Brutal_ The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob - Kevin Weeks [65]
When Theresa Stanley’s daughter Karen married hockey player Chris Nilan, the wedding at the Copley Plaza was equally as lavish, and Jimmy, like Stevie, spared nothing to make it so. The ceremony took place in a church, but the reception was at the hotel. There was a large crowd, which included all of the Montreal Canadiens, as well as lots of friends and relatives and many of Jimmy’s business associates. Theresa looked especially lovely that night, as did Karen, who was every bit as beautiful as her mother. Like Stevie, Jimmy provided an open bar, as well as expensive bottles of wine and Dom Perignon on every table. Karen and Chris raised their family in Hingham until they were divorced about ten years later.
Stevie loved women and was attracted to them in all shapes and sizes, so Jeannette and Marion were far from the only females in his life. A good-looking guy, he looked a little like Robert De Niro and always bought expensive clothes. He and Jimmy traveled all over Europe, Mexico, and the islands, bringing beautiful women with them. One of Stevie’s favorites, of course, was Debra Davis, whom he killed when she tried to leave him. His ego could never stand the thought of any woman leaving him. Jimmy could see a relationship end and say, “See you the fuck later.” He could walk away from the woman without feeling the need to kill her in order to keep his ego intact. But Stevie couldn’t do that. He couldn’t just say goodbye. He had to kill her. It’s funny, but people don’t think criminals have women problems like everyone else. Yet they do. But most criminals don’t handle this stress from women the way Stevie did.
You never knew what was going on in Stevie’s mind. Anyone who met him couldn’t help but like him, but you never knew when that nice manner was going to transform into his violent temper, which most often ended up in someone’s death. And you never knew when you were going to end up involved in his violent behavior. One morning in 1981, around 4:00 A.M., I got a phone call from Jimmy to meet him outside my apartment on L Street. I didn’t need him to tell me that this was going to be a business call, so I dressed appropriately. Jimmy always said nighttime was the best camouflage. And it was free—just there, waiting to be used. Heeding his advice, “dark clothes for dark deeds,” I threw on a black, long-sleeved T-shirt, black dungarees, black socks, black sneakers, and black leather gloves and waited outside for him. The blue Chevy Malibu pulled up a few minutes later, with Jimmy, of course, behind the wheel, and Stevie beside him. I hopped in the back and we drove in silence to Medford. Stevie looked pretty souped up and didn’t say much. When we pulled up to the house of Loretta Finn, one of his current girlfriends, I said to myself, “Oh, shit. This ain’t good,” figuring we might be going to help Stevie kill her.
When Stevie got out of the car and walked into the house, I asked Jimmy what was up. “You never know with Stevie,” he answered me. “He’s been fighting with Loretta. She’s lucky if he doesn’t kill her.” My thoughts exactly.
Loretta was a tall girl, about five-nine, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. Part Japanese, she was really gorgeous. But, surprisingly, she survived the night. Less than ten minutes after he went into the house, Stevie came out, this time carrying a bunch of fur coats and bags of jewelry. Without a word, he threw them all into the back seat beside me, got into the front, and off we went. Jimmy dropped me off around five, saying, “Get you tomorrow,” as I got out of the car. It was too late to try and go back to sleep, so I