Read Chapter 8: The Harbor Master's Price

The harbor master's office smelled of stale coffee and cheaper tobacco. A brass clock on the wall read quarter past six, and through the grimy window John Callahan watched the last light drain from the sky over the Atlantic. He was a man built of soft edges — a belly straining his vest, jowls that quivered when he laughed, which wasn't often. He hadn't laughed once since Jack walked in.

"The thing is, Mr. Malloy," Callahan said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked, "you're asking me to do something that could get me shot. Or worse. Fired." He let out a wet chuckle at his own joke, but his eyes stayed flat and watchful.

Jack kept his hands loose at his sides. He'd learned early that nervous men touched things — hats, collars, the brims of their glasses. He touched nothing. "I'm not asking you to do anything, Mr. Callahan. I'm asking you to not do something. There's a difference."

The envelope sat on the desk between them like a dead fish. Fifty dollars. Two weeks of the harbor master's salary for fifteen minutes of silence.

Callahan's eyes flicked to it, then back to Jack. "The Coast Guard runs their own schedules. I don't control those boys."

"You control the phone lines." Jack had rehearsed this in his head a dozen times on the walk over. He'd practiced the tone — not pleading, not threatening. Just stating facts. "You hear when they're mobilizing. You know the channel sweeps before they happen. All I'm asking is that you let a man know when the water's about to get crowded."

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing is." Jack slid the envelope an inch closer. "But this makes it simpler."

The silence stretched. Outside, a stevedore's whistle blew, shrill and distant. Callahan picked up the envelope, weighed it in his palm like he was judging produce, then tucked it into his vest pocket without opening it.

"There's a grocery store on Atlantic Avenue. Russo's. You know it?"

Jack nodded.

"Every Thursday, I buy a paper there. Sometimes I leave a mark on the crossword page. A little dot next to certain numbers." Callahan stood, buttoning his jacket over the telltale bulge in his vest. "If there's activity that concerns you, you'll find it there. If there isn't, the page stays clean."

"And if I need to reach you?"

"You don't." Callahan moved to the door, holding it open with a thick arm. "That's the beauty of the arrangement, son. We don't talk. We don't have a relationship. Every Thursday, you check the paper, and I go about my business, and that's the whole of it."

Jack stepped past him into the hallway, then paused. "One more thing. There was a hauler on the docks. Vince Poole. You know him?"

Something shifted in Callahan's face — a tightening around the mouth that wasn't quite a flinch. "Heard he left town."

"That's not what I heard."

"Then you heard wrong." Callahan's voice had lost its easy warmth. "Good evening, Mr. Malloy."

The door closed. Jack stood in the dim hallway for a long moment, listening to the lock turn, then walked out into the salt-wet evening.

---

The Green Lamp was three hours into its nightly chaos when Jack pushed through the door. The jazz band was mid-set, a trumpet wailing over the roar of conversation and clinking glasses, and the air was thick with smoke and cheap perfume. He scanned the room, past the card tables and the bar where two sailors were arm-wrestling over a bottle of something amber, until he found his crew in the corner booth.

Danny O'Brien spotted him first, raising a glass with a grin too wide for a man who hadn't been paid yet. Next to him sat Mickey Finn, a lanky crane operator with forearms like hawsers, and Leo Grady, who'd worked the docks since before Jack was born and knew every current, tide, and patrol schedule on the coast. Frank was at the end of the booth, nursing a beer he hadn't touched.

Jack slid in beside him. "You order for me?"

"You're late." Frank's voice was flat.

"Callahan took his time. Worth it." Jack flagged down a waitress, ordered a whiskey, and turned to the table. "It's done. He's on the payroll. Thursday papers at Russo's are going to be very informative from now on."

Danny leaned forward, eyes bright. "So we're really doing this. Regular runs."

"Better than regular. We're going to be the only game that knows when the coast is clear." Jack dropped his voice, though the noise of the bar covered them anyway. "We've got twenty cases of Scotch sitting in the shack that need to move. I've got a buyer lined up — Gus Moran, runs a string of speakies down in the Point. But he wants to know we can deliver steady before he commits."

"How steady?" Leo asked, stroking his gray stubble.

"Two runs a week to start. More if we can source it."

Mickey let out a low whistle. "Two runs a week is a lot of moving parts. Crew, trucks, the boat, the watch. That's more than the four of us."

"Which is why we're not going to be four." Jack pulled a folded list from his pocket. "I've got names. Dockworkers I trust, men who know how to keep their mouths shut. Tommy Reilly's been asking around for work. So has Big Jim Hurley, and the Sullivan twins, though I'm less sure about them."

"What are you offering them?" Frank's voice cut through the table's growing excitement.

"A share. Same as you." Jack tapped the table. "Ten percent each off the top, split after expenses. They risk their necks, they get paid for it."

Frank shook his head slowly. "Ten percent of nothing is nothing. We haven't sold a single bottle yet, Jack. You're promising men wages on a bet."

"It's not a bet. It's arithmetic." Jack felt the familiar heat rise in his chest, the impatience that always came when Frank questioned him. "Every case is worth sixty dollars on the street. Twenty cases, twelve hundred. We paid two-fifty for the lot. Callahan costs fifty a week, the O'Malleys want their payments, and the boat's already bought. The numbers work."

"They work if nothing goes wrong." Frank leaned in, lowering his voice. "They work if the Coast Guard doesn't change their pattern. If Gus doesn't stiff us. If nobody talks. That's a lot of ifs, Jack."

"Since when did you need guarantees?"

"Since I started watching my brother take risks that could get us both killed."

The table went quiet. Danny looked at his glass. Mickey studied the ceiling. Jack met Frank's eyes, and for a moment the noise of the bar seemed very far away.

"I'm not asking you to trust me," Jack said finally, his voice low. "I'm asking you to trust the plan. It's a good plan. It works."

Frank held his gaze for a long beat, then pushed his untouched beer away. "It's not my plan, Jack. That's the problem. You make the decisions, I find out about them when you're telling the whole table." He stood, grabbing his coat from the bench. "I'll be at the shack tomorrow, checking the seals on the crates. Somebody's got to make sure the merchandise survives while you're making deals."

He walked out without looking back. Danny shot Jack an apologetic glance. "He's just worried about you, Jack."

"Yeah." Jack watched the door swing shut. "He's always worried."

He finished his whiskey in one swallow, the burn grounding him. When he looked up, Molly was standing at the edge of the booth, a bottle in her hand and a curious tilt to her head.

"Trouble in paradise?" she asked.

"Brothers." Jack shrugged, forcing a grin. "The good kind and the other kind."

"Which one is Frank?"

Jack thought about it. "Both."

Molly laughed, a warm sound that cut through the noise, and slid into the seat Frank had vacated. "I heard you're building something bigger than a fishing operation. That true?"

"Depends who's asking."

"A girl who might know some people who buy what you're selling." She set the bottle down — a good Scotch, Jack noted, better than what most of the bar was drinking. "Gus Moran's a friend of a friend. He says you're serious, but you're new. New means risk. Risk means you need somebody to vouch for you."

"And you'd do that?"

"I might." She tilted her head, studying him. "For a cut of the action. And a favor."

"What favor?"

"Not yet." She stood, smoothing her dress. "When the time comes, I'll let you know. But if you want Gus to take your call, you come see me after your run tomorrow night. I'll make the introduction."

She walked away, leaving the bottle untouched on the table. Jack stared at it for a long moment, then picked it up and poured himself another glass.

The plan was coming together. Callahan was paid, the crew was forming, and a contact was opening doors. But as he drank, watching Molly weave her way back to the stage, he couldn't shake Frank's voice in his head.

It's not my plan, Jack.

He'd need Frank. That was the truth of it. But he'd be damned if he let his brother's fear dictate how far he could go.