jack felt the phantom weight of the pen in his hand, lighter now. He stood up, his knees stiff. “I’ll be square. Every week.”

Eddie picked up his glass of tea and inspected it against the light. “I know you will. I know where you sleep.”

---

An hour later, Jack stood on the damp planks of Pier 9, the satchel heavy on his shoulder. The *Sea Sprite* was a thing of beauty, a low, sleek missile of mahogany and chrome. Even in the dim glow of the pier lights, he could see the purpose in its lines. He ran a hand along the cold, varnished rail. It felt like the future.

“You went to them.”

Jack didn’t turn around. He knew the voice. Frank’s footsteps were quiet, and his shadow fell long across the water.

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to. You chose to. Now you own a house for them, Jack.” Frank wasn't yelling. He was standing beside him now, his face grim in the half-light. “What happens when the next boat is a bust? When a storm rolls in and you miss a week? When someone gets greedy and tips off a revenue agent? What happens then, huh? Are you gonna give them my address?”

Jack turned to face him, his eyes hard. “I’m not going to miss. I have a plan.”

“A plan built on the *Meridian*’s rotten luck and a hunch you’ve got no evidence for.”

“It’s not a hunch. I know it’s one of three men. I’ve been watching them, learning their patterns. The one who brought the whiskey in from the last trip is expecting another shipment. He’s got the contacts. He’s the key to the whole door, Frank. I just need to find the right pressure point.”

Frank shook his head, staring at the boat’s gleaming hull. “You’re digging your own grave and calling it a foundation.” He paused, something unreadable passing over his face. “You remember Patrick? Your brother?”

The name was a sudden, sharp splinter under Jack’s skin. He didn’t want to think about Patrick, about the letter his mother had received from the War Department, about the flag they’d folded and put on the mantlepiece.

“Why are you bringing him up?” Jack’s voice was clipped.

“Because he was the only one who could talk sense into you when you got a wild notion. And now he’s gone, and you have no one to stop you from walking off this cliff.” Frank’s voice was low, without malice, just a tired, weary statement of fact.

“He’s not gone to me,” Jack said, his jaw tight. “He’s just not here.”

Frank let out a long breath, the sound swallowed by the lapping of the water against the pilings. “Fine. You’ve made your play, and I’m in the game with you. But I want a finder’s fee for the next load we run, and I want a guarantee that if this goes south, you take the fall alone. I have my mother to think about.”

“Deal,” Jack said, extending his hand. Frank hesitated for a moment, then shook it, his grip firm but unenthusiastic. A partnership sealed in distrust.

They stood in silence for a moment, the new boat bobbing gently against its ropes. Then, from further down the docks, a sound cut through the harbor fog. It was a whistle—a jaunty, three-note tune that Jack had heard a hundred times in the schoolyard.

He snapped his head toward the sound, his heart suddenly thudding against his ribs. A small, silhouetted figure stood at the end of the pier, barely visible. It was Danny O'Brien. The boy wasn't looking at them. He was holding a slip of paper in his hand, and his face, even from this distance, was pale with a different kind of fear than his usual jumpiness.

“Frank,” Jack said, his attention now completely on the boy. “Danny’s got a message.”

Frank followed his gaze and frowned. “He’s supposed to be watching the tavern. What’s he doing here?”

Danny shuffled toward them, his feet scraping on the boards. He held out the paper, his hand trembling slightly. “Mr. Malloy. I’m sorry to bother you. A man came to the Green Lamp asking for you. When Gus said you weren’t there, he gave me this. He said to find you quick. Said it was urgent.”

Jack took the paper. It was cheap, crumpled. He unfolded it under the glow of the pier’s one working lamp. The handwriting was a frantic, scrawled pencil, and the message was short, stark, and world-ending.

*Jack—I’m alive. I’m in a hospital in Brest, France. They think I’m crazy. Please don’t tell Ma. I’m coming home. —P.*