Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob by Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas Page A
Authors: Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas
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never saw him again, but I was certain he ended up in an emergency room, trying to explain the huge wound in his back.
Some nights, I bartended and bounced. Before we were married, I brought in Pam, who started out as a waitress and then filled in at the bar. She made a terrific bartender, but because she was so beautiful, guys were always trying to hit on her. Knowing my temper, Pam never wanted me to get into fights, so she wouldn’t tell me if someone grabbed her. But still, whenever I saw anything, I ended up knocking the guys out, breaking their jaws and teeth or splitting their faces open. It wasn’t good for business to have her behind the bar and me at the door! Once she got pregnant with our first son, she stopped working.
Working on the T—Boston’s subway system—and still bouncing, I wasn’t making a lot of money, but I could see that Jimmy was getting more comfortable with me and was bringing me around to his world slowly and cautiously, having me meet the people in his circle, all the people he dealt with. I understood from the beginning that he wasn’t the kind of person who took a shine to someone overnight, that he would never just jump into something. If he was going to work with someone, he wanted to know exactly what he was getting before he moved even a small step forward.
But as he’d talk to me a bit more each night, he was taking pains to get to know me better. One afternoon, in 1978, right after he told Nicky Femia, one of his associates who was doing coke and getting out of hand, to go his own way, he asked me to get in the car with him and drive around. From then on, the two of us rode around more and more, often in his blue Chevy Malibu or Ford sedan, often for a couple of hours after I got off work at the T and before I started at Triple O’s. His cars were always fast cars, never registered to him, and had police scanners and toggle switches for the lights so the interior light wouldn’t go on, but they were nondescript and never stood out. Police scanners were pretty much standard operating procedure for most cars, but Jimmy didn’t listen to the Boston police. Mostly he listened to the FBI, the DEA, and the State Police signals.
One night when I wasn’t working at Triple O’s, Jimmy suggested I take a drive with him and another guy. Immediately I got a little nervous and began to wonder if I had done something wrong. The three of us had been driving around for a half-hour or so when Jimmy pulled over to pick up a kid in his early twenties at a bar on East Broadway. When the kid got into the back seat with me, I still didn’t know what was going on. I knew I’d been in a lot of fights. Maybe I’d hit the wrong person.
Then Jimmy started yelling at the kid for supposedly smacking his niece and pulled over to the park at M and Third streets. Then I understood what was happening. And it had nothing to do with me. Right away I saw that the kid had a buck knife in a sheath, which he tried to cover up. But Jimmy turned around, saw the knife, grabbed it off him, and slashed him across the throat with it, using the blunt side. Jimmy looked at me, and I got into it, punching the kid, busting his nose, and knocking out his teeth. Blood poured out of his nose and mouth. Then Jimmy reached into the kid’s back pocket and pulled out a police-type leather sap. As he beat the kid with the sap, he managed to hit me as much as he was hitting the kid. My hand swelled right up, but I didn’t notice it till afterward.
The kid ended up crouched in a fetal position on the floor of the back seat. Jimmy then drove back to the bar on East Broadway and dumped him out in front of the bar so everyone could see what had happened to him. After the kid stumbled into the bar, his friends came storming out, shouting, “Who did this?”
Jimmy and I were standing there, and I knocked out the first one who ran out. “Anyone else want to bother my niece?” Jimmy asked, and they all went back into the bar.
Some nights, I bartended and bounced. Before we were married, I brought in Pam, who started out as a waitress and then filled in at the bar. She made a terrific bartender, but because she was so beautiful, guys were always trying to hit on her. Knowing my temper, Pam never wanted me to get into fights, so she wouldn’t tell me if someone grabbed her. But still, whenever I saw anything, I ended up knocking the guys out, breaking their jaws and teeth or splitting their faces open. It wasn’t good for business to have her behind the bar and me at the door! Once she got pregnant with our first son, she stopped working.
Working on the T—Boston’s subway system—and still bouncing, I wasn’t making a lot of money, but I could see that Jimmy was getting more comfortable with me and was bringing me around to his world slowly and cautiously, having me meet the people in his circle, all the people he dealt with. I understood from the beginning that he wasn’t the kind of person who took a shine to someone overnight, that he would never just jump into something. If he was going to work with someone, he wanted to know exactly what he was getting before he moved even a small step forward.
But as he’d talk to me a bit more each night, he was taking pains to get to know me better. One afternoon, in 1978, right after he told Nicky Femia, one of his associates who was doing coke and getting out of hand, to go his own way, he asked me to get in the car with him and drive around. From then on, the two of us rode around more and more, often in his blue Chevy Malibu or Ford sedan, often for a couple of hours after I got off work at the T and before I started at Triple O’s. His cars were always fast cars, never registered to him, and had police scanners and toggle switches for the lights so the interior light wouldn’t go on, but they were nondescript and never stood out. Police scanners were pretty much standard operating procedure for most cars, but Jimmy didn’t listen to the Boston police. Mostly he listened to the FBI, the DEA, and the State Police signals.
One night when I wasn’t working at Triple O’s, Jimmy suggested I take a drive with him and another guy. Immediately I got a little nervous and began to wonder if I had done something wrong. The three of us had been driving around for a half-hour or so when Jimmy pulled over to pick up a kid in his early twenties at a bar on East Broadway. When the kid got into the back seat with me, I still didn’t know what was going on. I knew I’d been in a lot of fights. Maybe I’d hit the wrong person.
Then Jimmy started yelling at the kid for supposedly smacking his niece and pulled over to the park at M and Third streets. Then I understood what was happening. And it had nothing to do with me. Right away I saw that the kid had a buck knife in a sheath, which he tried to cover up. But Jimmy turned around, saw the knife, grabbed it off him, and slashed him across the throat with it, using the blunt side. Jimmy looked at me, and I got into it, punching the kid, busting his nose, and knocking out his teeth. Blood poured out of his nose and mouth. Then Jimmy reached into the kid’s back pocket and pulled out a police-type leather sap. As he beat the kid with the sap, he managed to hit me as much as he was hitting the kid. My hand swelled right up, but I didn’t notice it till afterward.
The kid ended up crouched in a fetal position on the floor of the back seat. Jimmy then drove back to the bar on East Broadway and dumped him out in front of the bar so everyone could see what had happened to him. After the kid stumbled into the bar, his friends came storming out, shouting, “Who did this?”
Jimmy and I were standing there, and I knocked out the first one who ran out. “Anyone else want to bother my niece?” Jimmy asked, and they all went back into the bar.
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