Brutal_ The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob - Kevin Weeks [110]
Then the three of us took a long walk, just three more assholes blending in with the rest of the assholes walking along the streets of New York. We stopped at a restaurant in one of the hotels and had an early dinner. After dinner, I turned around and came back on the train.
In late June 1995, I had to take off and get out of town for the summer. Paul Moore, a South Boston drug dealer who was paying us money, had been arrested and had started to cooperate. I had had dealings with Paul and knew there was an excellent chance I would get indicted. So I took off for the summer. I went to New Hampshire, to the Lake Win-nipesaukee area, and had a great time for myself. I had three different places to stay at, including one owned by my wife’s uncle. There were reports that I wasn’t around, and anyone looking for me would have had a hard time finding me. I spent my days swimming off the dock, cruising around the lake in a maroon-and-white Chaparral boat I bought with a 350-horsepower inboard/outboard motor.
Since there weren’t many pay phones available for use in the Lakes Region in New Hampshire, it wasn’t easy finding numbers to give to Jimmy to call me at. So I got myself a pair of hand phones, like the ones the linemen from the telephone company use, from a friend who worked for the telephone company. I’d find out the phone number of a local business. Then at night, when the buildings were closed, I’d clip the handset onto a junction box on the outside of the building where the telephone line came in, and Jimmy would call me there. The building was always closed then, so no one else was around and I could talk to him as long as he wanted, usually ten or fifteen minutes. I managed to do this at maybe four different buildings near the lake, so the two of us could stay in touch that summer. Every once in a while I’d sneak back into South Boston and take care of what I had to do and then head right back up to New Hampshire.
Finally, the first week in September, the superseding indictments on Jimmy and Stevie came down but I wasn’t mentioned. I came back to Boston a week later, relieved to have escaped another round. It was easier to talk to Jimmy at different pay phones back in South Boston. Every time we talked, he sounded great, upbeat, and not at all worried about his case. “A rolling stone gathers no moss,” he would tell me, which I assumed meant he was moving around the country, using calling cards in lots of different places to call me.
Finally, in the spring of 1996, a year since I’d last seen him, he asked me to meet him again in New York, “at the lions.” The purpose of the visit was simply to touch base with one another. I took the train and again had no trouble eluding the law. When I met him and Cathy at the public library, they both looked great. She had natural blonde hair, but it looked like she had lightened it a bit. It was obvious he was still keeping in shape. The two of them looked completely relaxed, like they were on vacation. He wasn’t one of those people who showed a lot of affection in public. He felt that was all for show, so they didn’t walk around holding hands. But you could tell he cared for her. And there was no question she cared for him.
It was a nice late May day and the three of us walked around Bryant Park behind the library and talked about what was going on with the case and in Southie. Then we grabbed a sandwich and a tonic from a nearby sandwich shop and walked around some more. Finally, around six, we headed back to Penn Station. Jimmy and Cathy walked me right down to the platform, where the three of us shook hands and I hopped on the train back to Boston. As always, when I was on the train, I didn’t allow myself to fall asleep, feeling the need to stay awake and be aware of my surroundings.
Right after that visit, I got some important news I needed to share immediately with Jimmy, but it turned out to be five weeks until he next contacted