Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob (13 page)

Jimmy told me that for eighteen months he was either injected with the LSD or given it as a liquid. He said it made him crazy and unable to stand the thought of a needle ever again piercing his skin. It was also the reason he never got a good night’s sleep and still woke up screaming in the middle of the night and frequently suffered hallucinations. He had no idea exactly what the LSD had done to his brain, but its aftereffects stayed with him long after his last shot. He’d been sent to jail in 1956 with a twenty-year sentence and ended up doing nine, rather than the twelve that he most likely would have served without his participation in that experiment. Not sure it was worth it.

I’m also not sure if Dr. Pfeiffer ever cured one schizophrenic or if the CIA got its truth serum, but I do know that out of the eighteen prisoners who took part in the experiment in Atlanta in the hope of shaving a few years off their sentences, some went stark raving mad and some even committed suicide. Jimmy had been a pretty violent guy when he’d gone into prison at age twenty-six, so it would be hard to determine just how much more vicious he became as a result of the LSD.

Besides the nightmares and insomnia and hallucinations and maybe a shade more violence in his system, Jimmy left prison with an insatiable hunger for knowledge. He rarely passed a bookstore without going in to check out the latest books, usually buying at least one each time. He especially liked true crime, World War II, and history books on the Vietnam War. Some of his favorites were
The Tunnels of Cu Chi
, about the Vietnam War, and
Murder Machine, A True Story of Murder, Madness and Mayhem,
an interesting book about Roy Demeo, a New Jersey/New York criminal. He’d read the true crime books carefully, often at night when he couldn’t sleep, looking to find some insight into police operations, anything that would give him an edge in his constant attempt to keep one up on the law. He’d make special note of the techniques of bugging operations, as well as the specific equipment criminals might use. In the past, he’d been in touch with other high-powered criminals such as Mickey Spillane and Tommy Devaney from the Westies, from New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, who’d come up to Boston to help him out years earlier during the South Boston gang wars. He’d often hand a book over to me, telling me what he’d found worthwhile in it, or insist on buying me a copy at the bookstore. An avid reader myself, some I liked and some didn’t hold my interest.

Our discussions about current affairs were never one-dimensional. We’d talk about politics, particularly the Kennedys, all of whom he despised because of their busing stance. Since his brother Billy was such an influential politician and president of the Massachusetts State Senate, Jimmy stayed away from politics, anxious not to shed light on any connection between the two of them. Jimmy and I often discussed history, education, and business, even legitimate business, like our investments in the stock market. We both made some money when someone told us RYKA, a Massachusetts women’s sneaker company that was later absorbed by another company, would be a good investment. We often talked about how much time and effort we put into being criminals, as well as into not getting caught. We discussed how, if we had legitimate jobs, we would have made more money with the same amount of time and effort. And we would have enjoyed the money so much more. We even talked about the possibility of getting into a legitimate business, but it was too late in our lives for that. We were too well known by law enforcement to make such a change.

It’s important to understand that our relationship was not just focused on crime. Yeah, it took up most of our time, but there were lots of stretches when we weren’t doing stuff and were simply sitting around. Some of those times, we sat around and laughed and joked and had a good time. But many of these days were just downright boring. We’d go for a walk around town, for some exercise, but also to let our presence be known. We always had to look formidable, never meek. We worked out and kept in shape. We’d let certain people have a look at Jimmy and know that he was around. Many times, the only thing we’d do during an entire day and night would be to pick up some envelopes containing rent and stuff, keeping ourselves busy for no more than an hour. The rest of the time, we’d just keep our eyes on what was happening around us and our ears tuned into what people were saying and who was doing what. But then when something happened, it was adrenaline time—and a relief not to be bored any longer.

But there was always plenty of time to talk about the many topics that interested Jimmy and how they affected legitimate people, like unemployment. Jimmy was concerned with social injustice, especially with what busing was doing to the people of South Boston. Nothing got him more aggravated.

Even though I was twenty-four and he was fifty-one when we began to work closely together, our relationship never seemed like father–son, boss–employee. From the earliest years, I felt we were associates. We would exchange ideas and more times than not thought alike. He was surprisingly open-minded, listening to people for four to five hours at a time, considering it well worth his time if he gleaned one bit of information or one piece of knowledge from that conversation, usually filing it away or learning more about it. It wouldn’t necessarily be information having to do with crime. We could be sitting on a bench and he would turn to a person sitting nearby and strike up a conversation, curious as to where the guy came from and what he did, genuinely interested in him. And not just so he could relieve the guy of his money.

This made him different from most criminals, who were one-dimensional, thinking about nothing but crime. Sure, he was all the things people said he was: a killer, fierce, forceful, dangerous. But he was also fair, respectful to people and their opinions, treating most of them courteously. If someone was right or had a valid point or opinion, he gave them credit for their attitude. Sometimes he did things that I didn’t understand, but I knew he had his reasons, and I would never question them. I never tried to figure out why he didn’t like certain people or question his opinions. Again, I figured he had his reasons. I also knew he’d never ask me to do anything that he wouldn’t do himself, and I was never afraid to do anything he asked, no matter what it was. I learned early on how things could change rapidly with Jimmy, how a person could say the wrong thing and his whole standing would change. I was surprised also to learn that, unlike Stevie, Jimmy considered violence the last step. But once he made up his mind to use it, that was it. If you put him to that point, there would be no talking. Someone was going to be badly hurt or murdered.

One of the first things Jimmy taught me was to consider the long-range ramifications of whatever we did. The idea of committing a crime was to get away with it. He wasn’t interested about the next six months, but rather with how things would work out years down the road. There were lots of scores we would pass on because the percentages weren’t there. Sure, we could take the person down, but Jimmy always thought about what that action would mean later on. What might this person do in a few years? What kind of life did he lead? If he got pinched and needed an out, would he give us up? Every extortion, every dealing, every action, large or small, was carefully thought out far beyond the present moment.

One of the scores we passed on was a home invasion involving a vault with thirty million dollars in it. It was brought to us by another fellow who I had little doubt would be looking to give us up if anything went wrong. I was also worried that there would be a lot of heat and we would be the fall guys. Jimmy and I talked about it for a week or so and finally scrapped the plans. No one else took the job, and neither of us ever regretted our decision.

Most times we worked with a regular schedule, but the hours could be long. Because of his nightmares and insomnia, Jimmy was not an early riser and rarely came in before 3:30
P.M
. Then we’d take care of business: loan-sharking, shakedowns of drug dealers, accepting money that was dropped off, collecting other money owed, all the illegal activities, plus running the stores and bar we were involved with. In addition to the furniture/appliance store that I owned with Kevin O’Neil and the Court’s Inn bar that Jimmy and I bought, Jimmy, Stevie Flemmi, and I bought a liquor store in South Boston in 1983 and the Rotary Variety Store and the building that housed it at 309 Old Colony Avenue a year later. At the beginning, I would come down to one of the stores at eight in the morning to take care of what needed to be done. Later, I started coming in around noon and stayed till five. After his rounds, Jimmy would usually go to Theresa’s for dinner. Then, around nine, he’d call me and tell me where to meet him. He had code names for each of the stores, which was usually where I would meet him, hop into his car, and drive somewhere, staying out till midnight or later. Sometimes we worked on Sundays, too, but mostly it was a six-day-a-week job, so that he could spend Sunday with Theresa and her family and the evening with Cathy. And I could spend some time with Pam and the kids.

Jimmy always tuned into the weather reports, making sure we used the bad weather to commit certain crimes. Since most people stay in when the weather is bad, the only people out usually have their heads down or are carrying umbrellas and not paying attention. All they want to do is get where they’re going quickly. If we had to do some criminal activity, like moving guns, hurting someone, or meeting someone without being followed, Jimmy would check the weather forecast and plan accordingly, since these plans always worked better when it was raining or snowing.

Many nights, after midnight, when bars were closed and only crooks or cops were out, we’d pack it in and go home, rather than draw attention to ourselves at that hour. During a typical day, we’d put in around six hours, but if something was going on, it would be longer. But I was more than well paid for the time I spent working with Jimmy. Working at Triple O’s and the MBTA, I had been making around $800 a week clear. Once I had been working with Jimmy for a year or two, I was making thousands a week, and that didn’t include scores from shakedowns and extortions that would bring in additional lump sums. As the years went on, I figured I made between five and seven million, while Jimmy pulled in least thirty to fifty million.

With a lot more money to be enjoyed, I had no trouble finding ways to spend that money. Like buying new cars. In 1979, I was driving a blue Audi Fox, but I got rid of that and bought a 1980 Thunderbird. After that, every year I bought a new car, a Lincoln, a Cadillac, or a Pontiac, whatever I wanted. Even though I spent my money on clothes and jewelry, I didn’t do much traveling, preferring to take a vacation to play paintball. Jimmy was never happy when I went to tournaments all over the country or to the Caribbean. He worried that I was not thinking about the business or could get hurt. But I won many of these tournaments and found them relaxing, exciting, and competitive, as well as a chance to meet interesting people and get a good workout.

Jimmy and Stevie took vacations together, traveling to Europe or to Florida with different girls. I never traveled with them, but it was a vacation for me when Jimmy was away. Then I could take care of what had to be done and wouldn’t have to head out every night. It was a chance to relax and not be on twenty-four-hour alert for business concerns.

Jimmy’s health was pretty good, but he did have an occasional attack of arrhythmia. When I went with him to see his doctor at Massachusetts General, Dr. Pakau said it was nothing to worry about, that he was just experiencing a little stress. His advice to Jimmy was to simplify his life, so Jimmy cut down from four major women in his life to just two, Theresa and Cathy. We both agreed that the most stress in a man’s life came from women, who create more stress than complicated and danger-filled business deals. All the stuff and rumors that questioned Jimmy’s sexuality were lies spread by the media. He had more women than Hugh Hefner. Guys like Donald Trump weren’t even in his league. Whenever we went out to bars and clubs, women of all ages were after him. “Variety is the spice of life,” he’d say as he enjoyed all of them.

But nothing was more important to Jimmy than business, and he never ceased to ponder all aspects of it. He spent a lot of time teaching me how to deal with the people in our business, stressing the importance of never leaving them with a bad feeling and never socializing with them. He’d tell me to always remember that we were not dealing with regular people, that we couldn’t be nice to the people we did business with. They were criminals. When you’re dealing with regular people, you’re nice to them, they’re nice to you. While there were some criminals who might be regular, normal people who happened to be involved in criminal activity, you had to remember that they, too, were criminals. “No one is happy about paying you,” he told me. “Don’t ever think you’re their friend. Some of these people don’t understand anything. You can’t reason with them. Then you have no choice but to use violence to make them understand.”

He had his own unique way of dealing with people when things went wrong. It was fascinating to watch how he could come down on someone, reduce him to the ground verbally, putting him in his place and degrading him completely. But then he would slowly bring the guy back up, so ultimately the guy left with a good feeling, understanding exactly what he had to do to improve himself, how he had to work hard, save money, and stay away from drugs and gambling.

But there were some people Jimmy simply didn’t like at all, and these people were rightfully afraid of him. As a criminal, he made a point of only preying upon criminals, as opposed to legitimate people. And when things couldn’t be worked out to his satisfaction with these people, after all the other options had been explored, he wouldn’t hesitate to use violence. Certainly, if he thought there was a chance of this person coming back to cause some harm, there was no sense in bothering to give him a beating. He might as well fucking kill him. And he did.

Tommy King, in 1975, was one example. Although I was nineteen at the time and not yet working for Jimmy, he told me the whole story. Tommy’s problem began when he and Jimmy had words at Triple O’s. Tommy, who was a Mullins, made a fist. And Jimmy saw it. The next day, Tommy went to the Old Harbor projects where Jimmy was living with his mother and tried to make amends. He said he had been drunk and hadn’t meant anything he had said the night before. Jimmy told him, “Don’t worry about it. Forget it.” A week later, Tommy was dead.