Cormack had been the president of the CUPD for twelve years, and he knew all of the ways money could be made, both legally and not. He had immigrated to the United States alone when he was twelve. He’d spent his youth on the docks, and learned quickly to fight for what he wanted. By the time he was eighteen, he was running the Charlestown offshoot of the Winter Hill Gang, the Irish mob that controlled most of Boston’s illegal trade. When the Winter Hill Gang collapsed in the 1990s, Cormack took the opportunity to consolidate power along the waterfront. He had close connections to the men who worked the shoreline, and he had a reputation for getting things accomplished—no matter what the obstacle. By the turn of the millennium, Cormack had taken control of the union. A few years later, he was officially elected its president. Now he was the man who controlled the movement of every piece of cargo into and out of Boston. Along the waterfront there was no one with more power.

The position suited Cormack, who, in spite of his reputation for ruthlessness and brutality when required, was generally affable and treated people fairly. It was his belief that a certain amount of illegal activity like drug trafficking and smuggling was inevitable—healthy, even—in a port as large and central as Boston. The important thing was to ensure that it was managed and controlled. And if he and his men took a skim from the profits to make sure that control was maintained … well, they were serving the public good. Cormack kept the crazier criminal elements off the waterfront, and limited any violence to those who chose to play the game and break the rules.

Cormack always knew that he had the talent to handle the human aspect of controlling the union. He had a knack for balancing the ability to instill fear and the ability to inspire loyalty. What had surprised him was how much talent he also had for the administrative aspects of the job. He loved keeping track of the resources necessary to keep the harbor running smoothly—moving men around the piers and cargo around the shore, tracking units and tonnage and dollars. He handled almost all of it himself, with some help from Toby White, an assistant who’d been with him for years, and was always loyal. It was Cormack, though, who made it all fit together.

That was what he was doing when he heard Cookie call from the bar. “Skip!” Cookie yelled up the stairs.

“Yeah, Cookie?” Cormack called back.

“Down to the last few, here.”

“You thinkin’ ’bout last call, then?”

“I am, unless you’re not.”

“Nah, go ahead, Cook. Clear ’em out and clean ’er up. I have to touch base with Toby to schedule some men for tomorrow, but I’ve only got another half hour.”

“Aye, Skip,” Cookie called up. “Thanks.”