Read Online Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob by Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin Weeks; Phyllis Karas
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he had a child with him. When I shook his hand, he said, “Fair fight,” and that was the end.
The fight turned out to be one more thing to enhance my reputation at the door. But I was glad that Jimmy had stopped me from booting Yogi. If he hadn’t screamed at me to stop, I would have hurt Yogi bad and probably been pinched for using a shod foot.
But that was far from the last time that Jimmy tried to tone down my punches. One summer night, Jimmy and I were driving from Castle Island on East Broadway past the South Boston Vietnam Memorial. As Jimmy took a right onto M Street, we found a car double-parked in the middle of the street. Jimmy stopped and the two of us were waiting while the kid in the double-parked car talked to someone leaning into his window. Jimmy strongly dislikes beeping horns because they draw the attention he shuns, but he gave his horn a light toot, which was a big deal for him. When the kid waved to him, Jimmy said, “Pull over.”
“Go around me,” the kid in the car said.
“I can’t,” Jimmy said. “You’ve got the street blocked.”
When the kid ignored him, Jimmy touched the horn again, a little bit heavier than before. “Go around me,” the kid repeated.
“I’ll go through you,” Jimmy said.
The kid gave him the finger and said, “Go fuck yourself.”
Jimmy got out of the car and, naturally, I got out, too. He went over to the driver’s side of the car and started arguing with the kid to move his car. The kid gave him another finger, opened his door, and started coming toward Jimmy, swearing all the while. He was maybe five-ten, regular-sized, and probably in his early twenties. And pretty damn stupid. Jimmy looked at me and said, “Kevin, hit him.”
I hit him a left jab in the mouth, and when the kid went down, I tossed him into the back seat of his car. His friend took one look at the kid and one look at me, and quickly moved the car out of the way and all the way down the street. I didn’t think it had been a hard jab, but the kid had gone down quickly. The next thing we knew, a bunch of his friends came running over from the park on M Street. When Jimmy and I turned around and started going after them, they all came to an abrupt stop and took off in the opposite direction.
An hour later, Jimmy and I pulled up to Triple O’s and found Kevin O’Neil outside. He told us that a motorcycle cop named Luongo had been down there looking for Whitey and Kevin. Kevin kidded him, insisting he must be looking for Whitey McGrail, a South Boston guy who owned a bar. The cop smiled at the joke but told him they’d just received word that Whitey and Kevin had hit this kid and knocked his teeth out. “I just want to let them know,” the cop had told Kevin.
It turned out that the father of the kid, whose name was Frank Bolstad and who came from City Point, the more affluent section of South Boston from G Street down, was a Capitol cop who guarded the State House, and his mother was a crossing guard. His folks were all upset and knew it was Jimmy and me who had done this to their kid. Someone reached out to Jimmy, and he ended up paying $1,600 for the kid’s dental work, which included a bridge for his missing front teeth.
Later, Jimmy said to me, “Why did you hit him so hard?”
“You told me to hit him,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t tell you to hit him that hard,” he answered.
When I looked at him and said, “Now, we’re gonna have degrees of hitting?” he just started laughing. I still can’t figure it out. It was just a jab, not a powerful punch. Maybe the teeth were loose to begin with.
But there were fights when I didn’t use my fists, like the one involving Chucka Devins’s brother Franny. Chucka, who was a little older than me, around six feet tall and heavyset at 280 pounds with brown hair, was always easygoing, laughing and enjoying himself. He worked at the door at Triple O’s with me. One night when I was standing at the door, he got a phone
The fight turned out to be one more thing to enhance my reputation at the door. But I was glad that Jimmy had stopped me from booting Yogi. If he hadn’t screamed at me to stop, I would have hurt Yogi bad and probably been pinched for using a shod foot.
But that was far from the last time that Jimmy tried to tone down my punches. One summer night, Jimmy and I were driving from Castle Island on East Broadway past the South Boston Vietnam Memorial. As Jimmy took a right onto M Street, we found a car double-parked in the middle of the street. Jimmy stopped and the two of us were waiting while the kid in the double-parked car talked to someone leaning into his window. Jimmy strongly dislikes beeping horns because they draw the attention he shuns, but he gave his horn a light toot, which was a big deal for him. When the kid waved to him, Jimmy said, “Pull over.”
“Go around me,” the kid in the car said.
“I can’t,” Jimmy said. “You’ve got the street blocked.”
When the kid ignored him, Jimmy touched the horn again, a little bit heavier than before. “Go around me,” the kid repeated.
“I’ll go through you,” Jimmy said.
The kid gave him the finger and said, “Go fuck yourself.”
Jimmy got out of the car and, naturally, I got out, too. He went over to the driver’s side of the car and started arguing with the kid to move his car. The kid gave him another finger, opened his door, and started coming toward Jimmy, swearing all the while. He was maybe five-ten, regular-sized, and probably in his early twenties. And pretty damn stupid. Jimmy looked at me and said, “Kevin, hit him.”
I hit him a left jab in the mouth, and when the kid went down, I tossed him into the back seat of his car. His friend took one look at the kid and one look at me, and quickly moved the car out of the way and all the way down the street. I didn’t think it had been a hard jab, but the kid had gone down quickly. The next thing we knew, a bunch of his friends came running over from the park on M Street. When Jimmy and I turned around and started going after them, they all came to an abrupt stop and took off in the opposite direction.
An hour later, Jimmy and I pulled up to Triple O’s and found Kevin O’Neil outside. He told us that a motorcycle cop named Luongo had been down there looking for Whitey and Kevin. Kevin kidded him, insisting he must be looking for Whitey McGrail, a South Boston guy who owned a bar. The cop smiled at the joke but told him they’d just received word that Whitey and Kevin had hit this kid and knocked his teeth out. “I just want to let them know,” the cop had told Kevin.
It turned out that the father of the kid, whose name was Frank Bolstad and who came from City Point, the more affluent section of South Boston from G Street down, was a Capitol cop who guarded the State House, and his mother was a crossing guard. His folks were all upset and knew it was Jimmy and me who had done this to their kid. Someone reached out to Jimmy, and he ended up paying $1,600 for the kid’s dental work, which included a bridge for his missing front teeth.
Later, Jimmy said to me, “Why did you hit him so hard?”
“You told me to hit him,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t tell you to hit him that hard,” he answered.
When I looked at him and said, “Now, we’re gonna have degrees of hitting?” he just started laughing. I still can’t figure it out. It was just a jab, not a powerful punch. Maybe the teeth were loose to begin with.
But there were fights when I didn’t use my fists, like the one involving Chucka Devins’s brother Franny. Chucka, who was a little older than me, around six feet tall and heavyset at 280 pounds with brown hair, was always easygoing, laughing and enjoying himself. He worked at the door at Triple O’s with me. One night when I was standing at the door, he got a phone
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