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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when I came home at night and my clothes were bloody, from stabbing or fights or bouncing, my father wouldn’t ask me what happened. All he’d say was, “You all right?” and when I’d answer, “Yeah,” he’d say, “Give me your clothes,” and he’d throw them in the washing machine. He’d give them back to me when they were done and nothing else was said.
I still kept all kinds of weapons in my parents’ house—pistols, silencers, machine guns with silencers, assault rifles, hand grenades. Over the years, Jimmy had acquired a lot of weaponry, and I had also picked up a lot from the streets. People who had stolen guns were always looking to sell them. Jimmy also traveled to New York to buy some. My weapons were locked in the foot locker in my bedroom. When I told my father I’d move them out of the house, he shook his head. “If the cops come here looking for them, I’ll say they belong to me,” he said. “What are they going to do to me? Put me in jail?”
But seven years before that, there I was, sitting behind the wheel of Jimmy’s Delta 88 at the Mullins Club, staring at Jimmy in his Tow Truck and wig and mustache. This time, he told me to meet him down at Jimmy’s Harborside restaurant, and to be sure to back the car into the parking lot. I’d been at the Harborside no more than fifteen minutes when Jimmy pulled the Tow Truck in nose-first so our driver’s sides were facing, and handed me a walkie-talkie and binoculars. The Olds already had a police scanner. He told me that Halloran was sitting in the window of the Pier restaurant, about 400 yards away from where I was parked, so I’d need to get a little closer. When I was settled, I was to keep an eye on the restaurant and let him know when Balloonhead got up from his seat.
There was no doubt Halloran fit his code name perfectly, with his round, melon-shaped head that looked like it had been filled with a blast of helium. At six-four, he was powerfully built and barrel-chested, a big guy. If you ever see the movie The Brink’s Job with Peter Falk, made in the late 1970s, you might see Brian Halloran. I have no idea how Halloran got the role. Maybe from the Teamsters’ local? When Specs O’Keefe is in a jail scene, Halloran plays the prison guard who hits him from behind; the perfect role for this bully.
Before Jimmy took off, I noticed a man in the back seat of the Tow Truck, his face hidden behind a dark blue ski mask. He raised himself up and waved at me. I waved back with no idea who he was. Then I drove a short distance to Anthony’s Pier Four parking lot and backed in so I could see the whole front of the Pier restaurant across the street. By then it was five or five-thirty.
I sat in the car, the windows open, trying to look inconspicuous as I moved the binoculars from my lap to my eyes and stared into the window of the restaurant. I kept an earplug in my ear so I could listen to the police scanner without anyone hearing the chatter of the scanner through my open window. I kept wishing I had a hat to change my appearance so no one would be able to recognize me. Unfortunately, there were no hats in Jimmy’s Olds. From that day on, no matter what car I was driving, I made sure that I had a few hats available to put on at a moment’s notice.
That early in the evening, there was nothing particularly interesting coming through the scanner, just the typical domestic violence stuff and a few minor incidents. It’s funny, but an ordinary person might not pay much attention to a guy sitting in his car, staring at a restaurant through a set of binoculars. But a criminal would. I’d want to get his plate and find out who he was and why he was staked out there. But that spring evening, none of the people walking up and down the waterfront seemed interested in me or what I was doing. And I was grateful that I didn’t see anybody I knew.
So I kept sitting there, staring straight ahead, through the binoculars at the 100 feet separating me
I still kept all kinds of weapons in my parents’ house—pistols, silencers, machine guns with silencers, assault rifles, hand grenades. Over the years, Jimmy had acquired a lot of weaponry, and I had also picked up a lot from the streets. People who had stolen guns were always looking to sell them. Jimmy also traveled to New York to buy some. My weapons were locked in the foot locker in my bedroom. When I told my father I’d move them out of the house, he shook his head. “If the cops come here looking for them, I’ll say they belong to me,” he said. “What are they going to do to me? Put me in jail?”
But seven years before that, there I was, sitting behind the wheel of Jimmy’s Delta 88 at the Mullins Club, staring at Jimmy in his Tow Truck and wig and mustache. This time, he told me to meet him down at Jimmy’s Harborside restaurant, and to be sure to back the car into the parking lot. I’d been at the Harborside no more than fifteen minutes when Jimmy pulled the Tow Truck in nose-first so our driver’s sides were facing, and handed me a walkie-talkie and binoculars. The Olds already had a police scanner. He told me that Halloran was sitting in the window of the Pier restaurant, about 400 yards away from where I was parked, so I’d need to get a little closer. When I was settled, I was to keep an eye on the restaurant and let him know when Balloonhead got up from his seat.
There was no doubt Halloran fit his code name perfectly, with his round, melon-shaped head that looked like it had been filled with a blast of helium. At six-four, he was powerfully built and barrel-chested, a big guy. If you ever see the movie The Brink’s Job with Peter Falk, made in the late 1970s, you might see Brian Halloran. I have no idea how Halloran got the role. Maybe from the Teamsters’ local? When Specs O’Keefe is in a jail scene, Halloran plays the prison guard who hits him from behind; the perfect role for this bully.
Before Jimmy took off, I noticed a man in the back seat of the Tow Truck, his face hidden behind a dark blue ski mask. He raised himself up and waved at me. I waved back with no idea who he was. Then I drove a short distance to Anthony’s Pier Four parking lot and backed in so I could see the whole front of the Pier restaurant across the street. By then it was five or five-thirty.
I sat in the car, the windows open, trying to look inconspicuous as I moved the binoculars from my lap to my eyes and stared into the window of the restaurant. I kept an earplug in my ear so I could listen to the police scanner without anyone hearing the chatter of the scanner through my open window. I kept wishing I had a hat to change my appearance so no one would be able to recognize me. Unfortunately, there were no hats in Jimmy’s Olds. From that day on, no matter what car I was driving, I made sure that I had a few hats available to put on at a moment’s notice.
That early in the evening, there was nothing particularly interesting coming through the scanner, just the typical domestic violence stuff and a few minor incidents. It’s funny, but an ordinary person might not pay much attention to a guy sitting in his car, staring at a restaurant through a set of binoculars. But a criminal would. I’d want to get his plate and find out who he was and why he was staked out there. But that spring evening, none of the people walking up and down the waterfront seemed interested in me or what I was doing. And I was grateful that I didn’t see anybody I knew.
So I kept sitting there, staring straight ahead, through the binoculars at the 100 feet separating me
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