Brutal_ The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob - Kevin Weeks [63]
Stevie and I waited upstairs until it got dark out and Jimmy pulled a station wagon, with its back seat down flat, into the driveway at the side of the house. The three of us carried each body into the wagon, which we called the hearse, and drove off. Master criminal that he is, Jimmy had already figured out exactly how we would dispose of the bodies. We’d spent days riding around scouting out possible locations before he finally chose a wooded spot, a gully overlooking the Southeast Expressway, across from Florian Hall on Hill Top Street in Dorchester. At the time we had the DEA all over us, but we never had any problem losing them.
The night before we took the bodies out of East Third Street, the three of us had gone to that wooded spot, predug a hole six feet wide and eight feet deep, filled ten duffel bags with dirt, stuck them back in the hole, and piled the remaining dirt on top of them. Jimmy even put a twenty-dollar bill under a rock on top of the dirt so we would know if anyone had spotted the grave. He left nothing to chance.
On Halloween night, after we arrived at the selected spot, Jimmy checked to see if his twenty-dollar bill was still there. When he saw that it was in the exact place, under the rock, where he’d left it, he put it in his pocket and we took the bodies out of the hearse before he drove it to a nearby spot. While he was gone, Stevie and I carried each body over to the little wooded area. When Jimmy got back, the three of us took turns on watch, with one of us working the police scanner and holding the grease gun, a cheaply made World War II machine gun fitted with a silencer, just in case anyone stumbled upon us while we were burying the bodies. Jimmy went on watch first while Stevie and I began to replace the duffel bags with the three body bags. As we were transferring the bodies out of the bags into the hole, Bucky’s head got loose again and rolled out of the bag. This time I had to push it into the hole with my foot.
The whole time we were working, a big Halloween party was going on across the street at Florian Hall, spilling out into the parking lot. Twenty yards from us, people were parking and heading to the party. While I was lying facedown with the gun and Stevie and Jimmy were busy at the hole, a kid got out of his car maybe twenty feet from us. We had been real quiet, so I was sure he hadn’t heard or seen us. All he did was relieve himself, since he’d obviously been drinking, and then got back in his car and drove away. After the kid left, Jimmy was a little upset with me for letting anyone get that close and not killing him. He would never have taken a chance and would have shot him the minute he stepped out of his car. “There’s plenty of room in the hole for the kid,” he told me. But there had been no reason to kill the kid. He hadn’t seen anything. That kid never knew how lucky he was that it was me on the gun, not Jimmy.
Anyhow, we finished up burying the bodies right there under everybody’s noses. One of the body bags ended up with a broken zipper and couldn’t be used again, so we tossed it into the hole with the three bodies. When we were through, about forty-five minutes after we’d gotten there, we stuffed nine of the empty duffel bags inside the tenth bag and carried it, along with the two body bags, back to the hearse. Later, after I got into my own car, I pulled off my boots and tossed them out the window onto the Expressway. When I got home, I threw all my clothes into a garbage bag and got rid of it in a Dumpster behind the Stop & Shop in Dorchester. But for three days, I could still smell the stench from the bodies in my nostrils. It was a pretty gruesome, rough night, but I don’t think much about it anymore. It had to be done. And that was just the way it was.
SIX
STEVIE FLEMMI
I first met Stevie Flemmi in 1974, the night he and Jimmy walked into Flix, a downtown bar where I was bouncing. I knew Stevie’s reputation as Jimmy