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Louie’s family wouldn’t have thought that was funny. The day after Jimmy took care of Louie, his nephew went to the South End to pick up his uncle’s car. When he got back to Southie, he opened the trunk to get his golf clubs and found his uncle. No one was ever tried for Louie’s murder, but now Halloran was putting himself at the scene.

Halloran told the FBI he had driven down to Triple O’s with Louie and that Jimmy and someone else were there when he dropped Louie off. He said Jimmy and that other person had killed Louie and carried him out the back door. Strangely enough, Jimmy told me, “Louie’s last words to me were a lie.” Apparently Louie had insisted that he’d come by himself and that no one had driven him over. It was hard to figure out why Louie lied to Jimmy that night. If he’d told Jimmy that someone had driven him, he might have gotten a pass. But it wouldn’t have lasted long, since Jimmy had no intentions of letting Louie run wild.

Now Halloran was playing just as dangerous a game as Louie. And making fatal errors. The worst mistakes were coming back to Boston and trusting the FBI. Of course, FBI agent John Connolly was feeding Jimmy all the info about Halloran. Jimmy and Stevie talked about it in front of me, saying Halloran was lying, at least about the Wheeler case.

Figuring it was just a matter of time until Halloran was taken off the streets and put in Witness Protection, Jimmy went looking for him. I assumed we were just going to brace him, read him the riot act, but let him go. After all, if the FBI didn’t believe him, why should we have to take him out? But I was new to the game and didn’t understand all the ways in which Jimmy’s mind moved. Nor did I know all the goings-on with the Wheeler murder. Twenty-six years old then, I was still holding onto my job at the MBTA, working from seven to four, laying track. I’d also been working for Jimmy for five years, and after work I would head over to the Broadway Appliance and Furniture store on F and West Broadway that I now owned with Kevin O’Neil to meet Jimmy and ride around with him for a few hours, collecting envelopes and beating up people. Even though Jimmy and I had opened a bar on F and West Second called Court’s Inn, I was still bouncing some nights and weekends at Triple O’s, from nine to two. I had more than a few jobs, but I needed the dough. At that time I was a married man and planning on starting a family.

And I had other responsibilities, too. Every Thursday, from the time I’d graduated South Boston High and begun to work full-time, I’d go over to the house in the Old Colony projects at 8 Pilsudski Way, apartment 554, second floor, to give my mother an envelope. That was the right thing to do. I gave her cash, usually a couple hundred each week, most of it money made working illegally from Jimmy. She was still suffering from her severe arthritis and other health problems. My father had a bad heart and couldn’t work much. Ma was grateful for the money and always said, “Thank you.”

My mother had heard things about me, but she chose not to believe them. Once I was involved in a fight with a kid who pulled a gun on me, then jumped in his car and took off. I hopped into my car and followed him, each of us shooting at the other through the windows. He drove through the Old Colony projects, right by 8 Pilsudski Way, and I was still shooting at him out of my car window. My mother looked out the window and started yelling to my sister Patty to call the police. When Patty told her, “Ma, that’s Kevin,” Ma said, “Oh, my God!” and moved away from the window.

Anyhow, the day Jimmy went looking for Halloran, I’d just gotten off work at the T, and was still dressed in my work clothes—dungarees and work boots. I was talking with Jimmy down at the Broadway Appliance store when John, a capable fellow from Charlestown and an old Winter Hill associate of Jimmy’s, stopped by to shoot the shit. Casually, he mentioned that he’d just spotted