Brutal_ The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob - Kevin Weeks [37]
Around nine, Jimmy beeped me and told me to bring his car to Theresa’s and pick him up. When I pulled up, he got into the driver’s side and I moved over to the passenger side. As always, we didn’t talk in the car, assuming it was wired. Jimmy was back to his usual self, wearing his regular clothes, no mustache or wig. He drove us to the scene of the crime to look for a hubcap that had fallen off the Tow Truck, taking a right up the viaduct ramp that led to the old World Trade Center and driving right back down to where they had all the police lights set up in the crime scene. We saw the hubcap just where he thought it had landed, right at the corner by the curb, less than a quarter of a mile from where the police had set up the crime scene. Jimmy had to take a series of rights to get on the viaduct but when he got to the spot, I jumped out, grabbed the hubcap, and threw it in the back seat of the Olds. If the police had found it, they could have linked the model of the car and maybe found a print on it. Not that I was worried about that. You just didn’t get worried around Jimmy, maybe because he had plenty of nerve. Too much nerve. Everybody around him absorbed his energy. Since he was fearless, you assumed you were going to get away with it. And we did.
From there, we drove to Stevie Flemmi’s mother’s house, a two-story at 832 East Third Street. Stevie had the whole house done over for his parents and put in a modern kitchen with all up-to-date equipment. It was a good-sized room with a glass-topped kitchen table that seated four people. There was also a parlor with a couch and a TV across from the kitchen, along with a formal dining room and a bedroom with a bathroom on the first floor. On the second floor were two bedrooms and a bathroom. Mary Flemmi, a short, plump lady, probably in her seventies, her black hair in a bun, wearing a simple housedress, was busy moving around the kitchen making dinner. Her husband, John, was already in bed, but she was delighted to feed the three of us. She spoke good English, with a slight Italian accent, a friendly little lady who liked everybody and loved to cook up a big meal. I’d eaten over there before, as had Jimmy. That night Jimmy spoke to Mary for a few minutes, as usual, polite and warm to her.
Stevie and Jimmy stayed in the kitchen, talking about the day’s events, but I went into the parlor, which was right next to the kitchen, to catch the latest news and see what they were saying about the murder. While Jimmy was explaining to Stevie what had happened, I could see Stevie, wearing dungarees and a shirt, punching his hands together. He was bullshit that he hadn’t been there. I didn’t know him that well then, but as I got to know him I understood that Stevie enjoyed a good murder.
In that way, Stevie was just like Jimmy, who killed people every which way there was—stabbing, strangling, shooting, beating them with bats, changing up all the time, with no rhyme or reason, using whatever method he thought was the best way to kill that particular person. To my knowledge, Jimmy killed at least forty people. But that night, I could feel that things were different between the two of us. Jimmy knew it, too. He’d always said that once a murder was committed, we were all hostages to one another. From then on, I was as tied to him as he was to me.
When I went back into the kitchen to eat, Mary was still busy taking stuff off the stove and putting it on the glass table in bowls, making sure we all ate everything. Jimmy kept telling her how delicious the food was and what an excellent cook she was. Not that every visitor to this house on East Third Street got to spend such a pleasant evening at Mary’s house. Certainly not her son’s beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde,