Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob by Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas

Jimmy would always say, “Hi, how you doing?” when he passed by me at the door. He never sat at the bar, but stood in his customary spot at the end of the bar, his back against the wall, not anxious to attract attention. Over time, he engaged me more and more in conversation and got to know me better. He was aware of all the fights I was in, of the people who got hurt bad and had to go to the hospital. But when the two of us talked, it was never about crime. Rather, he would tell me to read, to work hard, and to stay out of trouble and away from alcohol. Avoiding alcohol was never a problem for me, since I wasn’t a big drinker. I think he liked the fact that I didn’t have any major bad habits. He also liked that I kept in good shape, still running nearly every day, working out regularly at the gym and in my house, and occasionally boxing.
    Some nights Jimmy, who was around forty-five then, would show up with good-looking women or young girls, anywhere from ages eighteen to forty. He never came in with the two women he shared two different homes with, Theresa Stanley, who was about ten years younger than him, or Cathy Greig, who was twenty years younger. He wasn’t much of a drinker and would spend the night nursing a vodka tonic or the same beer that sat in front of him all evening. For the most part, people kept a respectful distance and would walk by, nod, and keep on going, rarely if ever invited over. Plenty of guys had no idea who he was, which was how he preferred it. The last thing Jimmy wanted was for everyone to recognize his face.
    Over a period of three years, from 1975 to 1978, I could see that he was watching how I conducted myself in fights and how I handled the door. There was no doubt I had a temper and was quick to react when someone bothered me, but for the most part, I remained pretty easygoing. My objective at the door, however, was simple: Stop trouble before it came in. It was important to quickly recognize people who would become belligerent. Maybe I’d had problems with them before, in which case I wouldn’t let them in again. Even though they might be mad when I turned them away, eventually they would leave. I wasn’t nasty, but I would explain calmly that they couldn’t come in if they were drunk or had been barred. I also kept them out if they had phony IDs, or if I just didn’t like their demeanor and could sense they were going to be trouble.
    I made sure I was never a bully and never hit people just to hit them. But sometimes, when people deserved it, I hit them and I enjoyed it. Still, the only time I hit anyone was if they hit me first or hit or bothered someone else. Often strangers or out-of-towners who I’d never seen before would come in and start something. Then I had no choice but to get into the middle of the fight to stop it. I didn’t think about it; I just did my job. Even though some nights I was able to talk to people and calm them down, most often, I ended up physically throwing out the troublemaker. I tried to side with the regular customers, since they were the ones spending money, and toss out the person who had come in for the first time.
    One night I was at the door with another bouncer when a couple of brothers started a fight with us, just a drunken barroom thing. We had taken the fight outside when a third guy jumped out of a car and came running at us with a hatchet. Furious, I grabbed an aluminum baseball bat back inside behind the door and, defending myself, slugged him with it. As he went down, he dropped the hatchet and I picked it up, determined to give it back to him, but in my own special way. A minute later, he took off and I ran after him with the hatchet in my hands, catching up with him at Cardinal Cushing High School. Still angry at his attacking me, I planted his weapon in his shoulder blade and watched as his shirt turned red with blood. He ran away, the handle of the hatchet flopping up and down in the wind. I’d never seen the guy before and