Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob by Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas Read Free Book Online
Authors: Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas
him, “You should read it.”
Winegar said, “I think we all saw the same thing.” But he read the report and was dumbfounded. The state police major told me he’d written that the black man was coming after me and I was defending myself. Winegar insisted that he saw it the other way.
The state police major said, “I’ve been a trooper for over twenty-five years. In my experience, he was defending himself.”
A week later, Jerome fired me, not Richie or Billy. And I got brought up on charges of assault and battery. This was my first time as a defendant, but the case got thrown out at a probable cause hearing in Southie. At that hearing, I met Billy O’Neil, one of the owners of Triple O’s, a popular bar in Southie, who had been brought up on charges of beating up a black cabdriver. It was Billy who offered me a job bouncing at Triple O’s and the chance to get to know James “Whitey” Bulger.
I had no idea then exactly what I was getting involved in. But I believed then, as I do now, that every time something negative happens in my life, something good will occur. It was time to begin a new chapter in my life. I never look back on anything that has happened to me and dwell on it. Not then, not now. It happened. It’s over. I have no regrets about any parts of my life, except for two mistakes: losing Pam and not being a better father to my two sons.
But in the winter of 1976, as I left South Boston High for the last time and traveled one mile to the doors of Triple O’s, I wasn’t entering a completely unfamiliar world. In the summer of 1974, I’d been bouncing at Flix, a nightclub in the Somerset Hotel on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. The club handled a rough crowd, and the owner had asked if eight of us would come in and clean up the place, which we did. There were lots of fights, and my friends and I were busy every night taking care of them. One night, after the bar had closed, someone rode by on the expressway and shot out the club’s windows. I have no idea if they were involved in the shooting, but a half-hour later, Jimmy came walking in with Stevie Flemmi. It was the first time I’d ever seen Stevie, although I certainly knew he was a member of the Winter Hill mob, and had been involved in the gang wars of the 1960s and 1970s. My friend gave the two of them a hard time at the door and told them the club was closed when the owner recognized Jimmy and Stevie and immediately let them in.
But that was not the first time I’d seen Jimmy. Six years earlier, when I was thirteen and sitting next to my brother Billy, who was driving my father’s car down Burke Street in the Old Colony projects, I had seen Jimmy walk out of the back of a building. It was summertime and he was by himself, wearing a short-sleeved, blue-and-white-striped shirt. He looked like he was in great shape.
“Stop staring at him,” Billy had told me. “He’s Whitey Bulger.”
“I know who he is,” I said.
TWO
MARRIAGE AND THE TRIPLE O’S
1978–1982
On Christmas Day 1978, at her parents’ house on East Fourth Street in South Boston, I gave Pam a ring. It was a nice ring and cost me around $3,000. I had no problem paying for the ring, since I was making some money by then. I put the ring in a box and tried to surprise her with it, but like most women she probably knew exactly when and what she was going to get. A year and a half later, on April 26, 1980, we got married at the Gate of Heaven Church in South Boston. Pam planned the big wedding, with eighteen people in the wedding party, and I just agreed with everything she said. She looked absolutely stunning. It took her longer to walk down the aisle of the church than for us to say the vows. As soon as the priest finished, everyone clapped loudly and I kissed the beautiful bride.
I’d always liked Pam’s terrific family, which includes her six sisters: three older sisters, Paula, Sue, and Karen; and three younger sisters, Marie, Michelle, and Christine. But you
Winegar said, “I think we all saw the same thing.” But he read the report and was dumbfounded. The state police major told me he’d written that the black man was coming after me and I was defending myself. Winegar insisted that he saw it the other way.
The state police major said, “I’ve been a trooper for over twenty-five years. In my experience, he was defending himself.”
A week later, Jerome fired me, not Richie or Billy. And I got brought up on charges of assault and battery. This was my first time as a defendant, but the case got thrown out at a probable cause hearing in Southie. At that hearing, I met Billy O’Neil, one of the owners of Triple O’s, a popular bar in Southie, who had been brought up on charges of beating up a black cabdriver. It was Billy who offered me a job bouncing at Triple O’s and the chance to get to know James “Whitey” Bulger.
I had no idea then exactly what I was getting involved in. But I believed then, as I do now, that every time something negative happens in my life, something good will occur. It was time to begin a new chapter in my life. I never look back on anything that has happened to me and dwell on it. Not then, not now. It happened. It’s over. I have no regrets about any parts of my life, except for two mistakes: losing Pam and not being a better father to my two sons.
But in the winter of 1976, as I left South Boston High for the last time and traveled one mile to the doors of Triple O’s, I wasn’t entering a completely unfamiliar world. In the summer of 1974, I’d been bouncing at Flix, a nightclub in the Somerset Hotel on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. The club handled a rough crowd, and the owner had asked if eight of us would come in and clean up the place, which we did. There were lots of fights, and my friends and I were busy every night taking care of them. One night, after the bar had closed, someone rode by on the expressway and shot out the club’s windows. I have no idea if they were involved in the shooting, but a half-hour later, Jimmy came walking in with Stevie Flemmi. It was the first time I’d ever seen Stevie, although I certainly knew he was a member of the Winter Hill mob, and had been involved in the gang wars of the 1960s and 1970s. My friend gave the two of them a hard time at the door and told them the club was closed when the owner recognized Jimmy and Stevie and immediately let them in.
But that was not the first time I’d seen Jimmy. Six years earlier, when I was thirteen and sitting next to my brother Billy, who was driving my father’s car down Burke Street in the Old Colony projects, I had seen Jimmy walk out of the back of a building. It was summertime and he was by himself, wearing a short-sleeved, blue-and-white-striped shirt. He looked like he was in great shape.
“Stop staring at him,” Billy had told me. “He’s Whitey Bulger.”
“I know who he is,” I said.
TWO
MARRIAGE AND THE TRIPLE O’S
1978–1982
On Christmas Day 1978, at her parents’ house on East Fourth Street in South Boston, I gave Pam a ring. It was a nice ring and cost me around $3,000. I had no problem paying for the ring, since I was making some money by then. I put the ring in a box and tried to surprise her with it, but like most women she probably knew exactly when and what she was going to get. A year and a half later, on April 26, 1980, we got married at the Gate of Heaven Church in South Boston. Pam planned the big wedding, with eighteen people in the wedding party, and I just agreed with everything she said. She looked absolutely stunning. It took her longer to walk down the aisle of the church than for us to say the vows. As soon as the priest finished, everyone clapped loudly and I kissed the beautiful bride.
I’d always liked Pam’s terrific family, which includes her six sisters: three older sisters, Paula, Sue, and Karen; and three younger sisters, Marie, Michelle, and Christine. But you
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