Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob by Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas Read Free Book Online Page B

hard work and I enjoyed the physical labor. Even though I wasn’t making great money there, I was getting all the benefits.
    But on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, I was working at Triple O’s, a dimly lit, smoke-filled place with booths for eating, as well as a long bar with stools. Local South Boston artists covered the walls with colorful cartoon drawings of Disney scenes and the Seven Dwarfs and some caricatures of Triple O’s regulars. Bartenders poured shots and waitresses served hamburgers and steak tips, along with cold sandwiches like ham and cheese. A small dance floor with a jukebox occupied a section of the bar. On weekends, a DJ or sometimes a live band came in. The place could hold over 150 people and was always busy, especially so on my nights. As soon as Gillette switched shifts at 4:30 in the afternoon, the place got packed. The corporate headquarters and factory for all the Gillette personal grooming products was right behind Triple O’s. At 9:00 P.M ., the Gillette people would filter out to go home and the locals would come in. There were all kinds of women there, from ages eighteen to sixty, looking to meet guys or spend the night with a date or just have a good time with friends. Southie girls always dressed up and looked great, pretty much staying in their own group, not mingling much with girls from other neighborhoods, such as Dorchester.
    Kevin O’Neil was about eight years older than me, and a businessman, good at making money. He was a large guy, around six-four and 320 pounds, with big hands and salt-and-pepper hair. An outgoing guy, he liked to laugh, and was a good friend of Jimmy’s. In 1981, when Kevin got married, I stood up for him at the wedding. His brother Billy, who I’d met at the South Boston Court House when we’d each been brought up on charges of assaulting a black person, was two years younger and a lot smaller than Kevin, at five-nine, 156 pounds, and ripped. It was Billy who had suggested I come to work at Triple O’s. The two of us got along great and often worked the door together.
    But despite the clusters of girls looking to meet guys and the Gillette workers, Triple O’s was a rough place, where the neighborhood guys hung out, drank, and settled scores. The drinking age was eighteen then, so I knew most of the younger crowd there. Fights broke out almost every night, especially on the nights I worked. Lots of these fights were the breeding grounds for grudges that later resulted in killings, perpetrated by patients with Irish Alzheimer’s, a disease where everything is forgotten except a grudge. Most often it was a fistfight that spun out of control, but other times, people would use baseball bats, knives, or serious weapons.
    My rapport with Jimmy began to form soon after I started working there. Hired, along with a bunch of my friends, to help out on St. Patrick’s Day, the rowdiest night of the year at Triple O’s, I was bringing in the beer and ice from downstairs when a fight broke out. There were eight guys working the door that night, seven of whom were my friends, and within seconds it was a full-blown free-for-all. All my friends were busy inside and outside, trying to take care of things. As soon as I got back upstairs, I jumped over the bar to help my friends and knocked out a couple of the worst troublemakers. Jimmy and Kevin O’Neil were standing there watching the whole scene. A week later, Kevin asked if I would work the door for $25 a night plus 10 percent of the tips of the waitresses and bartenders. I accepted.
    Jimmy came in a night or two over the weekends, always quiet, reserved, and polite, dressed neatly, usually in dungarees, cowboy boots, and a leather jacket. Most nights he spent talking with Kevin O’Neil, but sometimes he came in with Stevie Flemmi, the partner he’d teamed up with in the early 1970s. Often they were in suits, having just gone out on a date for dinner with the girls they brought into Triple O’s.