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Where’s Whitey?

Kevin Weeks & Phyllis Karas

FAL Enterprises, LLC

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means without written permission from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in connection with a review for insertion in a newspaper, magazine, website, or broadcast.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data is on file with the publisher.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 9780983751571

Printed & bound in The United States of America.

Produced by FAL Enterprises, LLC

www.falenterprises.com

This book is dedicated, with love, to Anna, who has taught me what’s important in life.

—KEVIN WEEKS

To Toby Bondy, my sister, my best friend.

—PHYLLIS KARAS

INTRODUCTION

When we finished this book, the last thing we imagined happening was that two days after publication, Whitey would be found. Talk about life imitating art. Talk about a dream—or a nightmare—coming true. We had always envisioned Whitey reading the book on a gorgeous beach somewhere. Not in a jail cell, where it appears likely his copy will now be heading.

But James ‘Whitey’ Bulger’s story has never been predictable. Fascinating, incomprehensible, brutal and sensational? Yes. But, predictable? No way.

Still, despite the real life ending of Whitey’s story (if one can actually believe that this is the final chapter in his life; some of us do not agree), this book has more credence and importance than ever before. It provides the most plausible and detailed explanation of some of what this unpredictable man has been doing for the past 17 years. Yes, he spent much time in Santa Monica, but there was a life beyond the confines of that apartment building.

Reading this novel, as stories of Whitey’s travels on the run trickle out of the courtroom, provides a two-dimensional view that no one who’s experienced even a small iota of interest in this incomparable story would want to miss. Life is stranger than fiction . . . or is it?

Kevin Weeks & Phyllis Karas

CHAPTER 1

Joey, Lynn, MA, 1986

When Jimmy calls to tell me he’ll pick me up at the convenience store in an hour, I have a feeling something’s up. Just the way he sounds, nothing specific, but my antennae are raised. Chances are this is not going to be a relaxing ride to pick up a couple of envelopes.

Sure enough, when I get into Jimmy’s dark-blue 1986 Chevy Caprice and see Stevie in the passenger seat, looking especially energized, his nostrils flared ever so slightly, I know my gut feeling is right on target.

‘We’re going to take a little ride to Lynn, Joey,’ Jimmy tells me as I slide into the back seat behind Stevie, more comfortable with him in front of me. During the more than ten years I’ve worked with Stevie and Jimmy, I’ve never taken Stevie’s unpredictability lightly. I’m aware how dangerous and violent these guys (both twenty years older than me) are, but I’ve always felt more at ease with Jimmy. Or at least more aware of how his brilliant Machiavellian mind works. Stevie is less complex: his answer to any problem, to any insult or slight, is a simple and unwavering one: Kill him. To Stevie, killing is more than just a part of the business—it’s a pleasure he would rarely, if ever, deny himself.

But this early afternoon we head out of South Boston, north over the Mystic River Bridge and along crowded route 1A, through Chelsea and Revere to Lynn, three rundown cities with excessively high crime rates. Even though Revere and Lynn border on the Atlantic, with long stretches of attractive beaches, crime has managed to pollute the cities far more than waste contaminates the ocean.

Inside the Chevy, however, the closer we get to Lynn, the clearer the reason for our little road trip forty minutes out of Boston becomes. Always cognizant of the fact that the car might be bugged, Jimmy turns the radio on and says in almost a whisper, ‘We’re going to pay a little visit to Richie Lambodosi.’

As we drive across the Lynn way, which resembles one used car lot after another despite a few obscured views of the ocean, he explains the situation. It seems Richie’s been coming up short a lot these days and Jimmy knows he’s holding bets. Last weekend he had a friend of ours put in some large bets with him. When the office called Richie to take all his bets, two of those large bets didn’t appear—and that’s when Jimmy decided we would confront him.

We find Richie’s house, a neat little single family on a cul-de-sac not too far from Union Hospital, and wait around the corner for him to come home. Once we see him steer his shiny new, dark-green Cadillac Coupe Deville down the street and amble into his house, Jimmy calls to tell him that he wants to talk to him from a phone booth outside the hospital.

‘Sorry, but I can’t come to Southie today,’ Richie tells him. ‘I got something going on, but I’ll come in tomorrow.’

‘No problem,’ Jimmy says. ‘We’re right near your house. Just come outside and we’ll pick you right up.’

Sure enough, five minutes later I move over behind Jimmy and Richie slides into the backseat beside me. In his early fifties, he’s been in the business for a long time. Over the years, I’ve played a little poker with him and found him to be a likeable enough guy:

a little loud, but a pretty decent card player.

‘How ya doing, Joey?’ he asks and smiles uneasily at me.

I nod, looking straight into his eyes. He’s a short guy, kind of stocky, with thinning black hair, wide floppy ears, small narrow dark eyes and a bulbous nose. Today he’s wearing loose-fitting dungarees and a yellow polo shirt and it’s not hard to see he’s not his usual easy-going self. After all, he’d have to be brain-dead not to be concerned when the boss shows up at his house to take him out for a little ride. No one who knows Jimmy’s reputation would be pleased at this turn of events. Yet again, Jimmy switches the radio to loud just in case some overzealous DEA agents have been successful in their typically futile attempts to install a bugging device in his car, then starts in with him.

‘You’ve been coming up short,’ he tells Richie, his voice pretty calm. ‘You owe us $22,000.’

‘People haven’t been paying me, Jimmy,’ he replies. I can see he’s getting more nervous, abandoning any attempt to act natural, squirming a little in his seat, stealing glances towards the door to his right as if planning an escape. It’s a cold November day but he’s starting to sweat big time.

‘You’re a liar,’ Jimmy tells him, his voice sharp and angry now, but still softer than the sounds emitting from the blaring radio. ‘You had two bets last week: one for $2,500 on LSU on Saturday and another for $5,000 on the NY Giants on Sunday. Neither one was on your slip.’

He’s staring straight ahead at the road in front of him but his hands grip the wheel tightly, the knuckles white and rigid. Wearing his trademark black leather jacket and jeans plus baseball cap and his eyes, as always, covered by sunglasses, Jimmy looks a good twenty years younger than his actual age, fifty-eight. Thanks to a religious schedule of exercising daily, there’s not an ounce of fat on his 5'8" muscular frame and while he exercises perfect control over his workouts, his temper knows no boundaries when riled.

‘People have been placing bets but not paying me,’ Richie says, stammering now, glancing even more longingly at the car door. ‘I just wanted to make some more money to pay you back what I owe you.’

Jimmy pulls the car off sharply to the side of the road, a dead-end street close to what looks like a deserted leather factory, so forcing Richie up against the precious escape door that is all too firmly locked. Turning off the motor and gritting his teeth, he turns to face his prisoner.

‘Where’s my money?’ he demands.

You can see the anger as one corner of his mouth curls up ominously and his face becomes a menacing shade of red. As he rips off his sunglasses and tosses them onto the centre console, his eyes are an icy shade of blue.

‘I have problems,’ Richie groans. ‘My daughter Angela is getting married and I’ve no money to pay for the wedding.’

‘We all have problems,’ Jimmy tells him, his steely eyes fixed on Richie’s face. He shakes his head as if to dispense with a pesky fly. ‘But you’ve made a lot of money these past years so I’m asking you again: where is my money?’

‘Just give me a little time,’ Richie says, practically squealing now. ‘I’ll get it. I swear, I’ll get it!’

His eyes still glued on Richie, Jimmy pulls out a two-inch barrel .38 and tells him simply: ‘I want my money today or I’m going to kill you.’

‘Then shoot me,’ says Richie, his body slumped against the back of the seat, brushing against my shoulder.

I avert my eyes and stare instead at Stevie, who has turned round in his seat and is gazing enviously at Jimmy, wishing, I’m sure, that he could be the one administering justice. Then I scoot closer to the left. You’d have to be a fool not to see what’s coming.

‘You’ll be doing me a favor, Whitey.’

With that, Jimmy says, ‘Good! Glad to help you out,’ and shoots him through the right eye.

As Richie slumps in his seat, blood sprays across the rear window, some of it splattering onto my face. The funny thing is none of us flinches. After a while you just get used to the noise and the smell of the sulfur from the gunshot. I glance down at Richie and see a hole where his eye was. Already, his blood is beginning to slow to a steady trickle.

Luckily, the bullet exited downwards into the back seat so it didn’t blow out the back window but it’s still a mess everywhere, with blood and brains all over the car. Quickly, I push the body down onto the floor and tear off my sweatshirt, leaving my T-shirt on. I use my sweatshirt to wipe the blood from the window as best I can, saving the sleeve to clean my face.

Stevie just glances at the mess, winks at me and then turns to face forward as we start to drive away.

Driving down the Lynn Marsh Road, Jimmy pulls the Chevy onto an unpaved street that leads directly to a swampy area overgrown with weeds and discarded beer cans. It’s clear from the way he’s driving that he’s been here before—and I doubt just to throw away a beer can. I jump out to make sure no one’s around but I can see nothing except the distant tracks for the commuter train that carries North Shore residents to North Station. I’m certain that even if a speeding train were to come barreling down the tracks, none of its passengers would be able to see us.

Stevie and I pull the body out, grabbing a leg and an arm apiece, and drag Richie about fifty feet away, where we dump him quickly and unceremoniously into the weeds.

Driving back to South Boston, Jimmy turns the radio back on. It’s real loud again: this time Nat King Cole sings ‘Ramblin’ Rose.’ Though my ears are still ringing from the pistol shots, my companions are in high spirits and can recount every detail of the earlier scene.

‘Did you see the way his whole body started to shake when you asked where your money was?’ Stevie asks. ‘The poor bastard was too stupid to realize he was gone the minute he put his foot into the car.’

‘It was like looking at a bull’s-eye,’ says Jimmy, obviously delighted with his handiwork. ‘I got him right square in the middle of his eyeball. Perfect hit!’

‘The blood spurted out like a fucking geyser,’ laughs Stevie, shaking his head merrily. ‘It was beautiful!’

‘Sure was,’ Jimmy agrees.

Stevie starts to laugh. ‘Guess he didn’t know you don’t like to be called Whitey,’ he says. ‘Big mistake.’

Though I add a few words here and there, I’m content to sit back and let the other two complete their post-mortem. It’s the part they really enjoy. If Stevie had his way, he’d be in the marshes dissecting the body right now. He’d make a great pathologist—or even a mortician.

All the way home, the mood in the car is pure elation. The two guys have spent the past hour doing what they love most, taking care of business in the most vicious manner available. Nothing beats this for either of them.

As soon as we get back to South Boston, Jimmy parks the Chevy in a garage he’s kept for years on K Street. He takes a navy nylon jacket out of the trunk and hands it to me. After I shove my bloodied sweatshirt into a bag he finds in the trunk, I put on the jacket and the three of us walk down Eighth Street to the Old Colony Projects, where my car is parked. I’m feeling pretty good, anticipating a quiet evening now that Jimmy’s lust for blood has, for the time being anyhow, been sated. I figure we’ll grab a nice dinner in Boston, probably just the two of us, or else he’ll decide to go home and have dinner with Terry and her kids, in which case I’ll go find Jeannie and spend the night with her.

I’m not feeling particularly remorseful over what’s just happened in Jimmy’s car: Richie was a player, he knew the rules, he gambled that he could break them—and lost. As for my role in his murder, I recognize that as an accessory, I’m just as guilty as Jimmy. It’s possible, though improbable, that I might have done something to prevent the murder, but I didn’t: Jimmy could just as easily have turned the gun on me, had I given him any reason to do so. I doubt he ever would but then I wouldn’t take such a risk over someone like Richie. There are winners and losers in this game and Richie was in every way a loser.

CHAPTER 2

Whitey, New York, 1999

I’m working out in our New York hotel room when Cathy comes in with the news. It’s just a few minutes after six and I’m about through with lifting weights.

‘I saw it on the television,’ she tells me, her voice slightly breathless.

She’s wearing a fluffy yellow terrycloth bathrobe, her short blonde hair wrapped in a towel. Her skin is pink from the bath she took and as always, she looks fabulous.

‘You’ve been named on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, Jimmy: “James Whitey Bulger wanted for nineteen murders”. My name’s there, too.’

She stops for a moment and studies my face. I shrug and she goes on, her voice a little softer now: ‘They also say you were an FBI informant, as well as the head of the South Boston mob.’

I’m not surprised: my contacts have been warning me for weeks that the FBI was going to list me. As for the informant shit, that’s no big shock either—the surprise is that I hid it so well for thirty years. Now all that means is there’s no one I can get in touch with—certainly not Joey—who I bet couldn’t believe his ears. Too bad I never found the words to tell him myself—he deserved that.

I study her face. She’s trying to play the game the way I like it, cool and collected. You have to give the woman credit—in so many ways, she’s made for this life. I put down the weights and sit on the nearest chair.

‘Yeah, no big surprise,’ I casually mutter.

She folds down onto the floor beside my chair and leans her cheek against my leg. I’m sweating through my warm-up suit but that doesn’t seem to bother her.

‘How does this affect us?’ she asks.

‘Not much,’ I answer. ‘We’ve always been careful, there’s nothing I’ll do any different.’

She’s quiet and I know what she’s thinking. You don’t spend almost every minute of the day and night with a woman for more than six years and not get to know exactly what’s on her mind.

‘Okay, things will be different,’ I admit and she sighs softly. ‘There’s money out there.’

‘A million dollars,’ she says.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’ll count for something.’

‘And your picture will be on that Most Wanted show all the time.’

‘That, too.’ I wish she’d let it go. Usually she knows when to back off, but this is different: it’s her face out there on the bull’s-eye, too. ‘But I’m prepared for this—it’s been six years since we took off. Hell, I hardly recognize you sometimes. We’ll be okay, trust me. They’re never going to find us.’

She positions herself closer and I feel her shoulders begin to relax against me.

‘I know, Jimmy,’ she tells me, ‘but I get scared sometimes. I like our life the way it is, I don’t want it to change and I couldn’t bear to have anything happen to you.’

But I don’t want to hear this. ‘I’ve got to change and make a call,’ I tell her, although with the FBI on the case, there’s no one I can call right now.

Despite what I said, things are different: It’s true none of this is a surprise, but it’s still going to mean a major change for us. I stand up, maybe a bit too roughly, and she nearly falls over but I’m out of there and into the shower before she can say anything. When I get out, she’s sitting on the bed reading some goofy paperback novel, the towel gone from her wet hair, her bathrobe tightly belted. The TV is on mute but I can see it’s a news show.

‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ I say.

She looks up and smiles.

‘Sure,’ she says and then glances back down at her book. She’s smart, real smart. She probably knows there’s no one I can call, that I’ve got to cut off all contact with anyone back home, but I need to get out of the room to think . . . by myself.

The hotel we’ve been staying at for the past two weeks is not too far from Times Square. It’s the typical place I’ve always favored: small, clean, no doorman but all the amenities we need and a clientele that doesn’t spend a lot of time checking out the latest headlines. Sure, I could afford to stay in the most luxurious hotel in the city but even before my face was plastered on FBI ‘Most Wanted’ posters, I was careful to avoid places with nosy doormen or guests who have the time and smarts to know what’s going on in the world outside their door.

From now on I need to be extra-careful. Today’s news might draw the attention of even the guests in this undistinguished hotel. For the next hour, I wander up and down the streets in and around Times Square, ignoring the crowds, the throng of traffic, the constant blasting of car horns and peddlers trying to unload carts filled with cheap knock-offs. Thinking, strategizing . . . Already I’d made a plan for this day, which I knew would arrive but I need to think it over one last time before I put it into effect.

We’ve got to get out of New York. Not a good idea to fly anywhere, though. Better drive to a small town, like Louisiana, down south where the living will be easy and we can find a small place to rent for a few months and hang low. She’ll like it there: people will be friendly and we’ll fit right in—we’re good at that. We’ll take off tonight. Soon. I’m paid up for the rest of the week, so the desk clerk won’t be concerned to learn we’re suddenly leaving. Besides, I heard him say he himself was leaving for a new job tomorrow so his replacement will never have seen me—a stroke of luck right when I can use it.

As I’m heading back to the hotel, I think about what Cathy said: nineteen murders. Oh yeah, so that’s what they think, huh? No surprise that Stevie gave me up for some of them. Nineteen was just the beginning but that doesn’t matter. Not one of them, not even the women, is worth spending a second over. A bunch of them deserved to die. Hell, a lot of them were trying to kill me. Nineteen, thirty, forty, whatever . . . they’re all dead but I’m alive and walking round Manhattan, free as a bird.

As I approach the hotel, I have a fleeting thought: would I be better off without her? Maybe now. She’s great company, she’s smart and she takes good care of me, but things have changed and I need to consider every angle. When I get back to the room, her hair is perfect, she’s dressed and packed . . . and looking more beautiful than ever before. She’s staring hard at me as I walk in and I think how easy it would be to do what I probably should.

‘Let’s go, baby,’ I say. Then I grab my leather bag and her coach bag and head back out the door.

CHAPTER 3

Cathy, Tennessee, 1999

‘Check the map,’ he tells me.

We left New York eleven hours earlier and he’s been driving through the night. A couple of times we stop to use restrooms and pick up some food, but he’s as alert as if we took off just a half-hour ago.

‘We’re outside Knoxville,’ I tell him and he nods. ‘About twelve hours from Shreveport.’

‘Can you go that long without checking into a motel?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ I insist, ‘I’m fine.’

This is one of my favorite things: driving in the car with Jimmy, just the two of us heading somewhere new. The world races by our windows as we travel together, snuggled up like carefree lovers; no one in any of the cars we pass ever suspects who we are. There’s an excitement to this life that makes me feel so completely alive. Before we left Boston, I spent a lot of time thinking about being on the run with Jimmy, but when I mentioned it to my twin sister Karen she thought I was nuts.

‘How would you be able to sleep at night?’ she asked. ‘Any minute a policeman could come knocking on your door and take you away to jail or worse, kill you.’

I tried to explain that I never thought like that; that I had complete faith in Jimmy, that he was smarter than any cop we might run into, that he planned things so meticulously there wasn’t any chance of a problem. But I didn’t dare admit to her that ever since I’d seen Bonnie and Clyde, I’d imagined life on the run, with the man you loved, had a thrill you’d never find anywhere else. Sure, the ending of the movie was horrific but what a life they led. Of course Karen would’ve had me institutionalized if I’d ever told her that.

Maybe she would’ve been right. Perhaps there is something wrong with me, something that will never let me be happy with some ordinary guy who leads an everyday type of life: we could be living in a neat little house in the suburbs, raising a couple of cute kids. I knew from the beginning that Jimmy wasn’t going to give me that kind of life but I still wanted him more than anything else. Guess you can’t control your heart. I look over towards him for a long minute and somehow I just know, crazy or not, that I’m right where I want to be.

‘Good,’ Jimmy says and switches the radio to another news station (except for one mention of him, there’s been nothing about Whitey Bulger on any radio broadcast). ‘You’ll like Shreveport,’ he continues, taking a handful of organic carrots from the open bag between us and chewing thoughtfully. He looks so good today, dressed in his neat jeans and open blue-and-white striped shirt, the sleeves folded jauntily at the elbows—I never tire of looking at this guy. ‘I scouted out a couple of possible places when I was there a couple of years ago. It’s a friendly place—easy to get lost and have a good life.’

‘Should be nice and warm for the winter,’ I say. ‘I like the idea of swimming in December, just might buy myself a new bikini.’

He nods, but he’s not paying any attention to me: he’s always lost in thought when he drives. I’m staring out the side window, imagining a nice sunny beach when he starts to talk again. It’s like he’s thinking out loud, talking more to himself than to me. ‘I’m thinking maybe we should take a ride back to Boston,’ he says, a mocking smile forming on his lips. ‘I might want to pay a visit to some old acquaintances.’

‘Would you really want to do that?’ I ask, instantly excited at the thought of seeing my mother and two sisters. ‘Even with the Feds looking everywhere for you—why risk going back there?’

‘I have my reasons,’ he says, his smile wider now. ‘Maybe I can convince a few people to disappear and then the case itself will disappear altogether.’

With that he starts to laugh, a loud evil laugh.

Now I’m feeling nervous: I know what he means when he uses the word ‘disappear.’ Jimmy rarely tells me anything about business and he never discussed it when we were with Stevie or Joey but I’m not a fool: I know the three of them did dangerous and bad things together, but the less I know the better. That way I could never be implicated in any of their crimes but now I’m curious: ‘What would you do, Jimmy? Give them money to take off?’

He laughs even louder. ‘Yeah, something like that,’ he says. ‘I should have done it before.’ At this he’s no longer laughing, though he looks relaxed and pleased with himself. ‘And I’ll take care of that little problem when the time’s right. But hey, forget it! It can wait. We’ll just enjoy ourselves around here and do some more sightseeing.’

With that, I glance at him, wondering if there’s anything that can unnerve this man. Somehow I don’t think so.

‘It might have been nice, though, to have seen some old friends, hey?’ he asks, pulling out to pass the car in front of us to my surprise. Jimmy drives so slowly he rarely has to pass anybody; says the last thing he wants is a speeding ticket, but I worry we’ll be pulled over for going under the speed limit.

‘Like Terry?’ I ask, instantly regretting my words but somehow unable to stop them from coming out. ‘To see if she’s ready to go back with you?’

He grips the steering wheel tightly and I know I’ve gone too far, but Terry’s the one subject that drives me crazy.

‘You’re here now, Cathy, aren’t you?’ he asks coldly, his eyes staring straight ahead at the road.

‘That’s ’cause she got tired after two months,’ I say, louder than I intended.

‘I knew she would,’ he tells me, ‘but I had to give her the chance. We’d been together too many years not to give her that. You know all that, Cathy. Enough already.’

‘Stevie,’ I say, anxious to change the subject. ‘Would you want to see him?’

‘Oh yes, I’d definitely want to see him,’ he says, his voice even, but ice-cold. ‘Not that he surprised me: I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle jail, that he’d give me up if they put him away. I told him all about Alcatraz and Leavenworth and Atlanta, but he wouldn’t listen—he probably spat it out the first day we were informants. Like that was going to help his case, like they’d say he was innocent of any crimes he committed while an informant.’

He’s silent for a long time, driving slowly again.

‘Hell, we killed guys for doing what Stevie and I did with the FBI,’ he finally proclaims.

And that’s all he says until we get to Shreveport.

CHAPTER 4

Whitey, Louisiana, 2000

It’s a warm late summer’s evening and I’m driving down a two-lane highway outside Shreveport, Louisiana. There’s a sense of freedom in driving that I don’t get anywhere else; must be all those years in prison with the walls around me that makes me want to climb into a car and just drive. Anywhere.

Nothing’s quite so good as heading to places I’ve never been before. Taking in all the sights: the landscape, the birds and dogs at the side of the road, Mom and Pop stores along the way, noticing the different ways people dress and talk. Wherever we go, there’s something new to learn. Cathy won’t stop asking if I’m tired, if I want her to drive. Like I’d let her behind the wheel. Hell, I never let Stevie or Joey do that. I’d never give anyone that kind of control over my life and certainly not now. If I’m going to get caught for a traffic violation, I’ll know how to handle it behind the wheel.

The road’s virtually empty tonight but I’m sticking to the speed limit. Cathy’s beside me, jabbering about a movie she saw this afternoon, something silly about two guys and a baby. I barely follow what she’s saying. My mind’s preoccupied with what happened in the fruit store earlier that day.

It was probably nothing, but I can’t be positive. Cathy was busy checking out the peaches and I was picking out a couple of lemons when I noticed a woman staring at me. She wasn’t obvious but I could tell from the way she moved her head slightly to the right as she pushed her shopping cart next to ours that she was more interested in the two of us than the organic fruit. Middle-aged, she was maybe forty-five and pencil-thin; nicely dressed, with a considerable amount of expensive jewelry on both hands. First, she glanced quickly at me, then a few seconds later towards Cathy. She got busy with some cherries, but I could see she was distracted. Cathy, smart as a fox, sensed something was going on and calmly pushed the shopping cart away. Less than three minutes later, the two of us were outside the store minus the fruit.

‘Probably nothing,’ I told her and she shrugged her shoulders as she got into the car and we drove off.

‘I think you would have liked the movie,’ she’s saying now. I would have hated it and she knows it, but she’s in her usual happy, good-natured mood and I see no reason to pull her out of it. So I nod and she goes on. And I finally put the fruit store incident out of my mind. It’s not worth worrying about.

She’s describing the cute little baby in the dumb movie when I notice a police cruiser in my rearview mirror. When the red lights beam onto the rear window, Cathy shuts up. I have no idea why the cop is pulling me over, but I’m ready for him. He ambles across to the car, a short, thin man in his late forties with thick black hair, who’s probably been on the force twenty years or so.

‘Driving kind of slow, aren’t you, sir?’ he asks in a thick Louisiana drawl. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, officer,’ I answer respectfully, ‘just enjoying the summer night.’

‘Sure,’ he says and I notice a slight flicker in his eyes, along with a twitch at the right of his lower lip. He hesitates for a second and then says, ‘License and registration, please.’

I feel Cathy stiffen but so imperceptibly no one else would notice. She acts relaxed around the law, following my motto that if you behave naturally, they’ll suspect nothing. Leaning across her, I touch her leg lightly and open the glove compartment to take out the registration. I hand it to the cop and then pull my wallet out of my pocket, smoothly removing the Massachusetts’ license. Thomas F. Baxter, it reads, born November 15th, 1930.

I have no reason to believe my phony papers, established in the early eighties, have been compromised but something feels wrong. Call it intuition but it’s a stronger feeling than I had in the fruit store. My adrenaline is racing and I’m loving the feeling that something’s going to happen—and it’s not me who’s about to get hurt.

The cop walks back to his car and I touch Cathy’s right wrist, possibly a bit too firmly, and stare hard at her.

‘How you doing, hon?’ I ask.

‘Fine,’ she replies, and I can see that she is.

As I watch the cop approach his car, I ease the .22 caliber automatic with its silencer out from under the mat and slide it between my seat and the controls. I hear an incoming call on the cop’s radio about an accident with possible fatalities and through my rearview window see him lean down, grab the microphone and say a few words before replacing the microphone. As I watch him hurrying back towards me, my hand reaches for the gun, relishing the feel of cool metal. I try to read his face but there’s no expression there. His left hand holds my license and registration, but his right hand moves towards the holster attached to his waist. Cathy’s perfectly calm; it’s as if she knows she has to be ready for what may well be coming.

‘I’m sure your papers are okay,’ the officer says, dismissing me. He hands me back my license and registration: ‘Y’all have a nice night now.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I reply. ‘You have a good one, too.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘I’ve just been called to the scene of an accident.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say, as though I’m really concerned. I watch him get back in his car and make a quick U-turn, then begin driving back into the darkness myself. Meanwhile, Cathy squeezes my hand and sighs deeply.

I can’t shake off the feeling that call saved the cop’s life. Sure enough, the next day I discover my license had been compromised. That jealous bitch Terry gave me up, revealing my assumed name to a pathetic rat who immediately alerted the law, hoping for a nice little reward. If the Louisiana cop had had time to check out my license, he would’ve realized he was dealing with James Whitey Bulger, a fugitive named on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for nineteen counts of murder. Seconds later, he might’ve made number twenty.

CHAPTER 5

Cathy, Shreveport, 2001

It’s nothing new: the nightmares are as much a part of Jimmy as his blue eyes and lactose intolerance. Every night they come around dawn, plunging him into the depths of despair. He says they’re the result of the LSD he took in the Atlanta prison as part of some CIA government-sponsored experiment. They wiped two years from his sentence and left his mind permanently injured. Since I never knew him before, I’ve no idea how much they changed him. He says he never had trouble sleeping before, never had any nightmares. It’s pretty awful to think the government could fool around with prisoners’ brains, treat them like animals. Not that I’d want to see any animal treated this way either. I left my two precious toy poodles behind when I took off with Jimmy and there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about them. A couple of times Jimmy has offered to buy me a new dog, but I know it wouldn’t work with our lifestyle. He knows that too, but I appreciate him making the offer.

This night, Jimmy’s nightmare is especially bad. For the four months we’ve been in Shreveport, they’ve been so much worse than usual. Don’t know if it’s the heat or something in the air, but I’ve lost count of the nights since we got here that he’s woken up in a cold sweat, screaming and half out of his mind. A few years ago, I was listening to Oprah when they were discussing nightmares. This expert doctor said you shouldn’t try and wake up the person having the nightmare, that it would be too much of a shock if you shake them awake. He said it was better to just keep on saying, ‘It’s all right,’ real calmly and then wait for the person to wake up on his own.

The problem has always been when Jimmy’s nightmares come when we’re staying in a hotel. The last thing we want is for someone in a nearby room to hear screaming in the middle of the night and call for help. Jimmy’s usually very careful about checking out our rooms before we settle in, making sure the walls are relatively thick, that our room is at the end of a corridor. And we always leave a radio on and I just make it louder if he starts to scream in his sleep. Many nights, he doesn’t scream: he shakes violently, sweats and trembles like a terrified kid until the nightmarish scenes leave his body. It just about breaks my heart to see him this way and to know there’s nothing I can do to help him.

Here in Shreveport we have our own house; it’s not near any neighbors so there’s no problem if Jimmy screams. But tonight he seems so tormented, I just can’t stand it: I get out of bed and walk round the house, waiting for the screaming to subside. As always, he’ll be totally exhausted when he wakes from the nightmare and will have a terrible time falling back asleep. Tomorrow, he’ll sleep till two or three in the afternoon, which is no big problem since we have nothing special planned.

We’ve really enjoyed this town and met some nice people, who treat us as if we’re just regular folk here to pass the winter. Even the local policemen are super polite, the way Southerners can be. Just yesterday, one of the policemen stopped the traffic to let Jimmy and me cross, saying, ‘Why, hello there, Mr. Thompson. Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Heaven knows, no Boston policeman would ever treat us like that, even if Jimmy wasn’t involved in criminal activities.

I’m in the kitchen, looking through a few of my recipe books for something special to cook for tomorrow night when I hear Jimmy call my name. He’s stopped screaming, but his voice is hoarse as can be. I race back to the bedroom and he’s sitting upright in bed, sweat running down his face and soaking through his pajamas. He looks awful, like he’s seen a ghost. It’s not as if he ever looks good after a nightmare, but tonight he seems much worse than usual.

‘He’s coming for me,’ he says, eyes wide and bulging, his voice no more than a throaty whisper. ‘Get the bat. Watch out, he’s coming!’

I race over and sit on the arm of the chair, placing a hand on his chest, trying to shake him awake, but it’s no good. He pushes me away, then yells, ‘I said to watch out!’ as I fall to the floor. Jimmy often gets violent during his nightmares and I have to be careful that he doesn’t lash out and hit me. Knowing what he’s done in his life, I understand how violent he can be but he’s never been that way with me.

There are times when I’m taking a long walk by myself and I’m in a strange mood when I find myself thinking about Jimmy and the kind of man he is and the terrible things he’s done. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing with him, if I’m out of my mind, but the minute I see him again I’m filled with so much love that I can hardly stand it. There’s nobody in this world I’ve ever loved as much as I love this man and I know he loves me just as much. There have been other men in my life but none compare to Jimmy, certainly not as far as sex is concerned. Jimmy knows what I like, but it’s more than just the sex. He’s so smart and capable, generous beyond belief and he’s afraid of nothing and nobody. Other men look cheap in comparison. No wonder Terry was with him for so many years. You can’t walk away from this guy.

A month or two before I took off with Jimmy, I had this wicked cold that turned into double pneumonia. Jimmy wouldn’t leave me alone for a minute. He took me to his doctor at Mass. General and made sure I didn’t have to wait, even a few minutes. I saw the look on his face when I was having trouble breathing. He kept holding out my inhaler, gently reminding me when to inhale and exhale. I know he loves me and will always take care of me, just the way I love to take care of him, to cook and shop for him, to iron his clothes, even his pajamas, just the way he likes them; to do everything to make his life as easy as possible. I decided years ago that some things, like the bad things I know he’s done, are best left alone and not thought about.

Tonight, however, I’m worried sick about him. ‘It’s okay, Jimmy,’ I keep repeating, as I sit beside him on the floor. But his arms are now swinging and before I can move, he hits me on the side of my cheek. I land on my back on the floor but he’s still swinging at me. Suddenly he’s off the chair, looking down at me and the expression in his eyes is beyond terrifying: I’m in trouble.

‘It’s me, Jimmy,’ I plead, covering my face with my hands and rolling up into a ball. ‘It’s Cathy, baby. It’s Cathy!’ But he doesn’t hear me.

‘You fucking bastard!’ he screams, bending down towards me. ‘I saw what you did. I told you to stop, but you didn’t listen. You’ll listen now!’

The punch to my head hurts so much that I shriek out in pain but he still doesn’t hear. He pulls my legs down, punches my stomach and all the wind goes out of my body.

‘No, Jimmy!’ I scream, but the next blow comes to my face and then all I see is darkness.

CHAPTER 6

Whitey, Louisiana, 2002

It’s the last thing that I’m expecting. I’m taking a late-day walk down to Melvin’s Landing on Cross Lake Boulevard to check on Mike Everett’s boat. He thinks there might be a problem with one of the motors and he wants me to take a ride with him to see what’s going on. Mike, his wife Suzie and their two boys have become close friends with Cathy and me since we’ve been in Shreveport. Actually, I bought Mike the boat just a few weeks ago—he was down on his luck and needed a bit of help. Cathy’s crazy about Mikey and Timmy; I get a kick out of the little guys, too. Last week, I took the whole family to Water Town and we spent a full day there. Cathy and I didn’t go on any of the rides, but we had a terrific time watching the four of them splash about, having a ball. Mike and Suzie might have run into some hard times recently but they’re hardworking, decent folk and I can’t think of a better way to spend my money than to help them get back on their feet.

When I get to the marina, Mike’s still out shrimping and so I walk round the pier, making small talk with some of the other shrimpers and boat owners. So I’m talking to this guy named Louie, who takes people out on fishing expeditions, when a fellow comes up to see if Louie’s free the next day to take him and a friend out. I nearly fall in the water when I see this guy’s face. I’d recognize him anywhere: he’s Mitch Ryan, one of my bookies from Southie.

I’m not surprised he doesn’t recognize me—I hardly recognize myself sometimes when I see my reflection in the mirror. With the thin goatee and dark hair, I look nothing like my old self, but Ryan would probably drop dead on the spot had he realized who’s standing no more than ten feet away from him. The last time I saw him, he was tied to a chair at the Marconi Club on Shetland Street in Roxbury. He thought he was going to die. He was saying his prayers, begging every patron saint he could think of for mercy. The bastard deserved to die. Over the course of a few months, he laid off over $200,000 in bets with another office not connected with me. He had a coke habit, but that was no excuse. He’d committed an unpardonable crime, stealing off me. I should’ve killed him then.

‘I’m giving you a pass,’ I told him while Stevie stood in front of him, aiming a .22 caliber pistol right at his heart. Stevie wasn’t happy with my decision. He loved a good killing and was looking forward to this one. Joey was calmer—it didn’t matter one way or the other to him. ‘Your mother was a friend of my mother’s, that’s the only reason I’m letting you go. You give back what’s left from what you stole and pay me back every last cent of what you already spent. And if you ever steal one more cent from me, I’ll kill you.’

Now here he is making arrangements for a fishing trip the next day. I can’t stop looking at him. He’s taken off some weight and still has all his hair, which is dark brown; he’s tastefully dressed in chinos and a fancy cotton shirt. I notice he’s wearing a solid gold Patek Philippe, a very expensive watch. Last I heard, he’d entered some rehab program, left the business and relocated somewhere down south.

When Ryan finishes his business and starts to walk, I follow him. I feel compelled to speak to this guy, there’s no way I can let him walk away. As I approach him, the parking lot is pretty empty. Get in your car, I tell him, sticking my hand into the pocket of my pants, like I have a gun there. He turns to look at me and I see the fear cover his face like a mask. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that look and it gets my adrenaline flowing. He’s shaking, but somehow manages to get in the car and turn on the engine.

Drive out of the parking lot, head straight down Main Street for five miles, I instruct him. Then turn right and follow the coast road for another five miles.

“What do you want?’ he pleads, his voice shaking badly as he starts to drive. Take my money, my jewelry, my car . . . whatever you want.

In response, all I say is: Keep driving. It’s been so long since I’ve exercised this kind of power and I’ve missed it. When we reach the end of the coast road, I tell him to turn into the marsh area. He’s shaking so badly now that I have trouble remembering he was once a player and when he wasn’t coked out, a pretty capable one, too. But he’s been out of the business for a long time and probably has a family of his own. He’s not anxious to die on this lonely stretch of marshes.

When I tell him to stop the car and turn off the engine, tears are running down his cheeks.I saved you once, Ryan,” I tell him. Who knows? You may get another pass tonight, buddy.

He jerks his head towards me so fiercely that I think he’s going to break his neck. Oh, sweet Jesus he ekes out. It’s you, Jimmy, isn’t it?

Yeah, I admit, suddenly wondering what the fuck I’m doing.

I’d never have recognized you, he says, staring at me as if he’s seen a ghost, somehow managing to tremble more than ever before. You didn’t have to do this; I wouldn’t have told anyone.

Oh, I know that, I agree. You owe me too much.”

I do, he concedes, his head jerking up and down like a bobble toy. I owe you my life, Jimmy. I’d never give you up—I’ve owed you something for years. I always wanted the chance to even the score between us, give you what you deserve.

He’s babbling now like an idiot, desperate to save himself, but I say nothing, just let him go on. I’ve got money for you, Jimmy. Lots of money, millions and millions—and it’s yours, all of it.

I let him rattle on, talking faster and faster: I know how tough things must be for you, with the FBI list and all. And that shit about you and Stevie being informers.

At this I reach out and grab him by the throat. Those are not words I want him or anyone else to be speaking.

‘I’m sorry, Jimmy . . . ’ He groans as my fingers begin to squeeze the air out of his quaking throat. ‘But I have millions,’ he squeaks out in a barely perceptible voice. ‘And it’s yours, all yours.’

Those words get through to me and cause my fingers to separate at his throat. He slumps forward in the seat, puts his hands to his throat and begins to sob.

‘I’ve got it, Jimmy,’ he says, going on like he’s never going to stop. Like the second he stops, I’ll strangle him for sure this time.

I slam my fist against his jaw. Hard. Blood gushes out and he finally shuts up, terror closing his fucking mouth. In a few seconds, if I’m not careful this guy will drop dead from a heart attack.

‘Okay, tell me how much you have,’ I say, ‘and where it is, and don’t leave out one detail.’

He looks at me as if I’m crazy, and at that moment it’s true. I want the money, but even more than that I want to kill him. I want to kill him, just kill him. He’s begging me with his eyes as he did so many years ago in the basement of the Marconi Club. Only I think he understands that tonight there will be no second chance. Still, he hangs onto a tiny ray of hope. Dying men are like that, we all are. And I use that ray any way I can, like a truth serum. He’ll tell me the truth about the money; He has no choice.

‘It’s more than three million,’ he says, shaking so badly I can hear his teeth chattering. ‘I’ll give you half. No wait. I’ll give you three-fourths of it. It’s in a safety deposit box at the First National Bank, outside Baton Rouge. We can go there together. It’s little more than three hours from here.’

And then he stops and he sees something in my eyes that lets him know he made a mistake, but this time there’s no going back. It’s over. And the color slips from his face so quickly it’s as if he’’’’—