Brutal_ The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob - Kevin Weeks [109]
Lots of people were coming up to me and saying, “Tell him I said hi.” I couldn’t say okay because if one of these people were working for the law, it would show that I had knowledge of Jimmy’s whereabouts or had contact with him. Then law enforcement would indict me for aiding and abetting.
If I saw his brother Billy, I’d say, “Everybody is doing good,” and he could draw his own conclusions. I would never want to jeopardize Billy or put him in a compromising position. I considered it plausible deniability. I was saying something without saying the words.
But most nights, around six, I’d leave the store, get dinner, and head back out afterward. Most Tuesday nights, I’d play pool in a league for four hours or so. Thursday nights, I’d play cards. They were friendly games where we would enjoy the action and have some fun while killing a night.
Obviously, I wasn’t making as much money as before, since my operation was smaller now. I still had a few drug dealers and bookmakers who were paying me or giving me a cut. I had my gambling and loan-sharking businesses, as well as the sports business with guys working for me to take bets on football games. But after the indictments, we’d pulled our horns in. Things were a lot quieter on the streets in Southie.
I was also visiting Stevie in Plymouth once a week at the beginning, and then maybe every two or three weeks. But he was calling me every night asking me when I was coming up, talking about the case and what was happening in court. I didn’t like talking on the phone at all. I was afraid he might say something accidentally on the phone, where every conversation from prison was recorded. I felt like he was making me a target by calling me every day.
When I visited him in Plymouth, we’d sit separated by the glass partition and talk on the phone. There would be no physical contact. Despite what some of the newspaper reports said about Stevie, things were pretty bad at Plymouth. The food was terrible and he had lost weight. You had to remember that Plymouth was a federal holding facility, where you’re being detained until trial. It wasn’t a state joint like Norfolk where things were much better and you had more facilities, and there was more to do to occupy your time.
But Jimmy had been right about Stevie. He wasn’t doing well in prison. Whenever we’d talk about Jimmy, he’d always say, “It’s better for my case that the other guy is out there. Tell him to stay free.” There was no doubt that the whole atmosphere of the trial and everything would be changed if Jimmy had gotten caught. It would be more of a media event than it already was.
Although I was hearing from Jimmy pretty regularly, at least once a week, and often two or three times a week, I had no idea where he and Cathy were. And I wouldn’t ask. In May 1995, he called to ask me to meet him “at the lions” in New York. So I took the Amtrak out of Dedham to Penn Station, and had no trouble getting on the train without being followed.
When I got to New York, around one o’clock, I met Jimmy and Cathy “at the lions,” which referred to the two statues of lions in front of the main branch of the New York Public Library, on the corner of 41st Street and Fifth Avenue. Cathy looked great, as usual. She was still taking good care of herself and seemed as happy and pleasant as ever. Jimmy wore boots, a dark three-quarter-length jacket with a drawstring at the waist, slacks, a baseball hat, sunglasses, and no gloves. No change in his appearance from how he dressed in Southie.
Sometimes Cathy would stand off to the side to give Jimmy and me a chance to talk privately. Mostly we talked about the case and what was happening. He was now using his ID as Thomas Baxter and was confident about the way things were going. He’d heard from whoever else he was in contact with now that the case on him was falling apart, thanks to bickering between