Read Online Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob by Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas
Ads: Link
guys at Triple O’s. Around five-ten, stockily built, and strong as an ox, he was about four years older than me. One October night, Kevin O’Neil wouldn’t let Yogi in the bar and the two of them had words. Outside the bar, as they continued their shouting match, Kevin punched Yogi in the mouth with a right hand. Yogi fell back a step or two before going after Kevin. Immediately I went after Yogi, and before we knew what was happening, the two of us were having an old-fashioned fistfight in the street in front of the bar. It was a weekend night and Triple O’s was packed, as were the other two bars within twenty yards of Triple O’s. It didn’t take long for all three bars to empty, and a crowd of over 150 people had gathered to watch the two of us.
As Yogi and I squared off, I was getting the better of him. But he hit me some hard shots and staggered me a few times, keeping it a fair fight. As the fight went on, I kept knocking Yogi down and he kept on getting up. At one point, I had hit him so much that he was bleeding from his nose and his mouth and had cuts over both eyes. Every time I hit him, blood would fly from someplace on his face and splatter over the people watching us. But Yogi would not stop and kept coming straight at me. Once, he caught me one shot in the throat and I found myself unable to swallow for a few seconds. The guy could hit. Finally, when I knocked him down for the fourth time, I figured that was it. I couldn’t believe it a few seconds later when he got back up and said, “Is that all you got?” That infuriated me so much that I started hitting him mercilessly.
Again he went down and I said, “Fuck this,” and got ready to end it for good and kick him in the face. I’d had enough of this crap. Suddenly, out of the crowd, a voice shouted, “No!” I turned around and it was Jimmy. “Fight him fair,” he told me. “He deserves it.”
When I let Yogi up, people were yelling at me to stop it because he was bleeding so much. Still the bastard wouldn’t quit and went right after me. Finally, I hurt him bad, he went down, and that was the end of it. Or so I thought. A minute later, Yogi was back up and, totally exasperated, I went after him. Just before I hit him, Jimmy said, “That’s enough,” and stopped me. “You’re going to kill him.
“Get out of here while you can still walk,” he told Yogi.
As Yogi walked away, he turned around to look at Jimmy and said, “Fuck you.” Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it over Yogi’s already battered head. This time, Yogi didn’t say a word. He just slowly and painfully staggered away.
I looked at Jimmy and said, “You told me not to kick him.”
“This was different,” he said. “He made it personal.”
As I walked back into the bar, all I could think of was the old saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Everybody else, except for Yogi and his friends, walked back into the bar. I cleaned up a bit, changed my shirt, and went back to work at the door.
The next day, it was all over town that the Triple O’s gang had beat up Yogi. He looked so bad that no one could believe one person could have done all that to him. A girl who worked as a waitress at Triple O’s was at her bowling league when Yogi’s friends started telling everyone that the bouncers at Triple O’s had jumped Yogi. “It was a fair fight,” the waitress told them all. “Just him and Kevin Weeks.” When a couple of people from Andrew Square who had been there also told the truth about what happened the night before, Yogi’s friends shut up.
There was no doubt Yogi was a tough guy who wouldn’t quit, and I knew if we fought again I’d have to pack a lunch, ’cause I’d be there for a while. A week later, Jimmy and I were at Lechmere’s in Cambridge looking at TVs when we spotted Yogi. “Here we go again,” I said to Jimmy, but Yogi walked up to me and stuck out his hand. His face was still swollen and discolored, and
As Yogi and I squared off, I was getting the better of him. But he hit me some hard shots and staggered me a few times, keeping it a fair fight. As the fight went on, I kept knocking Yogi down and he kept on getting up. At one point, I had hit him so much that he was bleeding from his nose and his mouth and had cuts over both eyes. Every time I hit him, blood would fly from someplace on his face and splatter over the people watching us. But Yogi would not stop and kept coming straight at me. Once, he caught me one shot in the throat and I found myself unable to swallow for a few seconds. The guy could hit. Finally, when I knocked him down for the fourth time, I figured that was it. I couldn’t believe it a few seconds later when he got back up and said, “Is that all you got?” That infuriated me so much that I started hitting him mercilessly.
Again he went down and I said, “Fuck this,” and got ready to end it for good and kick him in the face. I’d had enough of this crap. Suddenly, out of the crowd, a voice shouted, “No!” I turned around and it was Jimmy. “Fight him fair,” he told me. “He deserves it.”
When I let Yogi up, people were yelling at me to stop it because he was bleeding so much. Still the bastard wouldn’t quit and went right after me. Finally, I hurt him bad, he went down, and that was the end of it. Or so I thought. A minute later, Yogi was back up and, totally exasperated, I went after him. Just before I hit him, Jimmy said, “That’s enough,” and stopped me. “You’re going to kill him.
“Get out of here while you can still walk,” he told Yogi.
As Yogi walked away, he turned around to look at Jimmy and said, “Fuck you.” Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it over Yogi’s already battered head. This time, Yogi didn’t say a word. He just slowly and painfully staggered away.
I looked at Jimmy and said, “You told me not to kick him.”
“This was different,” he said. “He made it personal.”
As I walked back into the bar, all I could think of was the old saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Everybody else, except for Yogi and his friends, walked back into the bar. I cleaned up a bit, changed my shirt, and went back to work at the door.
The next day, it was all over town that the Triple O’s gang had beat up Yogi. He looked so bad that no one could believe one person could have done all that to him. A girl who worked as a waitress at Triple O’s was at her bowling league when Yogi’s friends started telling everyone that the bouncers at Triple O’s had jumped Yogi. “It was a fair fight,” the waitress told them all. “Just him and Kevin Weeks.” When a couple of people from Andrew Square who had been there also told the truth about what happened the night before, Yogi’s friends shut up.
There was no doubt Yogi was a tough guy who wouldn’t quit, and I knew if we fought again I’d have to pack a lunch, ’cause I’d be there for a while. A week later, Jimmy and I were at Lechmere’s in Cambridge looking at TVs when we spotted Yogi. “Here we go again,” I said to Jimmy, but Yogi walked up to me and stuck out his hand. His face was still swollen and discolored, and
Similar Books
