The Grand Boston Media Conspiracy

63 thoughts on “The Grand Boston Media Conspiracy”

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5. Dave, Please go back and look. It’s been spelled out very thoroughly by our learned host.

6. Can someone please explain to me why Black Mass and the Whitey biography by Lehr and O’Neill is false? All i read are statemetns how the book is inaccurate but without any reasoning other than broad conjecture.

   1. Dave:

      I’m tied up on other things to go back over this in detail since I have written about it before. For one thing the Connolly/Bulger meeting at Wollaston Beach was made up and it contains quotations as if it was recorded. There was never such a meeting. Even the alleged purpose of the meeting as explained by the authors that Whitey was being recruited to give information against the Mafia was contradicted by the authors who said a few pages later Whitey knew nothing about the Mafia and it was Flemmi who did. Then it pretended that somehow Whitey recruited Flemmi when in fact Flemmi was already an FBI informant. That’s quickly off the top of my head but the book is replete with error and the main purpose it was written was to impugn the integrity of Billy Bulger with whom the authors had a deep abhorrence.

7. Dear Not Reason, Here’s the “Hank Garrity” and “Richie Kelly” chapters.

   Hank Garrity
   Wavy-reddish hair. A big. Strong bastard. Hank went to Holy Cross. And he graduated with honors. Something happened in Holy Cross. Hank had to give it up. Then he’s screwing the football team. That was the rumor in Southie.
   Hank come up through politicians. Listening to games with them. Having supper with them. His whole life. Hank’s wrapped up with politicians. The reason he could afford it. Is because of little Richie Kelly.
   Here’s Hank Garrity. Pulling his prick. A barroom bouncer. A nothing. Nothing! And Richie Kelly comes up. Starts selling him Scotch. For ten dollars. Twenty dollars a case. That he could sell for fifty.
   Richie Kelly was that type of guy. All he’d do was steal. Grab some money. And chase the broads. By Hank getting the Scotch. He reached out to the underworld. To the politicians. To the priests. This was during World War II. Anytime somebody wanted a bottle of Scotch. “Hank Garrity got it.” And it come from Richie.
   Hank was given the proposition. For opening up a barroom. Make a nice booking joint. He needed some backup. He had big connections. From Holy Cross. The Catholic church. Ton of connections. Hank found three partners.
   McCann looked like convict (laughs). Watson was tall. A handsome guy. With black hair. Driscoll was short. With white hair. They was nothing. But they had cash for booking. McCann. Watson. And Driscoll was the bookmakers.
   McCann didn’t really look like a convict. The cops brought them to Charles Street Jail. And while they’re in there. McCann wore the prison uniform. Walking through the crowded flats. Walking around the rectangular tables. Going past tables during recreation. And during lunch. Mixing with everybody else. The Pen laughed like hell.
   The Pen made GOOD money. Bar on the right. Tables on the left. For the card games. A big back room. And a tiny kitchen. Busted it for booking. Two. Three times. Just for show. Bring them in. Pictures for the newspapers. Go to Charles Street. Hank. Everybody went in. The bondsmen would come. Pinched in the morning. And home for supper.
   McCann knew he was getting out. Put the prison uniform on. The pants with stripes. The shirt with stripes. The Pen laughed about two days.
   The Pen had a bigger laugh. When it was me. Front page picture. “Land Of Opportunity.” My Arkansas license plate. With bullet holes around it. Hank put that over the bar. They was giving me the business. “Land Of Opportunity.” Surrounded by bullet holes.
   You probably don’t remember. The South End News. A scandal sheet. It had a story about Johnny Quill. Past-posting the bookmakers. Bullshitting the judge. That he’s a good boy.
   I don’t know how Paul Watson found it. The newspaper had to be thirty years-old. Watson put it over the bar. And everybody was laughing. Waiting for Johnny Quill.
   But Quill was tipped off. He stayed away a week. Quill said, “I’ll let it die down. Before they rib me.” When he come back. It was gone.
   Hank controlled the barroom. The other guys worked. One week on. Two weeks off. Hank worked all the time. He handled the card games. The after-hours booze. The whiskey going out. The beer going out.
   They become millionaires. From the booking. The card games. And selling the booze. They was all by themselves. They had the reputation. Of paying cash. For the numbers. Horses. And dogs. You win ten thousand. You get ten thousand. That’s the reputation of the Pen.
   Every thief in Boston. Could use the Pen. Except Wimpy Bennett. Hank hated the cocksucker. Sharpies past posted the Pen. Wheeled. And dealed them. Everything imaginable was done. Hank had the connections. He knew the commissioners. That kept the Pen going. Kept it from being shut down.
   We’d meet in the Pen. After doing a score. Jimmy Keeney. Or another rogue. Would come with the bag. We’d go in the back room. And cut up the money.
   Back room-card games. They’d knock you dead. “128th Street.” “58th Street.” “Widow.” Nine thousand-dollar pots. Ralphie. Not Ralphie Mazuca. Would be at the window. If the cops tried to come in. He’d pull the plug. The lights went out. The door automatically locked. Until everything was hidden. Put the plug in. The door opened.
   Hank went on the telephone. To the Irish bookmakers. Barney Olsen. And them guys. Word would go out. Who to look out for. What to look out for. This outfit’s in town. That outfit’s in town. This guy’s past posting. All that kind of information.
   Hank was a very lonesome guy. Laughing. Joking. And kidding around. But he was a lonesome guy. Because screwing boys in the ass.
   Hank understood we knew. And everybody respected him. “Hi, Hank. How’s everything going?” Bingo. Bango. One kid named Johnny. Hank put him booking. Down West Second. And “D” Street. The Teamster’s Tavern. A cute kid. Bang.
   Hank had another kid. That looked like a fag. They’d go to the Beachcomber. The big nightclub on Nantasket Beach. Sunday afternoons they went there. Everybody gathered around Hank’s table. Because he paid the tab. Hank went through two. Three grand like nothing. Fifteen guys eating. And drinking. Plus the bite. I know a million guys that bit him. And never paid him back.
   Guys told Richie Kelly, “Your asshole must be awful sore. With Hank screwing you all the time.” Hank never screwed him.
   Hank bought the Texaco. In Andrew Square. Today it’s the Dunkin Donuts. Gathering place for thieves. A place to meet. Talk. And bullshit.
   When Whitey was coming up. He was a pretty boy. He hung in Andrew Square. In the bars. And the Texaco gas station. Hank used to look at Whitey. Wondering if he’s a good screw. Because Hank knew he raped broads. And figured Whitey might be easy to screw.
   Hank’s boys. The ones I knew. They was Whitey’s age. We all thought Hank screwed Whitey. Everybody thought Hank screwed Whitey.
   The Mullens tried bullshitting Hank. He said, “Come on. Get the f… out of here.” There was four. Five of them. Tommy King was the ringleader. They pulled Hank to the outside door. Hank bulldozed three of them. RIGHT OUT the front door. Right on their ass. Closed the door. That ended it.
   Naturally. They’re after his pocket. Hank always carried decent money. Hank could have fifteen thousand. It varied on what he’s doing.
   Hank was the type of guy. Wouldn’t hang around a doctor’s office. He saw Rosenguard on West Broadway. He’d run in there. “Quick. What’s wrong with me?” “You have gout. The rich man’s disease. Ba. Ba. Ba Baa.” “What can you give me?” “Here’s some pills.” But Hank had diabetes. He went blind. Lost his legs. And died.

   Richie Kelly
   Grey hair. Five-eight. Wiry. All his life. Richie’s been a thief. He was the master tailgater. He’d bounce off the ground. Think nothing of it. He wasn’t a fighter. He liked his booze. And LOVED his cunt.
   I tailed a truck to King’s Terminal. Down on “L.” And East First Street. Driver took the elevator. I jumped on the truck. For three cases of shoes. Walked them back too far. Driver looked out a window. Seen me lugging the third case.
   I’m doing business with Eddie Killeen. Selling stuff in the Transit. Cases of shoes. Whiskey. Cigarettes. Baron Anderson sportcoats. Selling them to cops. Selling them to everybody.
   The driver saw my plate. Cops come in the Transit. “Gaga’s wanted for questioning.” Hank put the patch in. He took care of the cops. I walked in Station Six. The driver said, “There’s the guy that stole my shoes!” I says, “What are you crazy?”
   The cops told him, “You have the wrong guy. He was serving communion. He was in church with a hundred witnesses.” Told him some story. I walked across Broadway to thank Hank. He said, “This is Richie Kelly.”
   Richie started off with horse. And buggies. Robbing the wooden wagons. During World War II. He made good money with butter. He’d watch warehouses handling markets. Richie stole cases of butter. Thirty-two pounds of butter. Thirty-two dollars a case. The average person made fifteen. Twenty dollars a week.
   Trucks used canvas. They got n….. rich. Start putting doors in trucks. Richie had the best years of it. The old-time trucks. Old-time drivers. The ball. And beer drivers. They wasn’t interested. In what Richie stole from the truck. They was interested in going to the next barroom. For a ball. And a beer.
   Richie worked with Jimmy Keeney. When Jimmy Keeney got sick. Richie worked with me. We’d see Baron Andersons. “I’ll get the cocksucker.” He’d stand on the bumper. And hang on the hood. “Okay go.” I’d ease up to the truck. “Rrrrrrr (mimics driving).” He’d reach over. “Qwishh.” Up he went. Use the bar. Most of the time. One door stayed closed. The other door flew open. But wind stopped the door. Kept it from slamming the truck.
   Richie would climb right inside. If there was two cases. He’d put one on top. If there was three cases. He’d build a pyramid. Strong as a bull. When the truck turned. Slowed to exit. He’d flip the cases (flings arms up).
   I’d be back here (pulls back raised hand). Holding up the traffic. Cars trying to get around this way (mimics turning to right). “Beep.” “Beep.” “Beep.” “Beep.” “Beep.” Trying to go around that way (mimics turning to left). “Beep.” “Beep.” Beep.” “Beep.” “Beep.”
   Two lanes of cars. I’m driving back. And forth. Back. And forth. The next thing. There’d be twenty cars. Thirty cars. Forty cars. Richie would be in position. He’d flip the cases. And jump off. Going twenty. Thirty miles an hour.
   If both doors flung open. He bounced on the highway. Skinned up. Scrapped up. When I reached him. He’d be up on his hands. And knees. Shaking his head. I’d say, “You son-of-a-bitch. You’re good. And crazy.”
   In the city it was nice. Because the red lights. We grab Baron Andersons. Two cases. One eighteen coats. The other twenty coats. For each Baron Anderson sportcoat. We’re getting forty-five bucks. So eight hundred fifty for me. Eight hundred fifty for Richie.
   All Richie wanted was two. Maybe three cases of suits. Nylon stocking. Whiskey. Cigarettes. “See you later.” Time for parties. And broads. Parties. And broads. Did this his whole life. With only a few small bits. Deer Island. Charles Street. And Worcester. He was pinched in Worcester. Did two small bits up there.
   Richie loved his cigarettes. He made the T. With three cigarette cases. You hold the ropes. On the bottom case. Pall Mall’s. Chesterfield’s. Raleigh’s. Cigarettes being shipped to different places. They put in different type cartons. They tie up the case. We got straight cases too. But to carry three cases. Grab the bottom case ropes. Have the other cases sideways. Come across the street. Like this (drops open mouth). People blowing their horn. “Auggg”
   Baron Anderson was the big money maker. Baron Anderson was custom made. They folded them in thirds. The cases was smaller. But heavier. The cheap suits. Like Clipper Craft. Shipped on hangers. Mickey Freeman out of Chicago. That was another good suit.
   My uncle started picking up suits. Richie. And Whitey robbed him. Richie climbed on the roof. Cut the canvas wide open. Threw out the Baron Andersons.
   The cops showed him my picture. “Of course. I know him. He’s my nephew.” They said, “He’s your nephew (stern voice).” The cops thought George was hooked into it. He told everybody in the family. “Sonny Boy robbed me (high-pitched voice)!” When he saw my picture. It could have been me. He didn’t see Richie. And Whitey.
   Oh! George was sick. He hired a midget. About four feet tall. When getting Baron Andersons. He moved the cases around. Buried them up to his ears.
   Poor George. He finally tasted whiskey. He never drank in his life. I met him at my mother’s time. George said, “Come on Sonny. Let’s have a drink.” “A drink! You’re kidding me.” I thought it was a joke. “No. No. I’m serious.” He says, “It’s pretty nice. I didn’t know what I was missing.” His wife was a TOTAL drunk.
   Richie was seventy. And still tailgating. He’d go see Hank. That was his Ace in the hole. “Hank. I’m sick.” Hank would give him a hundred dollar bill. “You nut.” He’d go down the Tunnel Cafe. Few doors past the Transit. Richie would go in there. “Give everybody a drink (raspy voice).” The whores come flying over. Grab him by the prick. Cougan ran the joint. A weasel cocksucker.
   Richie would get half-drunk. Pull out a twenty. Cougan would take it. “I’ll pay the bill.” He’d come back. “Give me another twenty.” Richie walks up Broadway. Gets another hundred off Hank. Cougan robs him again.
   Richie got killed. In a doorway. Hank gave him a hundred. He walked down Broadway. Hit the closest bar. He walked past the Transit. A couple old buddies was there. “You got money?” “Yeah. I got money.” They beat his head in. Stole his money. Killed him.
   Richie caught the clap. Who was it? This guy’s sister. He used to swear, “My sister’s a virgin.” He threatened Richie, “You ever get my sister in trouble. You’re going to marry her.”
   Richie was MADLY in love! He bought a big diamond ring. She opened her legs up. And gives him the clap (claps hands). Talk of the town (laughs). “She was a virgin. She gave me the clap. Oh! Oh! Oh (still laughing)!”
   They had a thing. Like a hot wire. Shove it up your dick. If you got bull clap. Your prick swelled up from puss. Put your prick on the table. They used a rubber hammer. Smashed it with the hammer. “Kbelll.” Break up the infection. Shoot the puss. And blood out.
   If getting syphilis. There was a thing. They press a button. It goes up your dick. It goes all the way up. They hit another button. The fangs open up. “Kwikkk.” They drag it out. Cut the shit out. Them was the methods. We grew up with.
   I told Richie to get penicillin. It saved millions of lives. Richie was running around. Pulling his dick out. And pressing it. Making it drip (chuckles).
   We’re in the Davis Street Cafe. Giggling. And laughing. Richie comes flying in. “Whitey got pinched!”
   Whitey ran in a doorway. The cops chased him upstairs. He tried getting out the skylight. You know a three family house. Top of the stairs. There’s a little window. Lets the light in. That’s the skylight. Whitey’s ass was hanging down. The cops pulled him back inside.
   I called Charlie Baker up. He bailed guys out. On my word. MY WORD. Fifty grand. A hundred grand. Bingo.
   Charlie Baker was my man. I met him through Eddy. He bailed us all out. Everybody else paid five percent. We paid two percent. There was Charlie. His younger brother. At the end. His two kids. Charlie got busted putting up phony property. For securing the bail bonds. Everything backfired on him. Blew up on him.
   We’re all drinking. Whitey comes in. We’re laughing at him. “How’s it feel big man?” “You can’t get away from the cops. You dummy.” Whitey said nothing. Like I told you. WHITEY WAS A NOTHING.
   Richie loved beef stew. When we was kids. We hopped trucks to Harrison Avenue. They had a Salvation Army there. What a beef stew they made! Whitey never ate anything so good. In his whole life.

   1. AoF, Thank you for continuously sending chapters addressed to me. I am your biggest fan. I love what you are sending me.(and everyone else) I think you, Matt, and I would have a pretty good conversation if we could ever facilitate it. Outside the confines of this site, of course. I am, of course, ultra-cautious before I proceed.

   2. could you post the killeen brothers chapter? looking for more infornation on then pre whitey coming on board

      1. did donald killeen have a relationship with marylin monroe?

         1. Jim:

            I’ve changed your post to conform to our comment guidelines. The answer is I don’t know and don’t believe it is either here or there.

            1. just wanna learn more about the brothers of boston (bennetts, mcglaughlins, hughes, killeens, anguilos, buddy mclean ect ect) how did they come in to power who did they kill to become the top dogs of their areas? everyone and their mother knows whitey’s tale and honestly its getting a little old he’s in jail where he belongs. i enjoyed reading some of this old stuff by gaga its nice reading about pre whitey days in boston guess il just buy the e book

               1. Jim:

                  Bennets murdered by Flemmi; McLaughlins murdered by Flemmi and McLean and Georgie in prison for life; hughes murdered by Flemmi and Salemme; Angiulos all went to jail and passed on after their release – Gerry buried with military honors – served admirably during WWII in the Pacific with the Navy; Buddy McLean gunned down by one of the Hughes and Spike O’Toole.

                  McLean real honest to god tough guy – friends with crazy McLaughlins until war started – toughest (or most out of control) guys always rise to the top. Those who you don’t dare cross. They didn’t have to take anyone out to reach the top since they grew up with the guys who became members of their group.

                  Gaga’s stuff is good but it’s too much about the life of a low life criminal who did nothing but steal and cheat people through his life. It wasn’t my cup of tea after a while because it depicted women in a negative manner something that people like Gaga (Francis Murray) tend to do which makes them appear more like toys to be played with than real life persons who deserve respect. I see that it is now available on Amazon. I hope you enjoy it since it does have some insightful views about Whitey.

   3. great stuff can you post the killeens chapter please

8. Dear Not Reason, Here’s the “Whitey II” chapter.

   Whitey II
   I’m on the road. Stevie Flemmi’s with Wimpy. And they’re the heroes. Hanging with Howie Winter. Getting all his information. Who comes out? Whitey Bulger.
   Whitey was busted for rape. Thrown out of the Air Force. Billy Bulger dropped the name “John McCormack.” That kept Whitey from doing time. As a piece of shit rapie.
   Whitey did nine years for bank robbery. Stupid prick! He plead guilty. Except talking with Hank. Not another word about Whitey. Like he never even existed. The next thing I heard. He’s working for my mother.
   Whitey’s pushing the broom. In the downtown courthouse. Starts having a beer. With Billy O’Sullivan. In the Transit. Whitey didn’t drink much. He’d just sit there. And listen to Billy.
   Once getting some money. “How are you honey?” “Oh, Whitey. You’re the greatest. By the way. I need a washing machine.” “Here’s a couple hundred.” “By the way. My kid needs some milk.” “Here’s a hundred.” “My girls.” “My girls (chuckles).”
   In comes Toastie. A big. Good-looking guy. A handsome Greek. Broads went crazy over him. When the broads sponged off Whitey. Toastie was there afterwards. Screwing them. Partying it up. Bum the money. That Whitey gave them. We used to say, “One of these days. You’re going to get caught (laughs).”
   Toastie did time for non-support. He was an in. And out guy. Not a heavy. A B&E guy. He lived off the broads. Shacking up with Whitey’s broads.
   Whitey got the rapie guilt. He had that phobia. I don’t know if the broads knew it. But they took advantage of it. He’d go out of his way. To drive a broad home. And not try anything.
   Broads would practically have to jerk him off. Then he’d be duking them money. I told Helen Chapman, “You must have screwed the balls off him.” She said, “Oh, no. I don’t know what was wrong. He acted like a faggot. I would have opened my legs right up. Christ. No problem at all.”
   Tommy Sullivan raped Helen Chapman. Whitey didn’t care about Helen. Whitey was strictly for Whitey. All he loved to do. If the sun was out. Stand outside the barroom. With his arms folded. And wearing sunglasses. “Hi, Whitey.” “How are you?” “Hi, Whitey.” “How are you?” “How are you?”
   Whitey was going bald. He wore no hat. When meeting you. He’d fold his arms. With the phony smile. “Yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha (soft voice).” But I knew him. Before the phony smile. And people saying, “That’s Whitey Bulger!”
   Howie Carr made him the big man. “Whitey Bulger. The killer.” “The fighter.” “The madman.” “Beat up everybody.” Whitey started believing it himself. That he’s a hero. The way luck had it. There was no competition to stop him.
   My mother scrubbed floors thirty years. On her hands. And knees. She become like a boss. People would finish their cleaning job. Come to the back door. And say, “Hey, May. I’m going home.” “Is everything okay?” “Yeah. Everything’s alright.” “Okay.” She got the beef. If the place wasn’t clean.
   They’d rush right on through. Get everything spick. And span. Go home two. Three hours early. My mother could say, “You have to stay until nine o’clock.” Or she could let them go home. The same thing with Whitey. He did his job. “Okay, May. See you later.” Whitey worked eight months. And got fired. For being a thief. For being out of Alcatraz.
   Johnny Powers was an old-time thief. He was President of the Senate. And went to the gutter. Billy Bulger was worse thief. But got the big jobs. And the big money. Best job Powers could get. Boss of the downtown courthouse.
   I don’t know the exact beef. To get even with Billy. Johnny Powers complained, “James Bulger’s a bank robber. Billy Bulger put him in the courthouse.” It was a scandal. And Whitey got fired.
   Whitey’s down the Transit. Kissing Donald Killeen’s ass. Billy O’Sullivan tells him. And tells the Mullens. “We’re taking over Southie.” Bingo. Bango. Bango. “We’re charging everybody money. We’re even charging Donald money.” Donald outsmarted them. He gave Billy O’Sullivan. And Whitey fifty grand for shylocking. The three of them become partners. Now they start moving. And moving.
   They break up with the Mullens. Chased them all out. The kids come back. And they was fighting. Kenny Killeen bit Mickey Dwyer’s nose off. “No Nose.” The kids try wrecking the Transit. Kenny was going to kill them. He grabbed Donald’s gun. The kids screwed. Eight o’clock at night. Kenny’s shooting up West Broadway.
   Billy O’Sullivan. And Whitey went prowling. The upstairs Pony Room. They’re arguing with Buddy Roach. Billy pulls out the gun. “Bang.” “Bang.” Shoots Roach in the gut. The heat comes. Nobody squeals.
   Buddy Roach stays in the hospital. Paralyzed for a month. Billy’s meeting with Whitey. Running around getting drunk. He liked Mutt Kelley’s. Who’s in there? Buddy Roach’s sister. Peggy Roach. She’s married to No Nose. And gets on the phone. Tells the kids, “You dirty cocksuckers. My brother’s crippled. Billy’s over here. Stiff drunk.”
   The kids put their balls together. They went to Billy’s house. Two hid under the steps. Sitting under Billy’s front steps. Three was in the car. They followed the taxi. Parked up the street. And they waited.
   Billy left the taxi. The kids come flying out. Billy runs up the street. Into the other guys. And they pop him.
   Whitey only had Donald. He’s going back. And forth to his mother’s house. The kids was shooting at him. Whitey needed some reinforcements. He gets Tommy Farrow. Billy Daggart. And Mickey Dempsey. These guys here. They want to be gangsters. They side in with Whitey.
   The kids leave for Florida. And everything got quiet. Just Whitey. Tommy Farrow. And them. Picking up the shylock money. The kids come drifting back. Whitey gets the idea. “I’ll kill Donald. Take over the whole shooting match.”
   Bang. Down goes Donald. Whitey gets the business. Except there’s still Tommy Farrow. Billy Daggart. And Mickey Dempsey. They want to be tough guys. They’re running around, “We’re with Whitey.” “No one’s messing with Whitey. Ba. Baa. Ba. Baa. Ba. Baa.”
   The Mullens. The kids originally with Whitey. They go in the Transit office. There’s a disliking between the guys. But Whitey’s king of the corner. The three partners say, “How about us?” Instead of killing them. Whitey gives each ten. Fifteen grand. Pays them off. They buy a barroom. On Geneva Avenue in Dorchester.
   I don’t know if Hank screwed Whitey. But here’s where Hank got screwed. I’m in the Pen. At the bar. Laughing. And joking. Having a drink. Whitey comes from nowhere. “How you been?” Bingo. Bango. “Want a drink? Want a Coke?” “Not now. I’m busy. I need to see Hank.” He gives him a message.
   I’m peeking in the kitchen. Hank’s face goes white. Whitey’s saying, “Alright.” “Alright.” “Alright.” Whitey comes back out. “I’ll have a rain check. See you later.”
   I go in the kitchen. “What happened?” Hank said, “They’re trying to muscle me.” “What?” “Yeah. Twenty-five hundred a week. Can you believe it? All I done for that kid!” He says it three times. “All I done for that kid!”
   I said, “You used to go to Alcatraz. Twice a year to see him. I know you left him a package. Because you wouldn’t visit somebody. And not leave something.” Knowing Hank. He put two. Three thousand in Whitey’s kitty. Hank says, “I ain’t giving them a dime.”
   Sure enough. He didn’t. Hank took off to Texas. Went to his sister’s for a month. Whitey. And the Mullens. See Hank’s other sister. That’s living in Roxbury. They tell Edna, “You get Hank back here. Or else we’ll do this. And do that.” Edna’s crying. And moaning.
   The Mullens crucified the Pen. Pushing the tables over. Knocking the bartender out. Hank makes a deal. He tells Whitey, “I’ll get you a club. Down ‘O’. And Second. You keep the kids down there. Keep them out of my place.” Whitey said, “Okay.” And every week. Picked up twenty-five hundred.
   Hank put Whitey’s brother in politics. He told Billy Bulger, “You’re going into politics. You’re not going to be a priest. By you going into politics. You can help get Whitey out.” Hank pushed Billy right up the ladder.
   Hank put in a word for Whitey. When bumping into judges. And lawyers. “Whitey’s a good kid. He don’t belong in Alcatraz. They should give him a break.” That’s why I think Hank was screwing Whitey. There’s been a few kids. That Hank screwed. That I know about.
   Before Whitey went to prison. Hank helped him two. Three different times. Hank held his tailgating money. So cops couldn’t grab it. And nine years visiting Whitey. While he’s in the can. Why help Whitey so much?
   The boys on Geneva Avenue. Made a nice barroom. They robbed trucks. House breaking. All around thieves. They wasn’t heavies. They wasn’t killers.
   Up comes Stevie Flemmi. After being on the lam. He gets released on bond. Stevie throws Tommy Farrow out. They needed Tommy for the license. Because he didn’t have a record. Now Stevie becomes partners with the other two.
   Stevie gave Tommy Farrow some money. Tommy bought a barroom in Revere. Tommy was sharp enough. He knew Stevie was trouble. Figured Stevie was bumping the others off. Stevie never got around to it.
   The two guys with Stevie. Billy Daggart. And Mickey Dempsey. They’re big shots. “Stevie’s our partner.” Things was going good. But Billy Daggart drank so much. And did so much coke. Blood clot kills him.
   Mickey Dempsey smartens up. QUICK. “Something’s wrong in this ball game. I’m walking away from it.” “Stevie you can have the bar.”
   Getting killed. That’s why Mickey screwed. Best thing that ever happened.
   Mickey snuck over to Commonwealth Avenue. Opened a small restaurant. Become a multimillionaire. Multimillionaire! Bingo. Bingo. From selling Quaaludes. And black beauties. Made a fortune. Started on the bottom. And come up like crazy.
   Tommy Farrow was tied into drugs. Or knew people tied into drugs. FBI set up a sting. They said this guy died. Left a hundred grand. It belongs to the guy’s partner. His partner has a hundred grand coming to him. Tommy popped up. “I’m the guy. I’m his partner.” Tommy had no drivers license. He found somebody to drive him. They go down to Texas. “I’m the guy. Yeah. He was my partner. Bup. Bup. Baa. Baa.”
   The word went out. “There’s a lot of money.” FBI didn’t know who was coming. Tommy got THIRTY TO A HUNDRED YEARS. Never mind Tommy. Think of the legitimate guy. The poor prick that drove him. For five. Six hundred dollars. He got five to ten years.
   Tommy heard the guy died. He knew the guy. But they wasn’t partners. It was a swindle. And it back fired on him.
   Tommy was a rogue all his life. He could fight pretty good. Tougher than Billy Daggart. And Mickey Dempsey.
   Stevie Flemmi was told, “Get tight with Whitey.” Once Stevie gets tight with Whitey. Finds out all his business. Who he pays off. Stevie starts running around. Making the payoffs. Whitey had Southie. You kill Whitey. You get Southie. It was that simple.
   “Hey, Whitey. You’re paying the captain today. Give me the money. I’ll do it for you. I’ll do you the favor.” Stevie sees the captain. “This is from Whitey. You know me. I’m Stevie.” Boom. Boom. Boom. When that builds up. Southie cops taking Stevie’s money. Whitey gets whacked.
   Stevie’s hanging with Whitey. Making him a big man. Making Stevie a big man. They’re like brothers. Larry was visiting Stevie. “Learn all you can off this thing. When we take Whitey out of the box. You’ll run South Boston. You’ll be working for us.”
   Stevie should have known. Once getting rid of Whitey. After Stevie was a big man. They’d give him a spaghetti dinner. That’s what they call it. “A spaghetti dinner.” Bing. Bang. Crash. Out of the box.
   But Stevie double-crossed everybody. They didn’t know he was an undercover rat. Stevie makes Whitey an undercover rat. Stevie knew the guineas was nothing. “We’ll go against the guineas.”

9. Dear Rather Not, Soon the library is closing. I won’t be able to send more chapters until tomorrow.
   Glad you like the writing. This language style is exactly how Gaga tells stories. He’s a master storyteller. The best chapters (eg. “Scoring Women,” “Casino Gambling,” ect.) are yet to come. Tomorrow’s chapters will include: “Scoring Women.”
   The “Gaga III” chapter keeps getting cut-off. Here’s the remainder of that chapter.
   _________________________________________________________________________
   The jail had seven cells. Every cell with four people. Some of them was thirteen. Some of them was ninety. They respected me. Because having that money. Twenty-four hour lockup. No TV. No books. No radio. Toast. Coffee for breakfast. Pea soup for lunch. And chili at night. Plank bed with a mattress. Indian in the cell longest. He got the plank bed. Everybody else just a mattress.
   I finally found an Indian. That knew another Indian. That knew another Indian. That knew another Indian. To get me a lawyer.
   He cost three hundred dollars. I put up a thousand bail. They screwed up. Charged me with misdemeanors. That’s why I jumped bail. Knew they wouldn’t extradite me. They’d never ship me back. From another state. On a misdemeanor.
   Registered my car in Massachusetts. New Hampshire. Maine. Vermont. New Jersey. Delaware. Texas. Arkansas. California. I had anywhere from fifteen. To thirty licenses. All different states. My daughter Karen. She kept track of them. “Here’s another one. When you go by there. Make sure you re-register this license plate.” When crossing upstate Michigan. The bottom of Wisconsin. I drove through. REAL QUICK.
   In ‘87. I did a New Hampshire bit. Pinched grabbing money from a safe. Gave me eight to twelve years. Up in Concord State Prison. Guess who saved me? Hank Garrity. He put up fifty grand. And bailed me out.
   I fought it. Jerked around with it. Found a loop hole. Busted the sentence down. It’s three to five years. I had the sentence overturned. I come out on bail. Hank put up the money. But I had to go back.
   Twelve hundred inmates in Concord. Only thirty-two good guys. The rest was boy f…ers. Cow f…ers. Dog f…ers. And rapies. Raping their mothers. Raping their daughters. The guards up there. Boy f…ers. And everything else. They’re all the same.
   New Hampshire is controlled by Republicans. The grandfathers are screwing the boys. Screwing the cows. The old-timers. They control the state. They run the state prison.
   Every prison sentence is years. Not months. Fifteen to twenty. Twenty to thirty-five. Thirty-five to fifty. Eighty to two hundred. Two hundred to four hundred. For kids that are locals. That don’t know the grandfathers. If you DO know the grandfathers. You don’t go to prison. You go home!
   They brought up graduating the fourth grade. I had to take up school. If I wanted a parole. I said, “Yeah.” They gave me tests. You mark A. B. Or C. I took the pencil. “C.” “C.” “C.” “A.” “A.” “A.” “Ba. Ba. Ba. Baa.” Gave them to the teacher. I didn’t pass the tests (chuckles). But I got my parole.
   I did nine months. Five year parole. Brought it back to court. In front of the same judge. Broke it down to one year. The parole officer said, “Oh, f… it. You only have a couple months left.” That ended my parole.

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10. Dear Rather Not, Somehow part of the “Gaga III” chapter was deleted. Here’s the remainder of that chapter.

    _______________________________________________________________________
    They put empty trucks up. Leave the keys in. So the trucks can be moved. Danny’s crew snapped the key. Made a copy. Put it back. A week later. Snapped the truck. And away they went.
    Thirty cases of blue blades. Some are red. Some are blue. Some are double blades. Some are triple blades. Some are super blues. For the red blades. Ninety dollars a case. They hit it lucky. They got super blues. One hundred-seventy dollars a case.
    Gillette started with red blades. Red wrappers on the blades. During World War II. They made the blues. During the Korean War. They made the super blues. Cases held twenty-five thousand. Some held thirty thousand blades. People still used the penny red blades. We’d get a mix of everything.
    The fences taking truck loads. They was in Chelsea. I can’t tell you who bought most blades. A very good friend to everybody (smiles). The guy’s a millionaire today. In fact. He was so good. He’d take signed checks. Cash them in the bank. And bring us our money. That was the checking business.
    When Danny’s crew did that score. Bingo. I said, “That’s something for us to look forward to.” We always milked Gillette blades. But never milked them good.
    Billy O’Sullivan. The two Jimmys. And I start hitting the Gillette windows. We pulled up to the building. People was yelling, “Get off the sidewalk.” I said, “F… them. Bring it closer.”
    We bought a new van. A walk-in van. Gave Matty Landy the old one. Jimmy Keeney parked against the building. He’s pissing on the brick wall. And tugged the grate. The wire-window grate. It come off. Bang.
    Jimmy Keeney passed it into the van. The window led to a store room. I helped him open the window. Four thirty in the afternoon. People walking by the van. Giving us plenty of cover. There was palate! After palate. After palate.
    Jimmy Keeney. And I jumped in. We made a daisy chain. Put the cases up there. Two at a time. TWO at a time. And we was choosy. Taking the super blues.
    A case was this big (indicates~eighteen inches long, eighteen inches wide, six inches deep). Billy O’Sullivan. And Jimmy O’Toole packed the van up. Billy almost had a heart attack. Because he was so fat.
    We made that score. Put the grate back. And drove off. Nice. And easy. “Now we got something to milk.” We took two palates. Thirty. Forty cases on a palate. Two times taking two palates.
    The third time hitting the window. There was two palates. Naturally. “Baloop.” “Baloop.” “Baloop.” “Baloop.” Cleaned them off. See you later. Closed the window.
    Russ Hatch’s father said, “We was waiting for those cocksuckers. I’ll catch them next time. I’ll blow them away (laughs).” Right in the middle of the floor. They had two beautiful palates. That was their bait!
    Russ’ father was head of security. Gillette security had a car. Russ’ father set the timetables. What time they cruise around. Billy O’Sullivan. And I put money together. We bought the Washington Tavern. Questioned Russ’ father in there. He didn’t know why we pumped him.
    They thought we come through the loading dock. When they opened the door. There’s two empty palates. Bare-ass palates. “Ahhh!”
    They bricked the windows up. I said, “Let’s take them from the second. And third floor.” We used a side window. With a train underneath.
    Climb on a train. Jump to a roof. Climb another floor. Throw. Cases landed on the roof. Jimmy O’Toole dropped them off. Jimmy Keeney carried them over. Billy packed the van. Boom. Boom. Boom.
    Knuckle-hold on Gillette. For almost two years. On Thanksgiving Day. Only Mickey Flaherty. And I did that score. We cut up four thousand. The other guys didn’t want to work.
    I lugged them across the roof. Gave the signal. Mickey come out. I dropped them off. “Babomp.” “Babomp.” “Babomp.” Thirty-six. Thirty-eight cases. Filled Mickey’s Cadillac. The back seat. The front seat. The trunk. Bingo.
    Mickey said, “What do you want me to do?” “Bring them to East Boston. Give them to Charlie Brown. We’ll settle up later on.” “Okay. I can do that.” I says, “Take it easy. Don’t get yourself pinched.” I took a taxi. Back over to my house. For Thanksgiving dinner with the family.
    Mickey went to East Boston. Parked in front of Santarpio’s. Charlie Brown come down. Mickey followed him to Chelsea. Charlie Brown had a big barn. Outside was a place for dump trucks. When you see a bunch of trucks. And people cutting down trees. That was the layout. Bang.
    There was one mountain of dirt. Over another mountain of dirt. Over another mountain of dirt (growling voice). In the back of it. Where the trailer trucks went. This was a big. Open piece of land.
    Mickey followed him down. Backed his car in. Charlie held count. On the platform. Super blues. Reds. Mickey handled everything. Bingo.
    Two days later. We got the money. We’re in the Pen. I cut it up. Right in front of them. I goes, “Mickey. Wait a second (mimics taking money from a bag). This is yours. This is mine (slow voice).” They was STARING. Billy O’Sullivan. And everybody else.
    You play a little gin. You go down the racetrack. Run up a daily-double. Two thousand-dollar daily double. Bing. The first part comes in. Everybody’s saying, “Yay! You hit.” The next horse runs out. You don’t have ten cents. You jump in your car. Drive across the Mystic River Bridge. Guy puts his hand out. For the ten cents. You shake it. And keep going (laughs).
    Harry Johnson liked saying, “I got to go shake the guy’s hand. At the Mystic River Bridge.” We’d be laughing. And joking.
    The two. And a half ton-tomato truck. That truck made a lot of money. It put up five o’clock. At the tomato company. Tomato trucks parked there. With the keys in them.
    We used the tomato truck. For a third-floor window. This time we made a chute. I boosted a two piece ladder. You can pull a section out. Make the ladder twice as big. Bought a roll of hallway linoleum. And covered the ladder. Used wire. And rope. To make the chute.
    We parked on the street. I’m sliding down the cases. “Wooosh.” “Wooosh.” “Wooosh.” Nobody was packing them. Bing. The truck loaded up. I slide down. Like a wild man. Wires on the linoleum. Nearly ripped my ass open.
    I jump off the truck. “Okay. Let’s go.” We’re driving down “A” Street. The ladder was sticking out. Fifteen feet in the air. This was seven o’clock. Halfway down “A” Street. I said, “Pull over.” The big buildings was closing up. Cars fighting to get around us. People trying to get home. People yelling.
    I climb on top. Call up the other guys. All of us pulling on the ladder. We couldn’t get it out. Cases bulged over the top. Some fell on the street. I remembered a shoe company. A shoe company in the alley. I said, “Let’s go down there. B&E the joint. We’ll get a saw.”
    I knew the saw was there. Because we hid in this room. And watched the elevator coming down. See which shoes was going where. You could sit in there. Watch the elevator. Watch everything. No problem. That’s how I remembered it. I sawed the ladder. Broke it off. Bingo. Bango. The laugh for a month. Truck going down “A” Street. With the ladder sticking out.
    Now the sad part. End of my tomato truck. We used it for a B&E. A joint Richie Kelly had for years. On Saturdays. Richie would sneak down. And get a couple cases of Scotch. This building was near the shoe-company elevator. I couldn’t count how many scores. We made in that one area. We went for a safe. Tried opening the vault. Decided to screw. After about four hours.
    Dewey’s White Horse Scotch. Three tomato-truck loads. “Whiskkk.” Didn’t touch it for a year. Then we went for the safe. A real-monstrous safe. Twelve feet wide. A walk-in vault. It was part of the building. The door was twelve inches thick.
    Six guys on that score. Took one load of Scotch. You know a portable forklift. You stick under a palate. And drag the palate around. The pete was half open. Stripping it. Stripping it. It wouldn’t go. It wouldn’t go.
    Picked the forklift up. Pushed the forks in. Turned the middle knob. “Rrrrr.” Ripped a little bit. But we’re killing ourselves. Left the forklift sticking out. Sticking out of the vault door (laughs).
    Once that forklift didn’t work. It’s three hundred pounds. We gave up. Here we are. We’re holding it sideways. Trying to get the two forks. In between the rip we made. In between the door. And the wall.
    Two held the forklift up. And two used the bars. Ten foot bars for moving trains. Ripping. And tearing. Trying to push in the forks. This thing could lift three palates of booze. Twelve cases on a palate. Another palate on that one. Another palate on the top.
    It wouldn’t work for us. Because it wouldn’t fit proper. The forks was so fat. We couldn’t get them in. We couldn’t get them out. It was a mess.
    The end of “A” Street. There’s a set of railroad tracks. You go down them tracks. You see a big platform. That’s the warehouse-front section. Where all this commotion happened. We couldn’t get it open. We sweated our ass off.
    A year later. We went back there. Took a load of Scotch. Russ Hatch had a place in Saugus. Russ Hatch was from Southie. Tough lower-end guy. He had a guinea friend. The friend’s father was famous for cutting up trucks. That was his racket. For the tires. And the wheels.
    Drove the truck of booze to Saugus. The father said, “No. Get the truck out of here. My son ain’t screwing me.” His son owed him a thousand bucks.
    Harry Johnson knew a guy like Arthur. With a place like Arthur’s Farm. Where you could unload the truck. Russ called him up. Harry said, “Bring it over my place.” We drive to Charlestown. Harry says, “The guy ain’t there. We got to put it up my house.”
    Harry lived behind Main Street. The houses was three-deckers. His house had five back staircases. Because it dropped into the oily. Harry lived on the top floor. Up we go. Up. And down them staircases. Lugging two cases at a time. “Balomp.” “Balomp.”
    Jerry Blanchard lasted one trip. We wanted to kill him. Here I am. Carrying two at a time. Russ two at a time. Jimmy Keeney two at a time. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. Huffing. Puffing. I told Harry, “Give us some beers (strong voice).” Unconsciously. It was a good move. Because we would have got caught.
    I’m taking a piss. “Oh. Shit! The cops.” Shake my dick off. Look out the kitchen window. See cops at the truck. Wondering why it’s parked there. The cops just stumbled into it. They went down the oily to screw off. They might have a broad in the car.
    The truck should’ve been on the left-hand side. We had it on the right-hand side. So it would be near the stairs. A cop lifts up the canvas. And he sees layer. After layer of Scotch.
    “Look at this!” Baboom. Baboom. Baboom. Four. Five police cars come. We’re watching the whole move. Knowing they’re going to rob us. Sure enough. The tailgate goes down. The canvas flap goes up. Police car. After police car. After police car.
    They even called their friends. Cambridge police. Medford police. The paddywagon come. Unloaded what was left.
    Thirty cases up Harry’s house. Harry didn’t lug any Scotch. Harry just directed it. Harry was Harry. He was strong. But another Jerry Blanchard. He helped stack them.
    I said, “Harry we’re leaving the booze with you. If you piecemeal it out. We’ll take forty. You take ten.” Harry says, “I’ll take care of everything Gug.”
    The next day. No Harry. The next day. No Harry. The third day. He called the Alibi. “They pinched me!” Harry even had a cop call. A cop saying Harry got pinched. And they took all the Scotch. This cop come in the Alibi. He said, “F…ing Harry.” He told us the phony story. And says, “We cut up the Scotch.”
    I told Harry, “You prick. I’ll get you.” He said, “No. No. No. You don’t understand. The cops took it all.”
    That ended the poor-tomato truck. I used it for ten years. Just get the truck. Deliver the hot merchandise. Bring it back. On Sunday nights. The truck was handy for a warehouse. A long one-story building. With fifteen sliding doors. Where they threw Willie Delaney. And Harold Hannon in the water.
    Billy O’Sullivan’s friend worked in the railroad yard. He told Billy a train unloaded four. Five hundred cases of spark plugs. Jimmy Keeney. And I ransack the warehouse. We find the spark plugs. Stacked them by the door.
    I’m about to open the door. Jimmy said, “Don’t move! Look at this.” I thought he was putting a light on. It was an alarm. You screw the bulb in. The light would go on. The alarm wouldn’t go off. One of them homemade-copper jobs. Loaded the tomato truck up. Bing. Bing. Bing. A pretty good score.
    Guys moved trains for us. Putting freight trains on the side. We’d back our truck up to the train. They’d shut the street down for us. Everybody was making money.
    B6 TV tubes. They was the most expensive. Fences paid one dollar a piece. Hundred tubes in a case. You could carry eight cases. We knew every truck. And every driver. Where he was going to stop. Did the same thing hundreds. And hundreds of times.
    They come from Quincy. B&E the factory. Get sixty. Seventy cases. We’d make two trips. Climb in a back window. Mickey-mouse a wooden ladder. Put baby wheels on the front. And put sides on the ladder. Take two inch-wide pieces of wood. Nail them on the sides. Ten cases on the bottom. Ten more the other way. Ten more sideways. It would start wobbling. Pull it like a chink. Right down the railroad tracks.
    Load our truck up. Back for another load. Bring it down. Load our truck up. And away we go. They’re missing a million dollars of TV tubes. The shipper was stealing one box a day. They blamed him for everything. Sealed the back windows.
    Five factories in Haverhill. We crucified them all. We’re up in Haverhill. After the trucks. Checking. Rechecking. We was sick. Didn’t make a penny. Spent all kinds of time. Nothing was showing. Nothing! Billy O’Sullivan. And them go for food. I’m looking through a window. See racks of fur coats. This was downtown. Like right on Broadway.
    I went next door. There’s an empty doorway. And a set of stairs. The door said something about a union. I tried the door. It’s open. Walk up the steps. There was an office. With a door window. I look at the floor. “That floor is easy.” I tell them, “It’s something. We can B&E the union hall. And rip up the floor.” “Alright.”
    We boosted large-bed sheets. To bundle the furs. A pickaxe. Hand drill. And saws. A week later. We’re back there. Eight o’clock at night. We made a hole. That dropped to the floor. But you needed a rope. We could see a wall desk. Ripped more of the floor up. To get above the desk. When the door opened. You dropped right down. We walked sideways. Getting in. And out.
    Here comes Jimmy O’Toole. Skinny as a pole. “It’s about time you do something.” I lower him down. “Get the coats.” Billy. Willie. And me was watching. “Not the big one’s. You stupid cocksucker. Get the little stuff.” Because nobody wanted ranch coats anymore. He did a good job. Passed the bundles out. Jumped on the desk. Put his hand up. We lugged him out.
    The next thing. We read in the newspaper. Two guys opened the door. And fell on the fur coats (laughs). The paper headline, “Robbers Break A Leg.” Cops thought they’re the robbers (still laughing). They’re the union workers. We had a good laugh from that. And got half drunk on that. We made a good score. Partied it up. For two days.
    Another funny time. I put heels. On a pair of shoes. My work shoes got run down. Put “Cat Paw” heels on them. Up we go. It’s raining out. I’m wearing the shoes. And I walked in mud. We robbed this factory in Lawrence. Jimmy Keeney. Billy. And me. The watchman said, “I didn’t know you’re working late.” We was ready to screw. We thought the jig was up. Jimmy Keeney says, “We’re going to be working. For another two hours.” The watchman said, “I’m going home early.” We made the score. Skirts. And slacks.
    I don’t remember the other score. I ripped the Coke machine open. One of the bottles broke. It went on the floor. I walked in it.
    Billy had the newspaper. “Cat Paw Strikes Again.” Billy. And Jimmy O’Toole. They was great ones for reading papers. “This time all they took was money from the Coke machine.” We didn’t know what it meant. Billy said, “Lift up your shoe.” Up come the “Cat Paw.” I went in a store. Tried on pair of shoes. Left the Cat Paws behind. Cat Paws struck three times. Twice in the newspaper. Once stealing the shoes.
    We B&Eed a suit factory. These suits come out of Lawrence. We B&Eed three suit factories in Lawrence. And unloaded one furniture company.
    We took armfuls of suits. This was the third floor. Put them on the elevator. Down to the loading dock. Walked right in the truck. They’re on hangers. We didn’t tie them up. Charlie Brown liked getting the suits. The only thing he didn’t like. We hit him with the truck. He opened the back (chuckles). Everything’s jumbled together.
    Charlie Brown hired Russ Hatch. To straighten the suits out. Russ was out of work. Longshoremen went on strike. What a job! Size-forty suit coat. Find the right pants. Then we used twine. Made bundles of ten.
    Mickey Flaherty. Jimmy Keeney. Willie. Billy. And me. Any place you see factories. Where there’s trucks pulling in. They’d be an office in the compound. The compound might have fifteen companies. Jimmy Keeney was a good frontman. He’d get in the office. Look at the board. “Joe’s Sportcoats Number 10.” Find building 10. Sure enough. “Joe’s Sportcoats.” Bingo. Break through the wall. Unload it with a truck.
    I was great for giving people room. Give the guy hustling them a break. Another thief might charge ten dollars. I’d charge eight.
    But I’m headstrong. One time with Charlie Brown. The load come to ninety-seven grand. “I don’t have all the money. I need two days.” “Okay.” The other guys said, “What’s happening?” “Relax. He owes us a hundred grand.” “No. I owe you ninety-seven.” “NO. You owe three grand vig. That’s what you owe. For the two days.”
    He sees me coming. And going. So he KNEW. “This guy’s a nut. And he’d do it.” Which I’ve done. It was ninety-seven big ones. And I charged him three big ones. For holding the money up two days.
    In the beginning. We didn’t trust Charlie Brown. We started dealing with him. Because my fences got hot. Too many thieves going to them. I didn’t want to walk in on anything. Now we’re dealing with Charlie Brown. That ninety-seven thousand. Suits worth five. Six hundred dollars.
    On the average. We waited two days. Just one of them things. It was either get rid of him. Or play around with him.
    Jimmy Keeney. And I got caught robbing cigarettes. Our picture was in the Salem newspaper. The watchman in Lawrence. He recognized my face. “That was the guy! Who was in this building.” Transferred me to Lawrence. Booked me. Fingerprinted me. Joe Saxe come in. Ran me to Salem. Charlie Baker bailed me.
    The word went out. Bing. Bing. Bing. Close all these cases. Trying to rap everything up. “No. I want a grand jury for every case.” Charlie Baker made the deal. He went to three courts. Made three different deals. Shuffled the cases together. Let Lawrence handle it. For ninety days in Lawrence jail.
    Baker said, “That’s a beautiful deal.” “Yeah. But I ain’t doing time up here. I’ll do the ninety days in Charles Street.” Bingo. Bango. Now they went bananas. You ain’t heard anything yet. After they agreed to that. Because they wanted the insurance money. For everything robbed through the years.
    “First of all. I want to leave my house. And go to Charles Street. I ain’t coming up here. Waiting a day. Two days to be transferred down.” Baker says, “Is there anything else you want (incredulous voice)?” I didn’t even go to court. Everything was all arranged. I’m out a year. Robbing. Stealing. Baker tells me, “You’re officially assigned to Charles Street.” “Okay. I’ll check in.”
    “I don’t get up eight o’clock in the morning. I’ll check in at noontime.” Baker was going crazy (chuckles). I told the wife, “I’ll see you in three months. I’ll be in Charles Street.” Took a taxi over there. They put me in the hospital. The best place in Charles Street. Billy brought my TV.
    Billy come with Jimmy O’Toole. Russ Hatch. And Willie. The captain helping me. He LOVED Chinese food. Billy would bring three. Four hundred bucks worth. Buy the expensive stuff. With the credit card.
    Guess what Willie brought? Something like mumbo-gumbo. The captain said, “Who ordered this shit?” Willie says, “I did. It’s good.” Instead of getting lobster Cantonese. A hundred dollars worth of shit. But Willie’s been in the can. He thought mumbo-gumbo showed good taste.
    I was interested in the Scotch. They each carried pints of Scotch. They robbed the kid’s sportcoats. Down in Fall River. I said, “Get me this size.” “That size.” “This size.” Bingo. Bango. The guards (raises voice). Their wives was screwing them good. “Look at this! My God Almighty.” One hundred-thirty dollar sportcoats. For kids age seven. John Kennedy. He wore them. When he was a kid.
    A big shot after hours. That’s the main thing. Barrooms on Shawmut Avenue. After-hours drinks. They cost fifty cents. Hundred dollar bills in my kick. I’d walk in with three broads. Helen. Jackie. And Lou-Lou.
    Being a thief. Moving up the line. You bump into each other. You come up with a score. “I tell you what. I got a score. Do you want in on it?” “Okay.” You do the business. Back robbing trucks. Three weeks later. Robbing a bank. Two. Three weeks later. You’re robbing Gillette blades.
    If I made a score. So much for the wife. So much for me. Bingo. “Okay. Who’s around?” “Hey, Billy. We’re going down to New Bedford.” A week later. You’re with another group.
    We’re up in Haverhill. Billy. And me. We followed a truck. From a shoe company. Truck went to its base. A little-leather factory. I said, “That thing goes for the loude.” I loude the door. We walk in. Grab leather coats. Guy’s leather coats. Girl’s leather coats. There was a pete. I says, “Throw it out the window.” We had the van. Bing. Bing. And we got lucky. There was twelve big ones.
    This happened before the Irish War. I’m working with South End guys. Roxbury guys. Charlestown guys. Southie guys. I had THEM working. I’d get the score. Down the Commonwealth Pier. Whiskey comes off a ship. Take the truck plate numbers. I’d see where they put up. Where they’d be hiding the trucks. And we’d rob them.
    This is another time. Jerry Blanchard messing up. We used the two. And a half tonner. My favorite-tomato truck. Jerry’s laying in the grass. Watching for the railroad cops. Russ Hatch. And I start working. We ripped the building open. It was made of cheap plywood. Backed the tomato truck in. Bingo. Loaded five rows of whiskey. Boom. Boom. Boom. I said, “Get Jerry over here.”
    We take a break. You load fifty cases. In ten minutes. You’re huffing. And puffing. Jerry gets up. He comes out of the truck. “All done. Loaded to the hilt.” I thought, “That was fast.” We go to Russ Hatch’s apartment.
    Jerry put on twenty cases. He rolled them end. Over end. Piled against each other. We lost good money. Jerry’s saying, “I did the best I could. Ba. Ba. Ba. Baa.” We was bullshit. “You son-of-a-bitch!”
    On top of that. Lug them up two flights of stairs. Carrying two cases at a time. Jerry’s carrying one case. They’re heavy cases. “You’re not getting paid. You cocksucker.” But when it was all done. We whacked the money up. These was the funny things.
    I’d jump around. Sneak off with Eddy. Work with the McLaughlins. Make a few bucks. Then back in Southie. Doing trucks again. With Jimmy O’Toole. Billy. And Willie.
    Jimmy Keeney was with his gang. They start getting bigger. And getting luckier. Until Robichaud. Big Billy Kelly. And Jimmy Kearns took control.
    I stayed with Eddy one year. He’d grab some bookmaker by the throat. “Buy me a car.” He’d get the car. Give him the payment book. To send the coupon every month.
    “Here. Take care of it.” Now he had himself a brand-new car. Of course. If the guy died. Eddy would go over there. Tell the wife, “He owed me that money. You need to pay the bill off (aggravated voice). Take his insurance money. Pay for the car.”
    Muscled every one of his cars. Quincy. The South Shore. The North Shore. Grabbing bookies all over.
    Other things come up. I went back. Picked up Billy. Jimmy O’Toole. And Willie. The same routine. Go up to Worcester. Go over to Lynn. For cases of cigarettes. Go down the Cape. For Titleist golf balls.
    We couldn’t get enough golf balls. Fences paid fifty cents a golf ball. That’s eight hundred dollars a case. You play on a golf course. You lose golf balls like crazy. One hundred-forty four packages. Twelve balls in a package.
    They come like this (indicates~three by four square feet). Solid. Heavy cases. These cases went two hundred. Three hundred pounds a piece. You tip them on an end. Tip them off the truck. But they was dynamite.
    Go back in town. Get the Baron Andersons. The same routine. Over. And over. And over again. Nothing ever changed.
    You want to get away. When becoming a wiseguy. Take a break. Seventeen. Eighteen dollars. Fly to New York. You just walk on. And take a seat. You didn’t check in. The plane would start. They used a pushcart. Like they use for drinks. That was their cash register.
    The first time flying to New York. I sat in the back. The broads was there. I’m laughing. And joking. I seen them counting money. Putting it in a blue bag. Bing. Bang. Boom. Once I see money (eager voice). I do my watching (eyes brighten).
    I’m giggling with one. “Where’s a good restaurant? I’d like to take you out to dinner.” “Oh. I can’t. I need to catch another flight.” The intercom said, “Back to your seats.” They take the blue bag. Put it in a handbag. Put the handbag away. Pulled the curtain shut.
    They go up front. To tell the people, “Good Bye.” I pulled the bag out. Stuffed it in my shirt. Muzzled past a few passengers. I’m not the last one. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine hundred. Regular blue-bank bag. With the zipper on top.
    Went over the East Side. I hit different spots. I went down there. Mostly for the pussy. “Yeah. South Boston.” I always got pussy. It’s all about money. IT’S ALL ABOUT MONEY (tough voice).
    You’re in a bar. Sitting beside a nice broad. “Give me a drink.” The roll is going one way. You turn it the other way. Now the hundred comes on top. BANG.
    Especially when having a five hundred. The five hundred comes out on top. Bingo. “I can’t cash that.” “Oh Jesus. I’m awful sorry.” I fold the roll. “Where you going Mister? I’m right with you. Anywhere you want to go.”
    Twenties. And fifties underneath. I put the hundreds. And the five hundred on top. In a place I don’t know. Not looking to get my head broken. I turn the roll backwards. Pull out a twenty. When scoring a broad. The other way. “Yeah, honey. Ba. Ba. Ba. Ba. Baa. Here you go.”
    Yellow-credit card. The American Express. That’s the first credit card. The American Express guy handled us. The guy was half drunk. He said, “I’ll write you up. Let me have your names.” The next goddamn thing. We got American Express. And start banging them. I couldn’t believe it. Bing. Bang. Bing. Bing.
    This happened at the Brewster Ship. Quincy side of the bridge. Where Whitey buried Tommy King. We’d have four. Five grand like nothing. Throwing the money around. He said, “How come you guys carry so much money?” “Why?” “Bup. Bup. Bup. Baa.” “Okay. Here’s my name.” He wrote us all up. We went crazy with them. I used my card. A year. And a half. Mostly for Chinese food.
    Mickey McGuire got one. He took the silverware. The furniture. And everything else. From his Holiday Inn room. Right beside the Brewster Ship. Mickey lived in that Holiday Inn. For more than a year. On the card.
    The heat come up. Mickey had to screw. Mickey said, “Take the lamps. Take everything.” Cleaned the room dry. Two carloads of stuff. Crossing the Neponsit River bridge. Throwing it on the highway (laughs).
    Maxi. Jimmy O’Toole. Mickey Reddington. Mickey McGuire. They got American Express cards. First me. Jimmy O’Toole. And Mickey Reddington.
    Brewster Ship was a barroom. “Give us a drink.” “Give everybody a drink.” “Give everybody a drink.” The end of the night. We owe three hundred dollars. “Here.” “Here.” “Here.” Throw the waitress a C-note. People couldn’t afford a hundred dollars. We’re giving a C-note tip. Just to be a BIG guy. The American Express guy seen it. He seen us spending money. Like we owned the joint.
    The Mullens would ask me. “Is the yellow bird flying?” That was the code. I’d get them meals. Over Howard Johnson’s. One would be at a table. You don’t want his girl knowing. He’d say, “Hi Gaga. How you doing? Is the yellow bird flying tonight?” “Yeah. It’s flying.” “Thanks a lot.”
    I come over. Cut into his table. “How’s everything going?” “Have a drink.” “Oh. By the way. Give me the bill. Here’s the tip too. Have a nice time. See you later.”
    I’d rent them rooms for shacking up. They’d always get the first floor. Rooms near the pool. Broads jump in bare-ass.
    They had a front desk connection. That ran the Howard Johnson’s. They’d take my credit card. Give it to him. He’d rent the rooms. Get Chinese food. Handle everything. Knowing him. He punched out more slips.
    Like Doc Madden used to do. “I want to go drinking down Quincy.” “Here’s a credit card.” Doc would see his friends. Bing. Bing. Bing. Maybe a seventy dollar tab. Doc would mark down. Thirty dollars tip.
    Guy puts it in the slammer. Leaves the credit card laying there. When somebody paid with cash. Put that in his pocket. Write out more blanks. With the phony name. A check comes in for fifty. Write out the blank for fifty. Put the cash in his pocket.
    “Okay. Let’s go for guinea food.” I call up a guinea restaurant. Bingo. Bango. The next night Locke-Ober’s. “Okay. We’re going to Locke-Ober’s.” Make a reservation for twelve. Spend eighteen hundred bucks.
    The guineas call me up. “You’re in town. Bring your friends over.” They was making a paycheck. I’d go to their restaurant. Sign a dozen blank slips. They’d make two. Three. FOUR THOUSAND with the blanks. That’s a pretty-nice customer.
    We never take. We give. We give. We give. “Here you go.” Do you a favor. Bingo. You say, “I need some tools.” I’d steal a ratchet set. “Here you go. Here’s your tools.” “Gee, Gug. Thanks a lot.” “No thank you. You’re my friend.”
    All the people. I ever helped. Come back. And helped me. Someway or another. Somewhere along the line. I never got screwed.
    This kid owed shylock money. Bernie’s going to bust his head. I said, “Hold everything. How can we work this? Let’s make a deal with the father.” His father gave me thirty-five hundred. A hundred dollar loan. But through seven. Ten years. It become outrageous. The father was going crazy. I straightened it out.
    I’m in federal court. The father bumped into a jury guy. Connected to him through marriage. His nephew. Or son-in-law. Got me a not guilty. By saying, “Gaga’s a good guy. Help him out.” Without me even knowing. The juror kept repeating, “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.”
    I loved juries. I go all the way. I got more not guilties. If you have enough money. And hit with a big bit. Now you go to the can. Sit back two. Three years. Your lawyer fights it. Gets everything thrown out. Gets the case overturned. They cannot find you guilty.
    Even if caught with a smoking gun. If you have enough money. Enough push. Enough know how. They cannot find you guilty. That famous lawyer from California. One of the greatest criminal lawyers. His last words, “Never plead guilty.”
    Stevie Flemmi might hit the streets. God only knows how much money. He got stashed in the Bahamas. And the Cayman Islands. After another twenty years. He might have fifty million. Somebody comes in to make a deal. A politician wanting part of that money. You never say die.
    Connie Hughes. And Stevie Hughes are dead. Wimpy’s posing as a big man. He’s running over to Howie Winter. Stevie Flemmi’s right along side him. They’re hanging over in Somerville. And little do they know. Larry’s moving on Wimpy.
    Fabiano called Wimpy up. “Tash. And DePriso are dead. Larry. And Phil did it.” Wimpy called the cops. Almost got them pinched. Fabiano was a witness. He’s in the car. Sitting like this (holds invisible steering wheel). They carry out a body. Throw it in Tash’s Cadillac. In goes the other body. Larry jumps in the car. Phil jumps in his car. Follows him to Southie. Where they dump it. “B.” And West Fourth Street.
    While they’re doing that. Wimpy sent the cops. “Weeeee (spins raised finger).” To pinch everyone. In the Nite Lite Cafe. But the only one there. Ralphie Chong cleaning up the blood.
    I’m in Dedham jail. My second Dedham bit. Turn the TVs off. And on. I could go anywhere. Eddy knew Jack Birmingham. And Birmingham knew the sheriff. My cell was never locked.
    After a couple months. Fabiano comes in. He’s under guard. Cell number one. On the first tier. Facing the guard room. “These was my friends.” “I’m staying with Barboza.” “F… them all.” “We’re getting rid of them f…ing guineas.” “F… Raymond Patriarca. That guinea cocksucker.” Fabiano’s ranting like that. He’s ranting like a madman.
    Fabiano was strictly a kid. In his twenties. A little guinea. With a beer belly. He was Barboza’s driver. And wanted to be a shooter. He tells me, “I’m going to be Barboza’s witness.” He said, “Listen Gaga. I don’t want any trouble with you. I’m still with Barboza. I’m going with Barboza against Larry. Phil. And all of them.”
    “What do you mean? You’re going to be his witness. Remember one thing. Larry’s a guinea. You’re a guinea. Your mother. And father are guineas.” I seen them in the visiting room. I said, “They know your sister. And your brother. You ain’t going to f… Larry. And get away with it. He’s going to wipe your family out.”
    I don’t care. A guinea was a guinea. But I said, “F… Barboza. Take care of yourself.” Fabiano says, “The motherf…ers killed Chico. F… them all. I’m with Barboza.” That was the song. And dance he had going.
    When Eddy lost his hand. The shooters partied it up. By going over Joe Balliro’s nightclub. And showing themselves as tough guys. Maybe a month later. Wimpy had it set up. They’re dropping Tash’s body off. “Drop it off at Balliro’s door. Pull up the street. And take a left on LaGrange Street.” That’s where Stuart the cop. And two other cops was waiting. To shoot the shit out of them.
    Nothing come off. For one reason. They’re sitting there. Hour in. And hour out. Hour in. And hour out. Because they didn’t know. Barboza’s pinched at the Coliseum. The detective that pinched him. He hunted down Barboza for ranting, “I’m going to kill your wife. Kill your kids. Kill your mother.” The detective says, “You are. Are you?”
    Fabiano don’t liked being locked up. Twenty-four hours a day. He asked for the sheriff. He said, “I get along good with Gaga. I got no beef with him. I know people think we’re on different teams. But you can ask Gaga. I don’t want problems. And he don’t want problems.” The sheriff called me in. I says, “Oh, yeah. I like the kid. He’s my friend. Absolutely.” Really. I hated him (grimace).
    Fabiano was allowed general population. But stood in the same cell. They’d open his cell up. For the recreation room. He’d stay three hours. Lock up. Head count. He’d come out. For another three hours.
    I’d bullshit with him. Go have some coffee. Bullshit with him again. This went on for months. He was stuck in the recreation room.
    I’m PUMPING Fabiano. I asked, “How did Barboza get our rifle? The elephant gun.” He said, “Stevie Flemmi.” I learned Stevie robbed the stash. After they tortured Harold. Stevie B&Eed our Roxbury garage.
    The McLaughlins kept a big gun stash. But it had no machine guns. Because once you use them. You get rid of them. Just rifles. Shotguns. Carbines. Forty-fives. Thirty-eights. And no silencers. We used them. But didn’t keep them. They’re only for one gun. They had to be made up.
    I could make a home-made one. I could shoot you. Nobody would hear it. Take a piece of bamboo. About six inches of bamboo. From a bamboo fishing pole. Put it on a pistol. Stick a baby nipple. On the end. “Kwooo.” You’d hear it. But out there (points to outside hallway). Wouldn’t hear it.
    The rebels down south. When they’re jacking deer. At night with a light. Put it on the end of their rifle. That’s where I learned it. Bingo. You get one shot.
    A metal silencer. You screw it on. And screw it off. Machine shop drills the barrel. It’s only good for one gun. Now you do your work. Throw the gun away. Throw the silencer away. That’s a life bit!
    Private gun stashes. Out in Holliston. I kept mine in the ceiling. The second floor bathroom sprung a leak. Water come pouring down. I’m in Dedham jail. I phoned the wife. “YYYOOOOOUUU! It’s raining rifles. Pistols (high-pitched voice).” My kids was grabbing them. Thank God no bullets.
    Eighteen pieces. Two army carbines. That could hold steel-jacket shells. And sixteen pistols. Forty-fives. Thirty-eights. And thirty-twos. I put pie plates around them. If anybody put the beeper on it. They’d look like pipes.
    In Grampian Way. Between the front. And the rear doors. I kept three pistols. Middle of the hallway. Little string near the ceiling. If somebody comes in. I jump up. Pull the string. Bing. Trap door falls down. I grab the pistols. I’m ready for work. Dorchester had plenty of killings. Holliston was better for my kids.
    Fabiano said, “I didn’t know Wimpy’s a rat.” I says, “How do you think they found out? The cops went flying over there. You didn’t call?” “No. I only called Wimpy. And told him what happened.”
    I kept reminding him. “If you’re smart. You wouldn’t go against Larry. Think of your family.” Fabiano finally listened. He said, “I’m not testifying. I’m getting out.”
    I sent word to Larry. “The kid’s softened up. He ain’t testifying.” This put Barboza alone. Not knowing it was me. Who convinced him. Barboza went crazy. Wanting to kill Fabiano.
    I’m still PUMPING Fabiano. “What about this guy?” “What about that guy?” Fabiano filled me in. Through six. Seven months. I learned everything that he knew. That he was entitled to. That he did.
    Fabiano copped out. For a small bit. Larry told him, “You’re a good guinea. You kept your mouth shut.” Larry brought Fabiano to East Boston. Opened a small parking lot. In Davis Square. Put him in charge. Gave Fabiano a shylock. “Don’t worry. You’re with us.” When Fabiano settled. Larry clipped him.
    Larry was clipping Stevie too. Anybody knowing anything about him. Stevie knew Larry whacked Tash. And DePriso. He knew that from Wimpy. Stevie was probably standing right there. When Wimpy called Stuart the cop. And Stevie knew Larry set up Wimpy. Because Stevie did the hit.
    After the Irish War. I’m robbing for Gaga. One thing about me. I can steal by myself. I never depended on anybody. Always went down the BACK streets. You see a new safe. Forget that town. They’ve already been robbed. You’re looking for the old-concrete safes. That can be thrown on their backs. And the bottoms kicked out.
    If the bottom wasn’t soft. Hit the safe door. With the sledgehammer. Make a dent. You bang the corner. Make the corner jump out. Soon as the corner jumps out. Put your crowbar in. And start peeling it. You’ll see powder puffs. Because air got inside. Turned concrete into dust. The cams fall down. Stick your hand in. Pull the bar back. The door opens.
    When stealing for myself. The scores added up. I carried a lot of money. Bought ten thousand-dollar cashier’s checks. “Paid to Francis X. Murray.” Put them in my wallet. Under the family pictures. Forty thousand-dollar cashier’s check. Carried that check two years. Before trying to cash it. Needed to open a bank account. Because dope brought all kinds of heat.
    I bought American Express Travelers Checks. Sheriff grabs me for a misdemeaner. Out in the Midwest. “I got twelve thousand dollars in American Express Travelers Checks. I’m giving my lawyer four thousand. Because I’m innocent. And I’m going to be proved innocent.” “Lock him up.”
    Always grabbed in an area. I didn’t B&E the joint. “Suspicious Person.” “SP.” “SP.” “SP.” “SP.” “SP.” They knew right off. I was a hoodlum. A day. Two days later. They come by. “What do you have to say now?” “It’s going to cost four thousand dollars. For my lawyer to beat the case.” The next thing. “Start signing.” “Francis X. Murray.” “Francis X. Murray.” “Francis X. Murray.” “Francis X. Murray.”
    Any cash might be confiscated. Tying it to a crime. But the American Express Travelers Checks. They was signed six months ago. I’m in jail a week. I know one thing. No charges was coming. They can keep me a month. Eventually they’re turning me loose. The money comes up. I’m out the door.
    They towed my car. Put it in somebody’s driveway. “That will cost nine hundred. And forty-two dollars.” I think to myself, “You motherf…ers.” But I’d do the same thing.
    This happened all over. I robbed every state. Not one time. Five times. California. Maybe eight times. Hot Springs Arkansas. I went every other year. Then steady for seven years.
    It never changed. Sleep. Drink. Get f…ed. Go broke. Do it all over again. I’ve gone broke in Vegas. Down to fifty dollars. Left in a shitbox. Go heading up north.
    Bump into a garage. I pull over. Watch the garage. Around dinner time. They’re out front. Drinking their beer. Pepsi Cola. Or something. I walk around the back. Come in through the garage. Half-cock the safe. Two palms of twenties. Out the door. An hour later. Be gambling again. I never worried when stealing. Some places they shoot you dead. Either you stole. Or you didn’t.
    I’m in my thirties. Gambling on my own. I was always jumping from racetrack. To racetrack. In between scores. Hitting the tracks. Bingo. Bango. In between going to Vegas. Bing. Bing. Bing. Where ever there’s new action. I always showed up. I’d be in Vegas. Go tap city. Head to Reno.
    There’s Vegas. Reno. Lake Tahoe. And Carson City. Anything else in Nevada. The locals rob you.
    A place called Winnemucca. They grab you for speeding. “Where you going?” “I’m going to Vegas.” “You’re not going to Vegas. YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL.” Bingo. “What do you mean? Ba. Ba. Baa.” “Well. We’ll straighten this out for five thousand.” “I didn’t do anything.” “Shut up (tough voice). You talked back to me. Didn’t you? Take the prick away.”
    I’ll always remember that name. Winnemucca’s the worst place in Nevada. The word is already out. DO NOT gamble. Outside of Vegas. Reno. Lake Tahoe. And Carson City.
    You’re sitting there. You see cowbroads. They’re chewing tobacco. “Raww.” “Raww.” “Raww (exaggerated chewing)” These broads are eighty years-old. With tits down to here (taps stomach). A bell would go off. “Ding.” They come running over. Try to hustle you. Cards come flying out. “Wee.” “Wee.” “Wee.” “Wee (moves hand in all directions).”
    They ROB the shit out of you. “I raise eighteen dollars.” “Thirty-six dollars.” “A hundred seventy-two dollars.” “Nine hundred. And some-odd dollars.”
    They raise you out of the pot. Easiest gimmick in the world. You can’t cover the raise. You’re out. “Better luck next time Sonny (elderly voice)” I was smart enough there. I kept a LOW profile.
    I come into town. Find a small motel. Eight bucks a night. Be nice. And quiet. Check out the supermarkets. The used-car dealers. The barbershops. Squeeze around. Find some other spot to go. Pack it all up. Bingo. “See you later.” I move out. Go to another motel.
    I moved out of the motel. Just in case. I screwed up. Somewhere along the line. Go to the other motel. Check in. Bingo. Bango. Six. Seven. Eight o’clock. Step out. Bing.
    If the safe wasn’t on half-lock. Bang it with a sledgehammer. First push it over. On its back. Look at the bottom. If the bottom looked heavy. “F… the bottom.” Hit the left-hand corner. “Smash.” “Smash.” “Smash (strong voice).” The corner would jump up (indicates~one inch).
    I’d take the crowbar. “Kwirkk.” “Kwirkk.” “Kwirkk.” “Kwirkk.” “Come on you cocksucker.” It would be busting. Busting. Busting loose. Peel it halfway down. “Qwikkk.” There goes the cams. Once the concrete broke loose. The cams would fall apart. The cams hold the bars. Once the cams fall down. Nothing’s holding the bars. Reach in. Game over.
    The easiest way. Through the bottom. With a pickaxe. From the fire department. They have a point on them. You can chop through the bottom. Some bust up. Some don’t bust up. Couple whacks on the bottom. If nothing seems to give. Don’t waste your time. Go the hard way.
    Do my trick. And leave the town. What right have I got? Running around on the highway. Three o’clock in the morning. The only one out. Three in the morning. Is a thief!
    I’d stick my head right in. Any business that was open. “How are you doing?” “By the way. What’s the rent for a three bedroom apartment here? A ballpark figure.” Bing. Bing. Bing. Have a conversation. Peek-a-boo around.
    When finding a pete. Automatically check the handle. See if it opens. Check for half-lock. If on regular lock. You B&E the place. Take the goodies.
    Robbed hundreds on half-lock. People walking by me. Wait for my break. Drop down quick. “The cocksucker’s on half-lock.” Bip. Bip. Bip. Open it up. Open my shirt. “Qwishh.” Qwishh.” “Qwishh.” Bingo.
    Always wore a sportcoat. And a neck tie. If I get stopped. I ask for something. “I’m looking to buy a pig. A roasted pig about forty pounds.” Everybody else was running around in khakis. I’m looking like a regular salesman. Even at the racetrack. Always dressed nice. Sportcoat. Neck tie.
    I did that for years. And years. South Dakota. North Dakota. Wyoming. Utah. Montana. Caught them on half-lock. Insurance companies. Markets. Grocery stores.
    Right here (points to floor). The cash registers. Up against the wall. There’s like a priest’s podium. The office was on top. They’re hitting the cash registers. Sliding food back. And forth. Talking. I sneak behind. Listening to them. BING. BANG.
    Small gas station. I see the safe. And try the handle. If it wasn’t open. I half-cock it. Now it’s open. Check the guy. BANG.
    I crucified Newfoundland. Prince Edward Island. British Columbia. Nova Scotia. Creeping around by myself. Bing. Bang. Boom. Smash. Bingo. That happened before the Irish War. During the Irish War. After the Irish War. It’s happening right now. All over the world. You don’t see it. A thief comes in. The next thing. “Oh, my God! I’ve been robbed.” The owner’s moaning. And groaning to his workers.
    I’m hoping there’s no safe. Found plenty of cigar boxes. And ammunition boxes. Holding heavy money.
    In houses. People think they’re clever. All different ways of hiding money. Wrap up a little bundle. Tuck it in their refrigerator. Nobody knows about it. I come along. And find it. Guys take their money box. Looks like a lunch box. Wrap it in aluminum foil. Throw it in their meat chest. They’re happy as hell. Until I come by. Throw out the meat. Bingo.
    Up north. They’re famous. Famous (bangs table)! For putting money in the freezer. Hide everything they want to protect. That’s where they hide money. Hide their jewelry.
    Wrap it up. Aluminum foil. Nice. And square. Move the meat around. “Oh, boy. I’m smart as hell.” Bang. When they get robbed. “Oh, my God!”
    They take out pieces of meat. Drop meat on top of it. Soon as I see a square box. I know right off the bat. Because meat don’t come square.
    When I’m up north. First the refrigeration. The freezers. Right away. Next the master bedroom. If I think the guy’s a wheeler. And dealer. The bathroom. Look behind the bathtub. For a little-money box. Bingo.
    You know the white boxes. Laying in the medicine cabinet. A first-aid box. Just laying there. With thirty grand. Guess how we found it? Billy O’Sullivan cut his finger.
    Going out bare-ass. Went to our spot. Billy’s fixing his finger. SURPRIZE. “Ahhhhh!” Now we’re all. “Hee. Hee.” “Haw. Haw.”
    When down South. I hit the freezers too. Where they have lots of fish. They hide money in the freezers. Not a big score. Twelve hundred. Fifteen hundred. Sometimes they’re women. Robbing their husband’s wallet. Fifteen hundred under the ice cube tray.
    You could find it anywhere. Depends what kind of house. Every score is different. Down South. Right away. Hit the master bedroom. Bingo. Is he a smart guy? Is he a stupid guy? Open up the drawers. See keys. Close the drawers. And out the door. He has safety-deposit boxes. So there’s nothing in the house.
    Route 1 in America. Route 1 in Canada. Route 1 in America. Goes north to south. Route 1 in Canada. Goes east to west. Clear across to Vancouver.
    I crisscrossed Canada. Using the secondary roads. Stayed out of the big cities. Only time I hit the big cities. When I make good money. Lay in a big city. For a week. Two weeks. Gambling. The broads. Partying it up.
    Nineteen thousand in my pocket. Ten thousand in thousand dollar bills. They still use them in Canada. I’d get thousand dollar bills. When robbing a safe. Spend the smaller notes.
    Back in United States. Washington State. Oregon. And California. Down into Vegas. Party it up. Go to Arizona. Make money there. The same thing. Twenty. Thirty years. Peek-a-booing around. You need to find something. Before you can steal it. I’d hit spots at noontime. Half the store would be empty. Catch the safe on half-lock. Bing. Bang. Bing.
    A certain town. There was four stores. Single block of stores. That’s the whole town. Robbed the four stores. I busted in one store. Took money from the register. Kicked through the wall. Half the wall broke (chuckles). Bang. Robbed the safe. Kicked through the next wall. Took money from the register. Kicked through the next wall. Took money from the register. Made my get away.
    In Montana. Wyoming. And Utah. I made money. I followed the rodeos. The cities was packed. You have no place to sleep. You had to sleep in your car. It’s the same thing today. Everyone of them states. They have rodeos. Mingle with people. And rob them.
    No matter where. I was going to steal. Because I can do everything. I can peek-a-boo. Rip safes open. Stick up guys. Go boosting. That’s why it’s ideal. For somebody like me.
    All the rodeos go south. About five border towns there. That’s why I went to Mexico. But couldn’t find good money.
    Going across from California. It took me two. Three weeks. To reach Tijuana. Right across the border. But I took different roads. Mexico is a BIG country. Safes on half-lock. Empty. Empty. Empty. End of the night. They took money home.
    Once I stayed three months. Mostly killing time. Punch off a motel. Bang. Might find six hundred dollars. They’re loaded with cigar boxes. They’d be outside talking. I’d search the desk.
    I’d go in supermarkets. Go in every place. Lot of work. Walk. Walk. Walk. It wasn’t worth it.
    When coming from Mexico. I was never searched. Didn’t worry about being searched. Finding good money. I’d worry.
    This happened in ‘57. Pulled in a customs booth. “How you been sir? Did you buy anything?” “Nope. Just passing through.” The other guy said, “How about New York?” My guy says, “When was the last time you was in New York?” “New York is too much money. Bup. Bup. Bup. Baa.” Gave him a line of shit.
    I seen a newspaper. On the front page. Mafia bosses getting pinched. In upstate New York. “That cocksucker. He must have thought. I’m connected to this thing.”
    I’m in a barroom. Small town. Outside San Diego. Minding my own business. “That looks like one of them. Take him.” “What’s the matter? Here’s my identification.” “Shut up. Turn around.” There was no crime. Just suspicious person. In California. No matter where you get pinched. If you don’t get bailed. You go through the mill.
    Lay on the floor. At night buses come by. Buses that fit a hundred people. You’re chain ganged together like this (twists arms). One hand might be overlapping the seat. Your other hand. Bent back like this (bends arm back).
    This was the beginning of the nightmare. You went on the bus eight o’clock at night. You’re still in the same bus. Stuck in the same position. Twelve o’clock the next day. They’re making the run. Picking up everybody. Pissing your pants. Pissing on the floor. Some guys shit their pants. There’s nothing you can do. You can yell. And scream. All they do. Drive over more bumps. “Baloomp.” “Baloomp.” “Baloomp.”
    We get to the big jail. They put you in the bullpen. If it holds a hundred people. There’s two hundred in there. You’re fighting to sit down. Every time you turn around. Somebody’s rubbing their prick. On your arm. On your leg.
    Food time. We get an orange. Skin gets thrown on the floor. Somebody will grab it. And eat it. This was the nightmare. You go from that bullpen. To the next bullpen. That holds fifty. A day later. Another bullpen. That holds thirty. You’re still in underwear. And the same oranges. Then the good bullpen. That holds ten.
    You all line up. Look up your ass. Look up your nose. Look in your ears. Look in your hair. They take your fingerprints. Put a bracelet on you. In case you break out. They want to know your name (chuckles). And you’re saying, “When do I get a phone call?” “When do I get a cell?” They put you in the shower. Now you’re so happy. But bleeding from handcuffs. “Where’s my lawyer?” “Where’s my lawyer?” In escrow three days.
    Finally a cell. “Get in there (tough voice).” Three bunks. And three bunks. Up to the ceiling. A hopper in the middle. Guys sitting on the floor. You squeeze right in. Sweat your balls off. Three days in underwear. You get jail pants. And a shirt.
    “Okay Murray. Come on out. Turn around.” Handcuff me. Shackles on my ankles. Brought to a room. Mirrors on the walls. They’re asking me questions. “I got nothing to say. I want a lawyer.” “Throw him in a cell. We’ll talk with him later.” Go in a private cell. Two. Three hours later. They question me again. “I want a lawyer.” “We’ll give you a lawyer.” “SMACK.” “F…ing wiseguy. New York prick.” The same private cell. Two. Three hours later. They question me again.
    Now the regular cell. Still on the floor. No blankets. No mattresses. Metal bunks on the walls. With round holes in them. Line up for baloney sandwiches. Oranges. Prunes. And coffee. Sit there like a mummy. Hour in. And hour out. Again on the bus. Moved to a bigger jail. Same routine. Shackled up. Anything you could imagine. This happened to me.
    I had no money. Not a nickel. No phone call. All you hear, “Shut up. Bend over.” Handcuff you. Go to another bullpen. “Francis X. Murray.” “Yeah.” “How do you plead?” “What are you talking about? Plead to what? I’m not charged with anything.” “Oh. You’re not (scratches head). Take him back out. Next prisoner.” Back in a cell. To another cell. To another cell. This went on for four days. I must have been on five buses.
    I had no record in California. They waited for my FBI files. Ninety percent of the people arrested. They get bailed out. But ten percent. Go through the mill. They questioned me again. “Lawyer.” “Lawyer.” Now the main lockup. It’s connected to the courts. Everybody’s in jail underwear. Or pants. No shirt. I took my shirt off. Because it was so hot.
    I go in the court. “Who are you?” “Francis X. Murray.” “We don’t have your paperwork.” Back in the cell again. Two days later. In another court. Same bullshit. Bingo. Bango. Bingo.
    They get my paperwork. I asked to see a priest. The priest called my mother. She worked in the courthouse. She knew what to do. Sent me five hundred dollars. The court said, “Release him.”
    Put me on a bus. I’m in a police station. Sat there six hours. The cops took me. Looked up my asshole. Looked every place. They fingerprinted me again. Checked it against the other fingerprints. The fingerprints on my wrist bracelet. It’s so long to get in. And so long to get out.
    They do all that stuff. When first getting pinched. Do it all again. The day getting out. The guards hate everybody. I lost my car. I lost everything. Four days. Then eight days. They gave nothing back. Only my mother’s money. Five hundred-dollar watch. Four thousand in travelers checks. A couple hundred in cash. My three year-old car. NOTHING BACK. All out the window. I was never so happy. When hitting the streets.
    U-drive-it car. Paid a hundred bucks. Big Cadillac convertible. Drove through Texas. I robbed saloons. They had loude doors. “Qwikkk.” I’m right inside the bar. Looking for the money stash. They hide it between beer bottles. If there was a safe. I’d set the place up. Come back the next night. And bring the tools.
    All secondary roads. Pulled into upstate New Hampshire. Two months on the road. I grabbed twenty-seven grand.
    They threw me out of Canada. This was years later. Rented a hotel room. Bar Harbor Maine. Cops knocked on the door. Bingo. Bango. Bingo. “You’re Mister Murray (stern voice)?” “Yeah.” “We want to talk with you.” “I don’t got the time. I’m going to bed.” They took me out. I had a soft-brown hat. The broad must have been colorblind. She said, “I can’t recognize him without a hat. He had a blue hat on.”
    I’m prowling a store. Looking at the safe. Lining it up. When they close. I’m going in there. And rip it open. When casing a town. I go in every store.
    This old broad followed me. I looked suspicious. Meanwhile. She found two. Three other old broads. Together they followed me. They said I went in stores. And was peek-a-booing around.
    I’m in the police station. Eleven o’clock at night. I called an operator. “I need a lawyer. These people are bothering me.” She said, “I know what you mean fella. I know just the guy.” He was good. Cost fifty bucks. The prick.
    I had eight grand. And twenty thousand in travelers checks. Once they seen that money. “OH BABY.” Now they had somebody! The lawyer tells them, “You either press charges. Or you let him go. That woman says he wore a blue hat. You went in his room. And found a brown hat.”
    They let me go. But I figured they’re pinching me. Grabbing me in the morning. I went back. Woke the bum up. Paid for the room. I was going to beat him. But I said, “No. I better not.”
    I went to Quebec City. A day. And a half drive. What I didn’t know. The cocksuckers was following me. This money drove them crazy. When I shot across the border. Maine cops radioed my plate number.
    Rented a three hundred-dollar room. On the arm. I had the car. In the basement garage. I went to get my car. A guy said, “I’m sorry. There’s been a mix-up. You have to come back. In an hour.” He was an undercover cop. And they ransacked my car.
    The car was clean. I had no tools. If seeing a pete. I go steal tools. In the hardware store. Down my pant leg. I stole everything. Small hardware store. It didn’t matter. I STOLE them. I do. What I want to do. And nothing stops me. BANG.
    I had my suitcase. All packed. Walked down. Like I owned the joint. Now I want my car. They gave me the story.
    Beating Canadian rooms was easy. Especially back in them days. Because the Canadians paid for rooms. They found out what we’re doing. They start being weasels too. We’re getting away with it. So they did it. Beating the rooms.
    Stayed in a castle. It’s on a peninsula. There’s a famous boardwalk. Like ten football-fields long. You walk down the boardwalk. If you don’t make a broad. You jump off (smiles).
    Two days later. Went for my car. They jacked me around. I said, “There’s something wrong here. I better pay for the room.” Sure enough. They planned getting me for that. Bingo. One of the cops gave it away. He says, “What made you change your mind?” “I always pay for the room. I was just busy. Taking my suitcase down. And straightening things out.”
    They let me get my car. Bingo. Bango. I put the suitcase in. Go over the road. They’re tailing me. I mean TAILING me. Right on my bumper. I said, “Hell with this. I better get across the border.”
    Before I could reach Maine. “Rrrrrrr.” Federal police pull me over. One cop drove my car. We had a chain gang. Four cars of undercover cops. Like a big bust. They ran my prints. Held me two days. Evicted me from Canada.
    All this bullshit. It started in Maine. One cop said, “From Bar Harbor. They tailed you to Canada. And asked us to take over. To find out what you’re up to.” “I come up to Canada. To spend my money. Now you’re throwing me out.” They flew me to Montreal. Put me on another plane. Flew me to Boston. And kept my car.
    Stayed with Jerry Blanchard. The next day. Cleaned up. Went to see Hank. He made some phone calls. Found me a good used car.
    Berkley Hotel was the big payoff spot. The cops got paid off there. It was a whorehouse. In the South End. Near police headquarters. Captains. And commissioners would get blown. I was trying to line one up. Rob one of their envelopes.
    I went in there. Nothing was happening. Back seat of a car. I saw four cases of Scotch. Lugged two to my car. Went for the other two. The cops come. I screwed. They grabbed my car. And they had a witness.
    There’s a hundred windows looking down. This guy was in the dark. Watching the street. What really bothered me. The cops said he come out. Ran to the corner payphone. BORROWED A NICKEL. To call them.
    For every police station. Some bookie knew the bagman. You go see the bookie. “Look. Here’s the setup. I have this problem.” Bingo. Bango. The bookmaker knew the bagman. Because the bookmaker was open. He had to pay off. So when I come in. Treated me the same way. And they took my money. You always had a connection. For paying off the cops.
    When I had the problem. I talked with Mullray. And Barney Olsen. They knew the cop. He worked in Station Four. Few blocks from police headquarters. He lived in Dorchester. And drank in Mullray’s. A regular patrolman. But he ran that station. Because he was the BAGMAN. He went in the files. Pulled out the charge. Bang. And stashed it.
    Stashed the charge three years. I was pinched for something else. I told Barney, “We better run them all in. I want it back in my files.” They put that pinch. With five other pinches. For ninety days at Deer Island. Every station had a bagman. You make the connection. Always having a connection. That was the main thing.
    Bouncing a credit card in Wisconsin. The guy went to call up. It was an Indian reservation. I drove off. Later that night. I went there gambling. When leaving the reservation. I thought it was a stickup.
    They brought me to jail. Held me two weeks. Bounced the credit card twice. Filling up my gas tank.
    On the Indian reservation. They take the Indians. Do anything they want. So when I come up. The same thing with me. Except I had money. They said, “What’s this? Somebody with money!” Twelve. Fourteen thousand. They found four. Five credit cards. Receiving stolen property. Three different charges.
    The jail had seven cells. Every cell with four people. Some of them was thirteen. Some of them was ninety. They respected me. Because having that money. Twenty-four hour lockup. No TV. No books. No radio. Toast. Coffee for breakfast. Pea s

11. Dear Rather Not, What does “…almost identical to Gaga Murray” mean?
    If the short story uses the same style, it’s the first use of this sing-song language.
    Thanks for getting back to me. Dyslexia causes all kinds of mistakes. The most embarrassing is calling people by the wrong name.
    One sentence in the “Korean War” chapter was changed. It said: “I ask the Yeoman.” Now that sentence reads: “I ask him.”
    Such detail may seem crazy. But I believe the writer Gustave Flaubert’s quote: “There is no art without fanaticism.”
    Shortly, I’ll send more writing.

12. Dear Rather Not, I apologize previously putting your name wrong. Here’s the Gaga II, Korean War, and Gaga III chapters.

    Gaga II
    They come to my house. The social service people. I said, “I just fought a war.” They says, “You’re under the state until you turn twenty-one.” I argued like a motherf…er.
    That bum from Lyman School. He was still up my ass. I went in the Merchant Marines. And I went in the Army. It was the same guy. I gave him the shit. “I was in the war. I come back a hero.” Bingo. Bango. He didn’t care (raises voice). If you won the Medal of Honor. “You’re under the state. We have you until you’re TWENTY-ONE YEARS-OLD. You do the right thing. Or YOU WILL GO STRAIGHT TO PRISON.”
    I didn’t report in. I didn’t know about it. He was going to pinch me. “I’m thinking about going back in the service.” “You better do something. Until you’re twenty-one. Every Friday without work. You will report at three o’clock.” If you didn’t report. They pulled you from bed. Took you away in handcuffs.
    The cops did anything they want. They beat you up. Punched you around. Run in your house. Hit you over the head. Drag you out of bed. Pull you down flights of stairs. Throw you in the paddywagon. “Needed him for a lineup. So we went up his house.” “Okay.” Like Hitler. LIKE HITLER. During the ‘30s. And ‘40s in Southie. They got away with murder.
    My mother was from the old school. The cops was always right. She was brainwashed too. “Mrs. Murray. I hear they got Gaga again.” “He’s a bad boy. The police are going to straighten him out. They promised me. They’re going to straighten him out. They’ll send him away. And make a man out of him.” With a club!
    No warrant. March in my house. “Come on. You cocksucker.” All the old people believed. Whatever the cops said. THEY WAS RIGHT.
    Especially with the FBI. People on the grand jury. “If they was arrested by the FBI. They’re guilty.” That’s how strong the FBI had it. And that’s how strong the cops had it.
    The grandfathers. Jesus Christ All Mighty! After you get out of jail. They take the broom to you. Beat you over the head. “You son-of-a-bitch. Them police officers. You woke them up. Made them come up the house. Made them come out in the cold.”
    Grandpa Connolly lived with us. He’d ask my mother, “Where’s Sonny Boy at?” “The cops come. And arrested him.” “What did he do now?” “What did he do now?” Grandpa was from Ireland.
    My father was born here. He went to a good college. Made all kinds of political friends. Then he started drinking. Before World War I. He was in West Point. They threw him out for stealing. After West Point. He went boozing. Worked in Jordan Marsh. That’s where he met my mother.
    They had three kids. He really hit the skids. It was too much for him. Robbed cars. Robbed everything he could. To get himself some booze. Booze. Booze. Break a radiator. Drink the antifreeze. The pure alcohol.
    He got pinched. Up on “K” Street. He took a cobblestone. Smashed a car radiator. An old-tin can. Put it under there. That’s why they invented antifreeze. To stop the winos from drinking it. Before antifreeze. They used plain alcohol. The winos knew about it. So they’d smash the radiators. Imagine the rust. And the dirt. Their stomachs was something (raises eyebrows).
    Boston had no place to put winos. Let them lay out on the street. Let them lay out there. During the winter to freeze. In the summer time. Out in Long Island. Bring them there. For the farming. Dig up potatoes. Pick the beans. Milk the cows. Get everything ready. For shipping around. To the Correction Houses. That’s when they used them. After six months. Throw them out. Put them on the bus.
    The buses went to Greyhound. And Trailways. A big bus terminal. It’s all ripped down. The Four Seasons Hotel. Sits right across the street.
    Winos waited for other winos. To get off the bus. Because they’d have four dollars. “Hello pal. How you been (happy voice)?” “Okay.” Like an old reunion. Two days later. Them winos would be there. Waiting for another load to come off. They’d go bouncing into the South End. Be laying in the gutter. Down at Dover Street. And Washington Street.
    One Southie cop. Killed five kids. His name was Nelson. Toughest cop in Station Six. He was there twenty years.
    We called him Baby-faced Nelson. He killed sailors in the International. Beating them to death. Soon as seeing him. I’d leave the barroom. In ‘45. Harry Clemens. My brother Billy. And another guy. They’re back from Europe. Having a beer up the International. They never should have went there. Baby-faced Nelson. And another cop named Skinbags. They busted them all up.
    Billy was at Chelsea Naval Hospital. In Germany he got shot up. Brought him back to the hospital. They seen how bad he was beaten. Black eyes. Broken nose. Broken ribs. Of course. The cops denied it. The hospital said, “We can prove it. We have the X-rays. This is how he looked before the seventy-two hour pass. This is how he looked coming back.” Boom. Boom. Boom.
    Right after that. Across the street. There was a guy in Blinstrub’s. He was carrying on like a cocksucker. “Yahoo!” “Yahoo!” Baby-faced Nelson said, “Come on. You’re under arrest.” “F… you.” “F… me will you.” He started beating him with the club. Hundreds of people was in there. Hundreds of witnesses. “Look at this prick.”
    Right in front of everybody. Baby-face Nelson was beating him with the club. “Ba-bing.” “Ba-bing.” Dragging him. “Ba-bing.” “Ba-bing.” From here to the street corner. That’s how big Blinstrub’s was inside. Here to the street corner! “Ba-bing.” “Ba-bing.”
    He was yelling. Screaming. Kicking. Fighting. “Ba-bing.” “Ba-bing.” Out the back door. Across little Athens Street. Up Station Six steps. “Ba-bing.” “Ba-bing.” Found out his name. Inside the station. But too late. He was dead. Dead. Dead. Baby-face Nelson killed him. Clubbed the guy to death.
    Baby-face Nelson was another Harry Johnson. Big guy like Harry. Big baby face. Red face. From plenty of booze. Baby-face Nelson was a real terror. This was ten years after shooting Bernie.
    Guess who he was? The Governor of Maine! Or somebody IMPORTANT. Write-up in the newspaper. And Baby-face Nelson was gone. I said, “They finally got that motherf…er.”
    I met Tin Can through Jerry Blanchard. Tall. Skinny. Good grey hair. He did fifteen years. Tin Can got that name. Booting a guy to death. Kicking the guy’s head in. Like a tin can.
    When hitting a safe. We used a sledgehammer. Tin Can used a pickaxe. “Bing.” “Bing.” “Bing.” Breaking it down that way. Making the corner holes. Take the crowbar. And start ripping.
    Green Freeman’s bakery. On Old Colony Avenue. That was our meeting spot. He’d drive down there. Nice car. No drinking. Little gambling. Went home after stealing. Took care of his wife.
    Tin Can didn’t want to go back. He used younger guys. Like Jerry Blanchard. And me. For taking the risks. Tin Can was the Charlie guy.
    Tin Can cased a Chinese restaurant. We went through a side window. Tin Can opened the safe. He was showing me. We robbed Raynham Dogtrack. They used a Quonset hut. World War II Quonset hut. You seen them in movies. Round half-shell buildings. Made of corrugated steel.
    The office was there. The guys lined up. In the corner. This end (pulls hand back). Selling tickets. No windows. They had a big table. Threw the money bags on it.
    Raynham didn’t have night racing yet. We went down there at night. Corner of the Quonset hut. Peeled back the metal. The place was empty. When the time come. Waited for the bell. “Ding.” Tin Can said, “Pull it.” I pulled it. “RRRR.” Everybody’s watching the dogs. Tin Can reached in. Grabbed four money bags. I eased the metal down. “RRRR.”
    Next it was North Station. Jerry Blanchard’s running through a train. I’m running the other way with a box. Tin Can was on the platform. Half the time. You couldn’t see him. He was like an old-timer. Using young bloods for the work.
    There was fifteen. Thirty trains lined up. You come out of one. Tin Can would give the signal. Now you walk real quick. Jump into North Station. And walk out. There was four ways out. Everybody’s running around in there. That was the least problem.
    The thing making you worry. Getting to the platform without being seen. That’s why you went inside the train. Crouch down. Go about ten cars. Bang. Rail Road Express platform. You could see all the packages.
    Tin Can liked robbing South Station. That’s where we made most money. We hid burlap bags at Broadway Bridge. Drop down. Go into the railroad yard. Follow the tracks to South Station. These bags must have been specially made. They could even handle a suit box. Fifteen suits in a cardboard box. They thought we’re picking up coal. The railroad guys. They wouldn’t say anything. Unless they seen you stealing. Most of them was thieves.
    We called South Station “Okinawa.” Because there’s plenty of action. Getting shot with rock salt. They’d shoot real bullets too. I’m running with a box. A case of clothing. Running between the trains. The cocksucker’s yelling, “Halt.” “Halt.” I kept running.
    “Baboom.” Blew me out of a shoe. I went flying in the air. And landed on the box. It dug into my chest. He’s yelling, “Stay still.” I rolled underneath a train. Jumped up. And start hobbling. My leg was peppered. Took my hand like this (wipes left calf). It was all bloody.
    From Tin Can. To Harry Wallace. More Tin Can. To Richie Kelly. Then with Jimmy Keeney. Before working with Eddy McLaughlin. I left Jimmy Keeney behind. Picked up Jimmy O’Toole. Billy. And Willie.
    Harry Wallace. Frankie Wallace’s kid brother. Hell of a mind. Ended up being a drunk. The other Wallace brothers was dead. Harry lived off their reputation. He did booking. Walking. Instead of driving. Gave no receipts. He memorized everything.
    Harry started drinking heavy. Guys was bullshitting him. “What are you talking about? You must have been drunk. I gave you a twenty-twenty.” The booze got him. He was a bum.
    When I left the Army. I was living at “G” Street. And East Broadway. Rented an apartment there. Eddie Sullivan lived next door. Harry Wallace was on his ass. I picked him up. Brought him in. “Come on. You need to get off the booze. Sober up.” Harry did sober up. He said, “You can drive. Can’t you Gaga?” “Yeah. Why?” “I got a key for a Jew’s load.” “Okay. Let’s go.”
    Took the Jew’s load. Near Blue Hill Avenue. Stuff in the trunk. And the back seat. A little bit of everything. Watches. Cases of nylon stocking. Jews went corner to corner. Give them one buck a week. They’d sell you the shit. Jew’s load was worth twelve. Eighteen hundred dollars.
    I’d steal the car. Go down to Squish. He had a garage. On West Ninth Street. Near the corner liquor store. Dorchester Street. And West Ninth Street. That was all Gustin territory. Frankie Wallace ran the Gustins. Harry was his baby brother.
    I’d bring the Jew’s load over. Harry would stay with Squish. I drive the car back. Walk a couple blocks. Get in my car. Come back again. By that time. Squish held count.
    Squish worked in City Hospital. He worked as a cook. His wife worked in the Registry. He’d hustle the stuff in work. He was a good-little hustler. Squish would say, “Here’s eight hundred. That’s four a piece. And I owe you six. See me tomorrow.” “Okay.”
    Harry would go his way. I’d go up the International. With all the broads. F…ing. Sucking. Carrying on. Spending the money. Go to my apartment. We’d have a party. Broads would come in. Jimmy Keeney would come in. Bingo. Bango. We wasn’t robbing together yet.
    My apartment was a big f… house. Eddie Sullivan’s apartment was a big f… house. We’re all laughing. And joking. Paulie McCarty. All the has-beens. All the hangers-on. They knew where to flop out.
    Meanwhile. Harry. And I made scores. He’d get the keys. Bingo. I’d drive the cars away. Give the stuff to Squish. Never worried about getting screwed. That didn’t happen in our era.
    After leaving the Army. I lasted four. Five months. Before getting pinched. This Jew’s load come from Mattapan. I’m driving through Uphams Corner. Cops had their guns out. Shit pinch. A hot car. I went in the Navy.

    Korean War
    Sixteen months in the Army. Because it was World War II. You went in for the war. Married guys went home first. Single guys last.
    In the Navy. I was wining. And dining. Stealing everything. The Franklin. The Midway. And the Lady. In the Mediterranean. I served on them carriers. Living high off the hog.
    The ship goes to a port. They give a little liberty. Back on the ship. Out to sea. One month. Two months. In port again. “Weeee!” All different ports.
    Instead of returning to Norfolk. I transferred to the carrier relieving us. Other guys did the same thing. To stay in the Mediterranean. The Korean War broke out. Transferred to the Bear. They needed a storekeeper. That was me.
    We called it the Bear. But it was the Baxter. A troop carrier. In the Gator Navy. Through the Suez Canal. Into the Indian Ocean (singing voice). Up the Bear went. Into the Sea of Japan (higher pitch-singing voice). We attacked at Pusan. Shooting shells. And landing Marines.
    Bringing Marines over. Dropping them off. For D-Day Three. Every invasion there’s D-Day One. D-Day Two. D-Day Three. D-Day Four.
    D-Day One. They landed in Wolmi-do. There was a THIRTY-THREE FOOT DROP. Do you know what that means? They had to get ladders. Put them against the seawall. The Marines went charging in. The reason it was successful. They never thought we’d invade. In that crazy spot.
    D-Day Three. Made three runs. The beach was secured. We’re bringing Marines in. And just kicking them off. You could hear the gunfire. “Ratty-tat-tat-tat-tat.” The planes. The explosions. Of course. You’re scared. Hoping you don’t get killed.
    Troop carriers line up for the landing. Peter boats bring Marines to the beach. “See you later.” Unload all the troops. Now you pull out.
    I had the troop carrier ripped open. Put a tailor shop into it. When we go fill up. Get food. Coffee. Made deals with Koreans. Selling them bags of sugar. Every hundred-pound bag of sugar. They gave us five wooden cases of booze. Bingo. Each case held thirty jugs of Suntory Whiskey.
    I talked with the Chief. Bingo. Bango. “Are you going to go with the sugar?” “Well. I’ll find out. Four bells (tomorrow). I’ll let you know.”
    We must have kicked off. Twenty bags of sugar. There was seventeen. Eighteen guys involved. It was my deal. The Chief Boatswain Mate. Detailed guys to the cargo. For getting out the sugar. I’m in the tailor shop. Stacking up the whiskey cases.
    The whiskey come from Japan. The sugar wasn’t going to Japan. It was going to Korea. Selling it to them people. During the war. Everything was black market. They didn’t offer us the booze. They had nothing to do with it. The South Koreans sold our ship supplies. It was us rogues. And thieves. That knew what was going on.
    During World War II. Japan occupied Korea. Broads was raped. F…ed. Sucked. That’s where they used babies. Throwing babies in the air. Hitting them with the bayonets. That was their basic training.
    The Japanese marched into China. They marched all through China. Then the war. And the bomb. Blew them apart. After the bomb fell. The Russians said, “Okay. We’ll declare war with Japan.” So they could capture some cities. The Russians muscled in. Another Wimpy Bennett (laughs).
    It was snowing. Everybody’s pumping the booze. Coming down my joint. It got so bad. The Captain said, “I know what’s going on. MURRAY TAKE IT EASY.” This come over the intercom. The whole ship heard it. He put the finger on me.
    We hammered around for month. And a half. Shooting small shells. Making it look good. Then another food re-supply. One of them small cities. Thirty miles from the bottom of Korea. The same deal for Suntory Whiskey.
    Seventy. Eighty sailors. The Chief Warrant Officer. He was a REAL drunk. He’d come flying down (laughs). Kick the door open. Pull the curtain. Take two. Three jugs. “Everything okay?” “Yeah. Everything’s okay.” “See you later.” Giving it away. Nobody paid for that booze. I made my money in the Mediterranean. On the aircraft carriers. Nothing but the best. Best whores. Best everything.
    In the Mediterranean. I’m drinking with the chief pharmacist. I used to be pretty good with him. We’d drink one hundred-eighty proof alcohol. Cut it with water. Or juice. Called it “torpedo juice.” Shut your wind right down.
    I said, “What are you doing with all that penicillin in the corner?” “Oh. I have to deep-six it when we go out to sea.” “What for?” “Because we can’t use penicillin after it expires.” I says, “Oh, yeah. Bring it down to the tailor shop.” So I had eighteen. Twenty boxes of penicillin.
    We pull into Naples. Dry cleaning goes over. The penicillin goes over. Hundred dollars a bottle. They sold it to sick people. The bottles was this big (indicates~three inches high). Forty-eight square brown-bottles. In a cardboard box.
    In the summertime. We’re back in Naples. Hundred dollars for a peacoat. They went over with the dry cleaning. The dry cleaners lugged them. They did everything. But handle the money. I handled the money.
    I had the master keys aboard ship. Below deck was big bins. Just for the peacoats. Dry cleaning guys come aboard ship. And bid for the job. Everyone of them was thieves. I had no problem. “Okay. We’ll lug them over.” Bing. Bang. Boom. Brought them to their factory.
    You could actually buy a peacoat. For sixty. Seventy dollars. People in Naples. They wanted them. This was ‘47. Clothing was sky high.
    But in the Pacific. They wanted the sheets. That’s what everybody was robbing. The average Japanese household. A sewing machine. Only this big (indicates~two feet long). “Bip.” “Bip.” “Bip.” “Bip.” “Bip.” The next morning. A smock (laughs). A dress.
    In Europe. They wanted fancy stuff. Watches. Cigarettes. “Ohhh (regretful sigh)!” I wasn’t leaving the service.
    My Navy shirt had three strips. Because I had service behind me. They made me first-class sailor. Guess who was underneath me? In Navy boot camp. Charlie Carr. He slept in the barracks. With the fifty-nine guys. I had a private room. They called me Acting Chief Murray. Charlie was always, “Jesus Christ. I want to do this (whining voice). I said, “Wash the shit bowls (strong voice).”
    Charlie Ca-Ca was Paulie McCarty’s cousin. Charlie thought he had it made. Because Chief Murray was the boss. I had him cleaning the pots. And pans.
    From the Great Lakes. We went aboard the Franklin. Half the ship was printers. You go from a printer. To a third-class sailor. To a second-class sailor. To a first-class sailor. In other words. Going in the service. You get one stripe. Halfway through the service. You get two stripes. Then you get three stripes. And you’re a first-class sailor. That usually takes ten years. After first-class sailor. You’re a Chief.
    On board ship. I’m learning the angles. In the chow line. Guess who I fall behind? The guy’s name was Brown. In charge of the tailor shop. Other sailors start cutting in. I said, “What’s the matter? Don’t let them cut in.” He says, “They’re entitled to it. They’re ship servicemen. They have to get back. Tailor shop. Laundry. Barbershop.”
    I said, “What are they politicians?” “Yeah.” I didn’t know it then. Brown would be my boss. Boom. Boom. Boom. Now I’m telling Charlie Carr. About these cocksuckers. “Ain’t that something? Ship serviceman cutting in.” A printer says, “Yeah. They’re looking for a tailor. For someone that knows about tailoring.”
    The guy in charge of our compartment. Sent me down to the Supply Division. I’m talking to the Chief Warrant Officer. He said, “You know about tailoring?” “Shit yeah. My father was a tailor. My mother was a tailor. Everybody in my family was a tailor (laughs). I know all about it.” “Oh, my God (appreciative voice). We need you!”
    There was only Brown. He wasn’t Chief yet. The other three guys transferred out. Brown was doing most the work himself. Chief Warrant Officer brings me in. He said, “This guy is named Murray. He knows ALL about tailoring.”
    Brown looked at me (pause). And I looked at him. He showed me the steam press. “Oh, yeah. I know that.” “There’s the sewing machine.” Bingo. Bango. “Right now. You can take care of these suits. Press them up.” I’m over there. Trying to figure it out. I said, “I never ran one of these presses before.” I didn’t even know how to start it. Brown showed how to run the press. I’m a quick learner. Once seeing something. It was EASY.
    Brown put me on the sewing machine. Showed me the marking table. Then I’m doing everything. Putting in pockets. Taking out pockets. Brown liked me. He said, “Don’t start selling stuff out of the shop. Charging people to do their jobs.” You know I did (smiles).
    Brown never caught me. But he smelled a rat. There was a sailor’s locker. Other side of the ship. I’d get the laundry bags. They’re ten feet high. Full of dirty uniforms. Laundry bags come to me. Throw them in the wash. One dollar for the laundry guys. They dry the uniforms. Lug them to me. I press them. “Bop.” “Bop.” “Bop.” “Baw.” One dollar for me.
    A hundred uniforms. A hundred for me. A hundred for the laundry guys.
    This is where I got Charlie Carr. Doing his suits for nothing. Giving him a break. He was bringing the laundry down. Bringing the bags from his Division. He sees me making this money. Charlie Ca-Ca wants a piece of the action. “I’ve been a friend of yours. All my life (whining voice).” I said, “F… you (laughs).”
    Brown knew. He’d see forty. Fifty pressed uniforms. Everything on hangers. I wouldn’t be doing that much work. So he knew I was getting money. But I didn’t throw it in his face. And he didn’t say anything.
    Brown was happy. He’d be with friends. In the butcher shop. Eating the best steaks. To make things better. Brown was going for Chief. I was good with the Captain’s Yeoman. The Captain’s personal secretary. The test come out. I got the test. Brown copied it. And he become Chief.
    It cost me nothing. Because of free gangway. In the tailor shop. Everybody wants their shoes shined. And uniform pressed for liberty. That’s all they lived for. Without the tailor shop. You was DEAD. You had five hundred guys. “Please. Help me. Please. Help me (begging voice)!”
    We all worked by watches. Twelve to four. Four to eight. Eight to twelve. That’s how the service goes. Everybody is on different shifts. Bingo. Especially on an aircraft carrier. It’s like a big city. The carrier might have a hundred twenty Divisions. Forty men. Sixty men to a Division.
    The ship’s crew was thirty-two. Thirty-five hundred. The Marine complement. That’s another thousand. You bring the pilots aboard. They’d fly the planes in. There might be eighty pilots. The guys that push planes around. The guys that cleaned them up. The plane markers. The mechanics.
    Getting the test from the Yeoman. That was no problem at all. Cut down a couple uniforms. First I took his measurements. Zip. Zap. Zap. Held my fingers like this (folds first two fingers). Zip. Zip. Turn it over. Cut it out. Bop. Bop. Bap. Fold it. Make the seam. Up one side. Down the other. Nice ribbon going down. It was very simple.
    The Yeoman was there. Waiting for his uniforms. Body-beautiful uniforms. Bingo. Brown comes in. “Hi. How are you?” “Yeah. I’m the Captain’s Yeoman.” A month later. Brown said, “Jesus. I wonder if that guy could get me the test? The Chief’s test is coming up.” “I’ll ask him. No problem.” I ask the Yeoman. “No problem.” Because of free gangway.
    The Chiefs was in charge of the Divisions. When they was on duty. In charge of the gangway. I come back drunk. “Help Murray up the gangway. And carry him down. Put him in the tailor shop.” They all knew me (strong voice). I gave them FREE GANGWAY. That was the name of the game.
    Everybody had to come to me. EVERYBODY had to come to me. Get their clothes cleaned. Pressed. And sewed up. Nothing was done. Without being DUKED.
    I was like a captain. Come. And go. As I pleased. In Norfolk Virginia. “I want a fifty foot launch. Bring it over.” I was first class-ship serviceman. Better than a sergeant. Like a staff sergeant. But I’d use the Admiral’s launch.
    I told my Chief Warrant Officer. “I need tailor shop supplies. Thread. Needles for the machines.” “Yeah. Murray needs a launch.” Bingo. “Bring me over to that destroyer.” I went to see Billy Kirby. A guy from Southie. Shoot the shit. We had coffee. Laughing. And joking. Kirby was a big handsome prick. He could really sing Irish songs. He said, “You cocksucker. You’re the Admiral!” The Admiral’s fifty man launch. At my command.
    I’m the captain. With two coxswain. And the other guy. For tying the boat up. “Weeee.” On the wireless. I tell Kirby, “Shut up. Hail me aboard (singing voice).” Kirby was like this (cups hands in front of bulging eyes). Bingo.
    A BIG snow job. I said, “I’m going from ship to ship. I need special thread. For the Admiral’s uniform. To fill in the gold. He has a tear in there. I need gold thread. To hand-stitch it. Catch-stitch it.” I get the launch. And away I go.
    I had the Admiral wait for me. The Admiral was in his car. I come down the gangway. Charlie Carr said, “Wait for me.” “F… you.” So I went ahead. The Admiral didn’t know me. He rode us to the gate. Just to say he took sailors to the gate. Instead of us walking the pier. That’s all. He got me first. When Charlie come in. I says, “See how important I am. I’m the ship’s tailor.” Charlie goes, “You cocksucker you.”
    Charlie only lasted nine months. “Ahhhh!” He wanted out of the Navy. His momma sent them the application. “He’s my only son. He looks after me. I have no husband.” Charlie got no veteran benefits. “OH (loud voice).” If he knew that! He would have stayed.
    The aircraft carrier had four thousand men. I was the NUMBER ONE man. The ship’s tailor. Every outfit aboard the carrier had a Chief. All the Chiefs was my friends. They come to the tailor shop. Anytime they wanted. Come on in. Press their clothes. Instead of waiting.
    They’d bang on the door. Mattress on the cutting table. That was my bunk. “Bap.” “Bap.” “Bap.” “Bap.” “Murray. Murray. It’s me. Chief so. And so.” “Okay.” I open the door. “Go ahead. Put the light on.” This would be three. Four. Five o’clock in the morning. They’d be getting ready for liberty
    I never went down below. My locker was immaculate. Anytime I wanted clothes. The officer’s bin. T-shirt. Stockings. Underwear. Bingo. Put them on. The next day. Go through the officer’s bin. T-shirt. Stockings. Handkerchief. Never used my stuff.
    The cobbler shop was another gimmick. The Mexicans. Rodriguez. His guys ran it. We pulled liberty together. Rodriguez showed me how to use a knife. You don’t want to cut the guy to deep. Put your fingers over it like this (clasps invisible blade). Just have that much sticking out (indicates~one inch). “Wiskkk” (slices air waist-high). Run it right across the belly. Half the shirt flops down. “Baloop.” A little drop of blood.
    We used sharp knives. Switchblades. You know the neck tie. You see the sailors wearing. A square knot held it together. I put my knife in there. Zigzagged the tie back. And forth. Made a sliding pocket. Kept it under my collar. Anytime I needed the knife. Pull off the square knot. Bingo. Down it would come. “Wiskkk.” Do my damage.
    Rodriquez taught me that trick. I was hanging with the Mexicans. Because they’re more my type. Rodriguez took my shoes. Put lips on them. Extra soles. Charged nothing. Puerto Ricans. They come under supply too. They worked the officers’ quarters. Hang up the uniforms. Make the beds. Shoe shine.
    The Filipinos was the officers’ cooks. They ran the officers’ country. For the Captains. And the Admiral. They handled their food. They’d get filet mignon steaks. Every once in a while. I’d go to officers’ country. “Hey, Joe. Come here. Make me up a steak sandwich. Will you? When you get a chance.” “Okay.” Bingo. “Give me half an hour.” Or “Give me an hour.” “Alright. I’ll be in the tailor shop.”
    I’m in the tailor shop. Knock comes on the door. “Thanks a lot.” “I brought my uniform.” “Okay. Help yourself.” I’d be eating the sandwich. He’d be pressing his uniform.
    I’d have officers. You know their underwear? The crotch would be worn out. A worn-out crotch (laughs). I cut the cloth. “Wiskkk.” “Wiskkk.” “Wiskkk.” Fold it over. And make another crotch. So they could still wear it. They’re too cheap to buy new underwear. After World War II. You got a clothing allowance. They was so used to World War II. Take clothes that was ripped. Just throw them away. Go down to supply. Get new outfits. Free outfits.
    The Navy slowed up. And the Army. They all did. No more free clothing. After World War II. The clothing allowance started. In the amphibs. The Gator Navy. Free foul-weather gear. Heavy rubber boots. Face mask. But even today. For soldiers in Afghanistan. They have the clothing allowance.

    Gaga III
    When I left the Navy. Harry Wallace was still around. I’d be duking him money. He was a wino. Died like Richie Kelly. In a doorway. Richie was murdered. Harry froze to death. Last of the Gustin brothers.
    Tin Can taught me about keys. Open the door. Take a dime. Unscrew the lock. Pull it out. Unscrew the cylinder. Bing. Put everything back again. You just stand beside the door. People walking back. And forth. There’s the cylinder. All in about two minutes. Now we have a key made up.
    We do this when they’re open. It might be the second. Third floor we’re after. The place closes up. We come back. Open the front door. Go to the second floor. Kick through the door panel. Because no bug there.
    Try the safe. Check for half-lock. There might be suede jackets. We’d make up the bundles. Tin Can goes across the street. He gives the Charlie signal. This means “Okay (pats chest).” If the handkerchief comes out. He starts blowing his nose. “Watch it. The cops are around.”
    He’d be patting his chest. I lug the bundles. A couple blocks. Back. And forth. Fill up his car. Bingo. Bango. “AUH.” “AUH.” “AUH.” He did this to me. Two. Three different times.
    We went to South Station. On the second floor. All kinds of offices. Loude this office. It had a window. That led in a jewelry store. Like a shop that fixed watches.
    Everything’s closed. Eight o’clock at night. Tin Can smashed the window. “Bang.” “Bang.” “Bang.” “Okay. Fill up the boxes. Get everything you can. I’ll meet you downstairs. And help you.” Now Tin Can screws.
    I pick out the glass. So I won’t get cut. Climbed inside the place. And opened the safe. Caught it on half-lock. Like Tin Can taught me.
    “The very first thing you do with a safe. You take the handle. See if it’s open. If it ain’t open. Take the combination. You go backwards. Nice. And slow. About ten. Fifteen numbers. If it keeps rolling back. Then the safe’s locked. If it only goes back. Only five. Or ten numbers. You feel it’s ajar. The safe’s on half-lock. Instead of going through the whole dial. A lot of people. They close the door. And go like this (moves fingertips slightly right). ‘Whiskkk.’ Move the dial a little. So it’s on half-lock. Now they do their business. Fifteen minutes later they’re back (moves fingertips slightly left). Bing.”
    Threw everything on the floor. Some silver dollars. Rings. Pearls. Old coins. No dollar bills (disgusted voice). Bunch of watches. Hundred dollar jobs. And gold cufflinks. The cufflinks was shit. The gold was worth more.
    I had three cardboard boxes. First the big box. Out the window. Back in again. The other box. Out the window. The small box. Out the window. One box inside the other. It looked like a pyramid.
    Now I had to WALK. From the MIDDLE of South Station. Down the end of the corridor. Down two flights of stairs. Across the street. Over the bridge. Tin Can’s saying, “Keep coming. Keep coming (quick voice).” I yelled, “Stop.” “No. No. I’m keeping an eye. I’m keeping an eye.”
    My balls was busting. I said, “Stop you cocksucker.” “No. No. Not yet. Not yet. Too many cars. Too many cars. Keep coming (faster voice).” “F… YOU.” I put the boxes down. “What are you doing (anxious voice)?” I says, “Come over here. And carry these motherf…ers. I’m tired. That’s what I’m doing (loud voice).”
    His car was on “A” Street. He carried them half a block. I carried them to the car. “Why didn’t you put the car. Down on ‘D’ STREET? It would have been easier. Wouldn’t it (aggravated voice)?” “What do you mean? That’s three streets away (confused look).”
    Tin Can would find the salesman’s car. Do leg work on the phone. Get the code numbers. Get the car key. We go over there. Sneak in the car. Roll it out of the driveway. Sometimes push it out of the driveway. Bingo.
    Tin Can pulled the same shit with Jerry Blanchard. That’s when Jerry let him go. He was in his sixties. He’d get strapping guys. Team up with them. He had a little knowledge. And one thing about Tin Can. While I’m partying with the broads. He’d be setting up the scores.
    I said, “Now I know why Jerry stopped working with you. Don’t bother giving me a ring. This is it. I’ve had it with you (strong voice).”
    Jerry come out of Walpole with Tin Can. Jerry was working with him. Tin Can screwed Jerry around. He didn’t like carrying stuff. Jerry went back to holdups. I bumped into him. He starts using me. As a strong guy.
    I did a score. An insurance company score. It was a smash. And grab. When he looked for his end. I said, “I’ll give you an end. Meet me at Castle Island.” I wanted to end his life.
    We had this on the fire. A year-old score. You check the score. No broad. Cancel it. He was outside. Waiting in his car. The time it happened. I was by myself. It come off pretty good. That score was all over the newspapers.
    I seen him a half dozen times. He’d have new guys with him. Bringing them to Okinawa. “I’m an old-timer. I can’t do it. You guys do it. And I’ll show you how.”
    Richie Kelly’s license was always revoked. He was notorious for tailgating. He was in this thing. Thirty years before us. Cops could take your license away. Revoke it for being a criminal. They took my license away.
    I could have a hearing. I’m in the Registry. I was fighting them. Captain Crowley come in. I said, “You better keep your mouth shut. I’ll tell them where you got the Brinks money hidden.” Captain Crowley stormed out. Two. Three days later. I went in the Pen. The guys was all laughing. They come out with the encore. “Hey, Gaga (happy voice).” “Your license.” “The Brinks.” “Ha. Ha.”
    Roger. My brother-in law. He never did any crime. Commissioner Riley’s right-hand man. Riley was in charge of the Registry. Roger lived in the projects. Two-bedroom apartment. Seventeen kids. On top of each other. And Commissioner Riley liked him.
    Riley gave me back my license. Gave Georgie McLaughlin back his license. Georgie just come out of Walpole. He couldn’t get a license. And Riley gave him one. Supposed to be friendship. But you know the reason. You get a tough-guy reputation. Everybody wants to be your friend.
    Guess what else Riley gave Georgie? A little-gold badge. Made him a sheriff. Of the Sheriff’s Association. When grabbed for drunk driving. He’d flash that gold badge.
    I got mine in Louisville Kentucky. We had the small ones. But the big badge. Guess who got that? Eddy McLaughlin. Riley gave Eddy the big gold badge.
    I used mine for an Arkansas driver’s license. You know what toilet paper looks like? Toilet paper! About this big (indicates~four by four inches). In Hot Springs. They wrote with ink. “Francis X. Murray. Ba. Ba. Ba. Baa.” It cost twenty-five cents.
    We’re up the Casino barroom. “E” Street. And West Broadway. I’m drinking with Eddie Sullivan. Timma Murphy comes in talking bullshit. Eddie said, “We don’t want to listen to that.” “Oh. Eddie Sullivan’s a tough guy (loud voice).” Eddie says, “If you want to fight me. I’ll fight you. Come on out back.”
    Timma Murphy was king of the corner. The only guy he feared. BILLY O’SULLIVAN. He seen Billy use the crowbar. Split the guy’s head open. That happened. One block away. At the Woodshed. With the stabbings. Hitting guys with tire irons. They was ALL afraid of Billy. They didn’t understand it.
    Timma Murphy. And Eddie Sullivan. They’re banging away. In the back alley. Bing. Bing. Bing. Timma gave a good punch. It sent Eddie backwards. He shit his pants. Eddie said to Timma, “Wait a second. I got to clean up a bit.”
    The broads was looking. Everybody’s watching. Eddie Sullivan dropped his pants. He reached in. Pulled out shit. Throws it down. Pulls out two. Three more hunks of shit. I’m going, “Oh, Jesus!” Eddie come back. Shit. And all. He beat the shit out of Timma.
    Timma was the tough guy four. Five years. Timma lost his reputation. Now Eddie Sullivan become king of the corner.
    I spent one year. In the Jewelers’ Building. Looking for the big score. A lot of small scores. There’s a hundred different places. A hundred rooms in there. The mail guy rushed around. Tossing packages on the floor. Knocking on the doors. If nobody was there. I’d grab the package. “Whishhh.” Into the shithouse. Rip it open. Gold rings. Little bit of everything.
    Some of people thought. I’m the parking attendant. Pulling cars out. Backing them up. Other people thought. I’m the janitor. And other people thought. I’m the elevator operator. Seeing me so much. Chasing the big banana.
    I started making good money. I should have bought houses. Today I’d be worth millions. But I never got smart. I wouldn’t have bought my Grampian Way house. Except for my mother-in-law. I used to take them out. Every weekend for Chinese food.
    On East Fourth Street. She’s telling the daughter, “What’s the matter with you (whining voice)? Bup. Bup. Bup. He has nothing to show for it.” My wife said, “You can’t tell him what to do. You know that.” I’m listening to them. From the next room.
    “There’s a house over Savin Hill. It’s a nice-big house. Give you plenty of room. You’re having another baby. Why don’t you take a ride over there?” I’m watching Clint Walker. Sunday afternoon cowboy picture. “I’m watching my cowboy picture (loud voice).”
    She’s going, “Ba. Ba. Baa. Ba. Ba. Baa.” The ba. Ba. Baas didn’t stop. “Alright! I can’t watch it (jumps up from seat). I’ll take you over to Savin Hill (aggravated voice).”
    I tell the real-estate broad, “What do you want for the house?” She said, “It comes with this.” “It comes with that.” “There’s plenty of land. It has three bathrooms. This is a steal for twelve thousand.”
    “Ohhh (aggravated sigh)! I’ll be right back.” Fifteen thousand in my bureau. I took out twelve grand. I come flying back. Gave her the twelve. “What’s this?” “It’s simple. Here’s the money.” “We don’t do it that way.” “I bought the house. Now get out!”
    If I had three. Four thousand in my kick. And I get a payoff. With the rest of the guys. Five. Six. Seven thousand. Throw that in the drawer. My wife would be using it.
    The house was a servant’s cottage. They sold it. People cleaned it up. Took the driveway out. Added five front rooms. That party died. Next guy come in. He was a veteran. Used the veteran’s money. Built four rooms on back. And two rooms on top.
    The veteran let it fall apart. He didn’t use lally columns. Rooms on the back. They was falling down. It was stuck with the V.A. The only reason it was a good buy. Because all that land. Ten years later. Just for the land. It’s worth a hundred grand.
    I had guys from Southie. With three story ladders. Two story ladders. One story ladders. Hung all over the house. There’s guys painting the house. Putting on shingles. Fixing the roof. And this German guy. With an old wheelbarrow. Put in six lally columns. Jacked the back up. Evened it off. BY HAND. I was buying them booze. Having the cookouts. Feeding them steaks. Frankfurters. Hamburgers.
    When that work finished. All the doors was open. Except the front-screen door. Kids ran up the wooden stairs. A short cut to Grampian Way. From the back garages. Right past my window. I yelled, “Get the f… out of here (loud voice).” Somebody called the cops. Thinking there’s a problem.
    I’m in my underpants. Sunday afternoon. Babysitting. Watching TV. And I hear voices. There’s two cops in my kitchen. I said, “What the hell is going on here (aggravated voice)?” “Why are you making so much noise?” “What are you talking about?” “What are you drunk?” “I’m babysitting. Where’s your warrant?”
    My voice was getting louder. “Get the hell out of my house.” “We’ll give you a warrant (angry voice).” They knocked me down. Pistol-whipped me. Across the shins. They’re banging me. And dragging me. Up the inside steps. Broke the front-screen door. Dragged me down the walkway. Up three more steps. To the street.
    Neighbors come out. I’m in the police car. My head’s out the window. I’m yelling, “They have no warrant.” BANG. A cop punched my eye. Punched the shit out of me. I’m on the police car floor. Inside Station Eleven. I kept arguing. One cop said, “Where’s all this blood coming from?” Blood was pouring out my leg. Still have the round hole. From being pistol-whipped. I’m feeling it now.
    At City Hospital. Everybody’s looking at me. “There goes some drunk.” The doctor said, “What happened?” “The dirty cocksuckers pistol whipped me.” The cops said I was drunk. And fell down.
    They bring me back. Threw me down the cellar. “Qwishh.” Down the stairs I go. Bing. Bang. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Twenty wooden stairs. With the iron edges. And the iron railing. That’s for the TOUGH GUYS. They go bouncing down them stairs. Drag you by your hair. Throw you in the cell. You’re not so tough.
    The next day. I’m black. And blue. Black eyes. Blue-hospital gown. Stitches in my leg. I’m in Dorchester court. Judge Lynch said, “What’s the story here?” I spoke real loud. “These dirty cocksuckers.” “Show the court some respect.” “Never mind respect. Do you see what happened to me? I was pistol-whipped. Babysitting in my own house. And my door’s ripped down.”
    The cops said, “We was fighting for our lives. Look what he did to us.” They held up two old-torn coats. I says, “Take a look at those coats. They’re all full of dust. They haven’t been worn in years.” Judge Lynch knew me. Knew I was a thief. He said, “Take it easy Gaga.” “I want everybody to hear me!” “Everybody can hear you. OUTSIDE the courtroom. I’m going to postpone this for a month. You can go on personal.” He didn’t want to push it. The cops gave me hard eyes. “RRR.” “RRR.” Out the door I go.
    Three taxis went by me. Like I was a nut. Finally get a taxi home. My wife’s looking at me. “Give me a drink. I’m going to bed. Don’t bother me.” I’m in bed three days. “Auh!” “Auh!” “Auh!” Aspirins. Whiskey. Putting myself together. My leg was killing me.
    Every time I went to court. Continued. Continued. Same cops. Now they know me. And the people I know. Bingo. Bango. The word went out. He’s a bad character. He’s catching you. In a barroom. Or some place.
    The cops was drunks. To keep their job. They had to drink. Even the cops today. The tension is huge. “Ding-a-ling.” They go to Joe Blow’s house. And Joe Blow tries to kill them.
    We got to know the cops. They’d tell us, “There’s more pressure on us. Than you f…ing thieves.” Jimmy Keeney was a great drinker. They liked drinking up his house. They’d say, “Now we’ll leave here. And somebody will try to cut our throat.”
    It cost me eight hundred dollars. I had to get a lawyer. He’s looking for a G-note. I said, “This is a piece of shit case. It shouldn’t go over five hundred dollars.” He says, “Listen. We’ll get you guilty of a misdemeanor. And you pay three hundred dollars. To fix them coats.”
    Paying to fix them phony coats. That bothered me more than anything. But being a rogue. And a thief. You don’t like being stuck in court. Guess who’d be in court? Paul Rico. He would be smiling. More or less saying, “We didn’t get you. But they got you. You prick. You’re going away!”
    Here’s the name of the game. They always take somebody with them. And they point you out. Like in the lineup. A couple times. Sleeping in my car. Pinched for being drunk. Bring me to Station Six. Throw me in a cell. More visitors than the Pope. Every new cop coming on duty. “Yeah. That’s Gaga Murray. That’s the cocksucker.”
    Eddy McLaughlin was in my house. A hundred times. Drop me off. Pick me up. Use his car. Use my car. He’d call me up. “How’s the baby doing?” “She’s crying.” “She’ll go to sleep. About nine o’clock. Won’t she?” ”Yup.” He’s coming nine o’clock.
    Connie Hughes was there for parties. My fourth of July party. Charlestown hoodlums would be there. The federal judges. Two of them. Lived next to each other. They could look down on the patio. See all the rogues. And killers. What a madhouse!
    I imagine they looked down. Neighbors claim they did anyway. My wife talked to the neighbors. The neighbors would say, “How can you put up with that husband? You’re such a wonderful mother (sincere voice).”
    She was going to the nunnery. And come home for vacation. She lived around the corner. From the big dance hall. Mosley’s. On Massachusetts Avenue. That’s where we met. The broads that went to Mosley’s. They was looking for doctors. Lawyers. And DENTISTS. After the Navy. I was like a gigolo. I loved dancing with broads.
    I have five girls. And four boys. Nicknames for all of them. Stores would have Christmas layaways. Trailer was beside the store. Holding the big cardboard boxes. They’re filled with Lionel trains. God only knows what else. Bring them to my place. The garages behind my house. They’d be about forty boxes. Of the layaways. Each take ten. Ten big boxes. Lug them home.
    Ten layaway boxes. With chemistry sets. Dolls. You name it. There’s one thing my favorite daughter wanted. That I’ll always remember. She cried like hell. A Ragged Ann doll. I have dolls. That can walk. Talk. Piss. Do everything. She was broken hearted. I had to buy that doll.
    Anybody that knows me. They’ll shake their head. Never a cheap prick. If somebody dies. I call the flower shop. “I want a hundred fifty-dollar wreath.” People made fifty dollars a week. And I’m buying hundred fifty-dollar wreaths. So I’ve always had a good reputation.
    Alan Ladd was big. Even all the guineas. Thought they was Alan Ladd. You go over Hanover Street. Almost every guinea you see. Wore an Alan Ladd trench coat. The Drake Company specialized in them. We clipped Drake’s pretty good. They cost thirty-nine dollars. We’d rob forty. Fifty at a time.
    Call up Joe Balliro. He’d be in a barroom. We’d pull the cars in. The bottom of Hanover Street. By the Coast Guard Station. It was quiet down there. About seven o’clock at night. That would be blacked out. Just the guineas running around. Sitting on the doorsteps. We double park. Triple park. Hold count. And switch loads.
    Sometimes Balliro made us wait. We’d go to a guinea restaurant. And stuff our face. Half hour later. Balliro would say, “Jesus Christ. I could use more topcoats.”
    We sold so many of them. THREE DOLLARS A PIECE. First ten. Eight. Seven. Five. Finally three dollars. We said, “Let’s go after something else.”
    We helped the business. They hired more people. Once you stole an order. That order had to be replaced. More people wearing the company clothing. That was more advertisement.
    The South End. And Roxbury kids. Danny Murphy. Izzy Lowry. John Murray. George Ash. Tommy Timmons. And them guys. Knock-around thieves. Johnny-come-latelies. They’d be in the barroom. See us cutting up thousands.
    Harry Johnson would come in. Give us a bag. “Here’s twenty-four thousand.” For Gillette blue blades. Harry Johnson had a good connection. We’d hit Harry with a load. Everybody was after us for razor blades. Harry had a fence in Maine. Paid top dollar for them.
    I started the South End. And Roxbury kids tailgating. “There’s room for everybody.” You follow the truck. Wait for the break. Jump on it. Tear it open. The same system. A hundred years. The same system. The Jewelers’ Building. The jewelry cars. Everything about everything. Being a thief. I had nothing to hide. I could only rob so much. Gave them the sixty-four keys. One thing they didn’t get. The Gillette building.
    We’re after Tremont Clothing. My license was revoked. I used Charlie Carr. And his car. Picked it up in Roxbury. Where they made the clothing. It was getting loaded there. Put the tail on him. Tried to get him two. Three different stops.
    Just so happened. Eddie Cronin was going by. I waved to him. Bingo. Iggy Lowry. And them. They’re going another way. And they followed in line. I had two cars behind me. Three cars carrying six thieves. Eddie Cronin. Danny Murphy. Iggy Lowry. Tommy Timmons. Charlie Carr. And me. All in line.
    The guy goes to Chinatown. The best elevator in Boston. We knew it good. Zingo. He’s backing in. By that time. The cars went in position. Bing. Bing. Bing. He took the elevator. It’s nice. And dark. In the winter.
    Up he goes. Bing. I pop the lock. Throw the cases out. They had thirty suits. Forty suits in each case. Heavy motherf…ers. Charlie Carr. A greedy cocksucker. He grabbed the first two. And threw his back out. But wouldn’t let them go. Dragged them to his car. The truck had six cases. Bingo. Bango. We all got away. Hero of the day.
    They was after cigarettes. Whiskey. Anything. You just go along. And bump into things. You’re trailing one truck. And another truck pulls in. Now you go down there. Put the peek on him. Check his load out. See what he’s carrying.
    He might have three. Four cases of whiskey. “F… him.” But you remember it. A week. Two weeks later. You’re driving along. “Jesus. There’s Shawmut. I remember that guy. He had whiskey. Let’s check him out.” Fifteen cases of whiskey. The memory served good. Bingo. Unload him. Zip. Bang.
    Going to Filene’s. From South Station. There was an alley. That hooked around buildings. In there was elevators. One was for a whiskey company. The watchman was a real old-timer. He couldn’t hear the elevator.
    The loud-speaker said, “Get four cases of this.” “Three cases of that.” They load the elevator. Send it up. I snuck in there. To take a piss. And seen the layout.
    The elevator come down. I put Scotch on. Brought the elevator up. Opened the door. “Here you go Jimmy.” “Wooshh.” Bing. That afternoon. Jimmy Keeney. And I hit it three times. I’m loading the last two cases. Who comes around the corner? Tubby Flannery.
    Like a warehouse below. The old watchman was sitting there. Listening to his radio. Tubby Flannery destroyed it. He drove through the alley. I’m pretty sure Tubby destroyed it. I never found out the truth. When the elevator gate opened. Bells went off!
    The Lithuanian Club. “E” Street. And West Broadway. They paid sixty dollars a case. The Scotch cost sixty-seven dollars a case. This guy thought it was a good deal. Because he was saving seven dollars. We kept him to ourselves. For years. And years.
    Filene’s unloaded everything on the platform. Loaded the boxes on pushcarts. Wheeled them inside the store. We knew the suit boxes. Square-flat boxes. With wire wrapped around. To hold them together. Some have forty-eight suits.
    If no trucks at Filene’s. We might hit Essex Street. Try for Dainty nylon stockings. That was near Chinatown. We’d be in. And out of there. Then circle through Chinatown. Across Stuart Street was Vancouver topcoats. These topcoats cost seventeen. Eighteen hundred bucks.
    Nothing there. Drive down Kneeland Street. Heading for South Station. Whistling at the broads. Yale goes flying by. Bing. “Quick. U-turn it.” We go after Yale. “He’s heading to Clipper Craft.” He goes to Tremont Street. Backs in the alley. Puts on four. Five cases of suits. We’d be watching him. And know his next stop. He’s going to the Back Bay. Followed his truck a hundred times.
    I’d stay in bed until eleven o’clock. We’re going after cigarettes. Cambridge one o’clock. Charlestown one o’clock. Clipper Craft suits. Between one. And four o’clock. Bonwit Tellers. Between two. And five o’clock. Baron Anderson sportcoats. Five o’clock. Drake’s topcoats. Five o’clock. Sears & Roebuck’s whiskey. Between six. And nine o’clock.
    Park in the loading area. Cases go on the truck. Right in front of you. “Those twelve cases are mine!” We knew the driver stops. The coffee stops. The barroom stops. The girlfriend stops. We loved the girlfriend stops. They’d be up there an hour.
    Snap the padlock off. Put another one on. When he took a quick glance. It looked like the same padlock. A tire iron. Opened most locks.
    Riding behind the truck. We could see the padlock. Zingo. Know what it is. The Monels. The big silver ones. We used a crowbar. Put the crowbar in. You pull straight down. The weight of you. And the crowbar. It pops open. A little twist. It comes right off.
    Some trucks went over the road. Now the flat tire come in. At a red light. Three. Four times. Ice pick the tire. Twenty minutes to go down. We wanted it off the expressway. Get halfway to its destination. Pull on a secondary road. And bingo. The driver would leave. Go looking for help. We’d open the middle door. It faced the trees. Nobody would see us.
    Tailgating’s a twenty-four hour business. He’s leaving for ten minutes. Everything’s all ready. Attack in five minutes. The prick’s back down again. “What happened?” A week later back on it. The son-of-a-bitch. He’s gone only one minute. You get away from him. You hear later on. He’s loose again. Finally get him. For that five. Ten minutes.
    You’re away. On the road. Coming back from Framingham empty. EMPTY. Ohh! You’re sick (anguished voice). You feel miserable. “Go down Storrow Drive. All they can do is give us a ticket.”
    Come out of Storrow Drive. Bump into a whiskey truck. “Oh (raises eyebrows).” Grab twenty cases of booze. Make a day’s pay.
    Paul Rico. And Condon had our pictures. I said, “Why are you breaking our BALLS? All we’re taking is a bundle here. A bundle there.” Rico says, “You know the federal building?” “Yeah.” “You know how many floors it has? That’s how many rooms of papers we have. From the floor to the ceiling. From you guys banging away.” Bing. Bang. Boom. Boom.
    Paul Rico was five foot nine. Two hundred-twenty pounds. They brought us in. They fingerprinted me. I’m cleaning my hands. They tried fingerprinting Jimmy O’Toole. He took a hard-on attitude. “F… you. I’m not getting fingerprinted.” Bing. Rico. That fat bastard. He bent Jimmy’s fingers. And bent Jimmy’s arm. Up behind his back. “Kwirkk.” He got Jimmy’s prints.
    The federal building. What a score! Atlantic Avenue. And Northern Avenue. It’s right on the corner. They have watchmen guarding safes. Wall to wall safes. Big ones. Little ones. Safes for jewelry. Safes for counterfeit money. Safes for escrow money. Safes holding all kinds of evidence.
    Every time going past there. Billy O’Sullivan. And I looked at it. We watched the window washers. They pushed the window up. Washed the window. After it was done. Unhook part of their belt. Swing that piece of belt over. Hook the other window sill. Then swing over. Push the window up.
    We’re thinking of a boat. Rowing on the other side. Putting a ladder against the wall. Get in one of them windows. All we needed was ONE SAFE. “Ohhh!” It’s still the same today.
    Pig tin. That was a good score. Trailer loads from the waterfront. What a fortune was made with them. We stole a trailer load of pig tin. Across from the Army Base. The Ship’s Galley Diner. After hours-coffee joint. The driver parked there. Went in his car. And took off. We tailed him. He kept on going. “Let’s get back there. And hot wire it.” Key was in the ignition. U-turned the trailer truck. On West First Street. The smelt shop. Pulled in there. Kicked them off.
    Didn’t get our money. For almost a week. The guy had to sell them. But we made a good score. It started with three of us. Ended up with two more. For unloading the heavy igots. Five of us made seven. Eight grand a piece.
    We rented garages. Down “P” Street. And Farragut Road. Some houses had four. Five beat-up garages. Two bucks a month rent. Used them for pig tin. Hummels. Nylon stockings. Razor blades. Every f…ing thing.
    The brick buildings down “A” Street. That was the wool district. The wool business died out. The buildings got emptied. They started storing whiskey. Clothing. Cigarettes. We come in doors. Come off window sills. Went through the roofs. Loaded the elevators up. Boom. Boom. Boom. Back in them days. They didn’t work Saturday afternoons. We’d be making three. And four trips. Filling up the garages.
    Rico tried everything in the world. He used Southie cops. For his dirty work. Tom McDermitt. And Eddie Walsh. He put them on me. They formed a special squad. Six of them trying to nail us. The cops was running one way. We’re running the other way. Then it was Haverhill. And Lawrence. For raincoats. Suits. And shoes. We’d work up there. Take the pressure off Boston.
    Eddie Walsh lived on “I” Street. Navy Pacific Ocean light-heavyweight boxing champion. Tom McDermitt lived on Mercer Street. McDermitt had five sisters. They was all whores. Two faggot brothers. Out. And out faggots. Two other brothers. That was okay.
    They hated me. I was the kingpin. And they did everything. Trying to get me pinched. Throw me in the lineup. Bing. Bang. Boom.
    They couldn’t get me the right way. They got me the Cinderella way. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. The Tombs. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. The Tombs. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. The Tombs. I couldn’t count the weekends. Jimmy Keeney. And I spent in the Tombs.
    Soon as we got pinched. Nobody said a word. Until reaching the Tombs. The Tomb cops. They’re from Southie. “Hi Gug. You ready for Chinese food?” “Yeah. Get me a couple shots first.” Twenties. And fifties was flying. They’d bring us Chinese food. Cigars. Whiskey.
    Captain Crowley was famous for the lineup. We found speakers in the cells. Listening to the rogues. Hidden behind the pipes. We ripped them out. Piss-pour hidden. White wires. Wrapped around black pipes. You knew right off. Something was back there. That had to be Crowley. The lineup was his baby. He was good. And crazy. Destroyed them with fingers!
    We’d take our jackets off. Leave them behind. Always separate. Thirty guys in the lineup. Only us with no jacket. Captain Crowley never caught on.
    Tommy Gavin wanted people. That looked like him. Blond hair. Mustache. Certain weight. “I won’t take a lineup. It’s unconstitutional.” You know what the lineup was? The lineup was a joke. One n….. wino. N….. stabber. Pollog pissing on the sidewalk.
    Tommy Gavin filed a lawsuit. It went to federal court. That hit the same time. We raised hell in there. Jumping off the stage. A week later. “No more lineups.”
    Billy O’Sullivan was shaking down a barroom. The owner called the cops. Billy. Jimmy O’Toole. Jimmy Keeney. And I got grabbed. Brought to police headquarters. We’re standing on the stage. “Do you see the guy that broke the glasses?” “Yes.” “Point him out.” “Billy O’Sullivan. He’s standing right there (points finger).”
    Jimmy O’Toole flew off the stage. “You cocksucker. What are you talking about?” Bingo. Bango. We’re all flying off the stage. Jimmy went for the barroom guy. They hit the floor. The cops wrestled me down. By the time I went down. We’re all on the floor. It happened so fast. Forty cops come in. Everything went quiet.
    Years of putting guys in prison. With the phony lineup. TOMMY GAVIN STOPPED IT. By filing that lawsuit. Talk of the Pen. Everybody was congratulating him.
    I’m in good shape. Jerry Blanchard would say, “Let me be lookout. I’m no good. Gaga can carry safes. He can carry anything.” Jerry wasn’t scared. Just lazy. For most of the scores. He was the Charlie guy.
    Driver comes out the building. “Charlie! Charlie!” Just like the President does. He gets off the helicopter. Makes believe he’s waving. “Here I am.” That’s full of shit. Because we did the same thing. Except by us making people look. Our partner might have a couple cases. And could get away.
    Charlie Carr didn’t start it. Another guy was the lookout. Driver went up the elevator. But come down the stairway. Like he was checking. Our guy yelled, “Charlie! Charlie!”
    I’m in a truck. After Polaroid Land Cameras. Laying on my belly. Pulling the cases back. I come flying out. Got away clean. No rumble. The guy did something. Maybe took a piss. He went back up. I grabbed a couple cases.
    Polaroid Land Cameras cost four hundred dollars. When they first come out. Big pricks like this (indicates~square foot). Four cameras in a case. They used a shipping outfit in Cambridge. We stumbled into them from Clipper Craft suits. We seen this case. Boom. Land Cameras.
    Fences paid one hundred fifty bucks. That much for each camera. They come from a building. We parked near the building. Who ever picked them up. Rail Road Express. Shawmut. Yale. We hit them trucks. Then we struck gold.
    The fences wanted film. For the Land Cameras. Seventy-two packages in a case. You could carry three cases. Two dollars a package. Three cases. That’s four hundred dollars. People was making fifty. Sixty dollars a week.
    Six months. Banging away at film. We loaded everybody up. Dropped to twenty-five cents. So we’re losing a dollar. Seventy-five cents a package. It was time for something else.
    We found a suit company. Down in Fall River. Kid’s sportcoats. One hundred ten. One hundred twenty. One hundred thirty dollars a piece. We took them off Railroad Express. I said, “Where the hell are these being made? We need to check this place out.”
    We had that going. More than a year. Bing. Bang. Bang. Robbed cases from the trucks. After they left the company. Bingo. We knew the suit cases. Instead of being wrapped with wire. These cases used heavy tape.
    Down in Fall River. I said, “Let me use your toilet.” “We’re closed. I’m going home.” “I need to take a quick piss.” “No. I ain’t waiting for anybody.” He come rushing out. Padlocked the store up. I looked in there. Seen stoves. Washing machines. Dishwashers. “I’ll get this cocksucker.”
    With a U-rent-it truck. We go down there. He come rushing out. Jumped on his bicycle. And scooted home. The cocksucker. He was a cheap-old prick. I hope he pissed his pants. We hit that padlock. Backed the truck in. The only things we left behind. A mop. And a shovel. That’s how you bump into scores.
    Danny Murphy. Eddie Cronin. And Doc Madden. Stumbled into the Sweeney outfit. It used a green-delivery truck. Sweeney did most hauling for Gillette. Bringing loads to the railroad. The docks. Places like that. They clocked a driver. Found where he was going. Where he had his coffee. They stepped in. Drove it away.
    We’re just milking Gillette blades. Truck would pull out. We’d get ten cases.Sometimes twenty cases of blades. Danny’s crew was the first. Getting thirty cases of blades. Danny said, “We can take this guy. I’m pretty sure. I know where he puts up.” Eddie Cronin worked on beer trucks. Eddie says, “He puts up with the Budweiser trucks.”
    They put empty trucks up. Leave the keys in. So the trucks can be moved. Danny’s crew snapped the key. Made a copy. Put it back. A week later.

    1. Great stuff. I have in my possession, a manuscript written by a man almost identical to Gaga Murray. It is a 1000 word short story written by him in the early 80’s. I am hoping we can speak outside of the site at some point.

13. Dear No Reason. Here’s the “World War II” chapter.
    World War II
    We’re starving to death. Everybody’s living on five. Six. Seven. Eight dollars a week. Eating welfare raisins for meals. Happy for a plate of beans. They started with the CCC. You go up to Maine. They give you an uniform. Like an old-army uniform. Paid five dollars a month. For chopping down trees.
    The WPA had fathers. And mothers pushing brooms. Middle of the street. They made two dollars. Four dollars a week. This was our era. Up to ‘41.
    When the war started. People jumped in the service. Mothers put their kids in there. They made twenty-two dollars a month! Guys ready for jail. They jumped in. Everybody jumped in.
    In the beginning. ‘41. And ‘42. They took guys from prisons. Guys doing ten. Twenty years. Guess what they did? Put them on trains. That was sealed up.
    Everyone’s sweating their ass off. Shipped them from the East Coast. To the West Coast. Put them on ships. PRISONER SHIPS. Bars on the port holes. Shipped them to Hawaii. Gave them wooden rifles. Started drilling them.
    In ‘43. AMERICA WAS LOSING. We was fighting the Japs. AND the Germans. Everybody went. Murders. Gave them basic training in Hawaii. Put them on ships going to Guam. The Johnsons. All them islands. Bang. Gave them real rifles. “GO GET THEM.” These guys didn’t care. They was happy leaving the can. Half of them got ANNIHILATED.
    I’m a poor boy. I loved the service. Three meals a day. Spam. Spam. Spam. Oh! I loved Spam. I can taste it now. I’m dying to eat Spam. Better than food at home. Unless you stole it!
    I was sixteen. Used my brother’s birth date. And his social security number. Boot camp was Louisville Kentucky. Armored tanks. And infantry. As it ended up. I was in the infantry.
    They fixed my teeth. Inside a week. And a half. A partial plate. It would be falling out. I got a permanent plate. When stealing around the country.
    Tanks was being destroyed in North Africa. They trained us in tanks. Hitting thirty miles an hour. “F.X. Take it easy. Slow up.” I got big eyebrows. Firing that ninety millimeter. The tank lit up. “KWOOOM.” It burnt my eyebrows.
    Shipped to Hawaii. And the Johnson Islands. That’s where they trained us. January of ‘45. In the Philippines. MacArthur walking on the beach. The Sixth Army. I was there.
    Lingayen Gulf. My company went there. They said our whole squad got hit. Myself. And two guys lived. It happened so fast. “Boom.” Up in the air. Bingo. Bango.
    I’m ripped open here (points above eye). This one over here (long left-forearm scar). They put clamps in. This one over here (quarter sized-belly hole). They dug that shrapnel out.
    Thirty of us got hit. We all went in the air. God only knows what hit us. But it hit us! We’re in the bush. On the trail. Daytime. Talking. Taking it easy. The next thing. I’m in sick bay. Woke up in sick bay.
    When it happens. Just like that (snaps fingers). I’m smiling. Smiling. Smiling. A girl’s going “RRR.” “Move on you side (growling voice).”
    “What happened? Am I alright? God save me.” “What’s going on? Help me. Help me. I’m in pain.” “God I love you.” “God I love you. Please keep me alive.” He kept me alive. I’m all bandaged up. In the Red Cross tent.
    No conversations. No friendliness. “I AM HURTING.” Hoping to get morphine. They was using it themselves. The orderlies. The nurses. The medics. Everybody was robbing the morphine. I got some shots of it. You was supposed to get five. I was lucky to get one.
    The medics had to rob morphine. What do you think kept them together? Their nerves was shattered. Bodies blown to pieces. They’re checking a guy. And they’re getting hit. Another guy’s yelling, “Help me. Come here. Please help me. YOU COCKSUCKER. PLEASE HELP ME.” You can’t explain it.
    They brought me near Manila. Thought I was going home. Spent two months there. Hospital on the beach. Japanese still occupied Manila. At night. You see flares. And rockets going off. Manila was being blown up.
    Five days in intensive care. Three weeks in another tent. I seen a Jeep. There was no key. Just turn a lever. That started the Jeep. Drove it all around.
    There’s a hospital here. Across the street. Another hospital. The intersection. Another hospital. All in tents. As far as the eye could see. Rows. And rows of tents. The Army beige-uniform color.
    I’m standing beside an ambulance. Bullshitting with a guy. My stomach. And head was bandaged. Staff sergeant said, “Hey. Grab that ambulance. And back it up.” He says, “Follow me.”
    Staff Sergeant had a jeep. Two. Three soldiers in the jeep. Followed him to this tent. They was lugging out arms. And legs. That was chopped off.
    Every kind of wound. Take a soldier from a hospital. Rush him over to another hospital. Where he’d have the nurses. The Red Cross guys. And the doctors work on him.
    “Get in there. Back it up.” “Open the back doors. Put the soldier in. Bring him over to B-Four Section.” “Okay.” “RRRRR (turns invisible steering wheel)” “Here’s the soldier. Any coffee? And donuts around?” “Yeah. Over there.” “Okay. See you later.”
    I drive soldiers off. With legs sewed up. And leave. Coffee. Beer. Saki. Bingo. Bango. Steal some cigarettes. Somebody would leave a carton. They’d put a package down. And I’d come whipping by. Throw it in my budge. Bring it to my ambulance. Go to the nearest bridge. Get blown. Get laid. Get booze.
    Two. Three days later. Jump back in the ambulance. Go to some other tents. Shack up for a day. Get drunk. And eat.
    Everybody had canteens full of whiskey. Saki. And Army alcohol. While doctors was sawing legs off. Soldiers was stealing the hospital alcohol.
    One side of the tent. Where you first come in. They copy the dog tag. If that soldier was dead. They kept the dog tag. Bodies didn’t go home. For months. And months. It all varies. Sometimes buried a year. Before digging up the grave. And shipping the body home.
    Two. Three months. I was an ambulance driver. Stole gasoline all the time. No matter where the troops go. The gasoline goes. They had gas stops. Fill up your gas cans. Sign, “Joe Blow.”
    I had four gas cans. Hooked on the ambulance. At the first bridge. Unhook a gas can. See Gypsy Rose Lee. “Here you go.” Sell it for pesos.
    Everybody did what they wanted. Screwed broads all over the ambulance. On the hood of the ambulance. The tailgate. The front seat. Half the time. They got phony toothpaste.
    Pro-kit tube looked like toothpaste. That’s what we gave the broads. “Here’s toothpaste. For brushing your teeth. Suck my prick.”
    You squeezed it up your prick. Stop you from getting the clap. They thought it was toothpaste. Army had gonorrhea stations. After you get laid. Wash your body down. Kill the bed bugs. Kill the crabs. Take the tube. Milk it in there.
    The depot was loaded with brass. Generals. And everything else. Their friends was shot. They want to visit them. The depot was part of the hospital. The Red Cross ran around with coffee.
    Lieutenant Colonel String heard me talking. I’m standing beside the ambulance. He heard my accent. And said, “You from Boston?” “Yeah.” “I’m from Massachusetts too. How long have you been driving the ambulance?” “I only had the job. For a couple weeks. I’m waiting to go home.” I was talking high class. I didn’t tell him South Boston.
    I get called into the office. “You’re going to be Colonel String’s driver.” Couple weeks later. We was talking. I mentioned South Boston. “Oh. You’re from South Boston. I thought you were from Boston.” “No. Right across the bridge.” Bingo. Bango.
    I was an official driver. I had the jeep. I had the colonel. And I was a sergeant. To work with a colonel. You had to be a sergeant.
    I got a LOT of benefits with him. The colonel’s helmet had an eagle. And the colonel’s shirt (touches shirt collar). That had an eagle. I used his jeep. Like I owned it. Colonel’s insignia on the bumper. I put it on with screws. The jeep could hold six people. The back seats folded down. Most of the time. It only held me (smiles).
    “Yes. Sir.” “No. Sir.” “Yes. Sir.” “No. Sir.” “Okay park here. I’ll see you in about an hour.” “Okay.” In that hour. I rob something. Do something.
    In September of ‘45. The invasion of Japan. Signing the treaty in Tokyo Bay. On the battleship Missouri. We’re in landing crafts. Dropped on the beach. Spread all out. Everybody was nervous. Waiting for hell to break loose. There wasn’t a shot fired.
    We started moving in. It was like Saipan (eyes widen). Yokohama the same thing. They had cities underneath. If we ever had to take it! If it wasn’t for the A-Bomb. Everybody would be dead.
    The Japanese lined up. In public places. On the beaches. On the roads. Some was hiding in houses. The war wasn’t completely over. There was still plenty of fireworks. Americans killed Japanese left. And right. Bazookas. Hand grenades. You’d be sitting there. All of a sudden. Hear mortars going off. It was out of control.
    Moved a football field in. Set up camp. Pup tents. Chow line. Every other day. Soldiers coming in. Soldiers running through our camp. Soldiers running through our tents.
    We slept on the ground. With blankets. And quilts. No sleeping bags. After a month. We robbed fold-down cots. From the Red Cross tents. Everybody was in on something. We didn’t worry about the MPs. Because they couldn’t arrest everybody.
    They’re more crooked than us. They take your stuff. Tell you to leave. And sell your stuff. The whole war. There was MPs. The troops move first. The MPs move second.
    The Japanese made booze. Anyway they could. Plenty of booze. White. Red. Yellow. Pink. They called it Saki. Every color in the rainbow. In every kind of bottle. We brought booze with us. Took it from the Philippines. Soldiers lugged canteens of booze.
    Small-heavy artillery. That soldiers carry. They’d get drunk. Kill Japanese guys. And GIRLS. The MPs come. “Knock it off.” Everybody would scatter.
    Hear machine guns going off. Go down the road. They’d be thirty. Forty Japanese. Spread all over the road. I don’t know how they choose them. But they was DEAD.
    First two. Three months. I saw four. Five hundred dead Japanese. Almost all in groups. I’d be driving along. A soldier would fire shots. From the back of the jeep. Shooting at the Japanese. Because feeling miserable. And hating the Japanese.
    Japanese people had their skirmishes. They might be going down the road. See ten GIs walking the road. They kill them. They’d get killed. Another group comes in. And they’d get killed. Another group comes in. And they’d get killed (raises voice).
    Everything was bombed out. Buildings bombed out. Trees here. And there. Dead kids. Dead animals. Dead little puppy dogs. But it wasn’t all destroyed. A good door. A good window.
    The first month. We did nothing. No hustling. Our big thing. Finding out who would buy? Then it was out the door. We sell them the stuff. They count the money. A bamboo box. Looked like a crib. Stacked the money in there. Wrapped it up in toilet paper.
    The military printed American-Japanese money. Yen floating around the country. That was worth shit. The Japanese gave it. For the guns. And pillow cases. The Japanese women. And men paid with Yen. We’d buy the whiskey. The broads. A grand-scam party.
    Sometimes with the colonel three days. Sometimes not with him for a week. I’d have the jeep for a week.
    If I’m driving too fast. I get pulled over. “I’m very sorry. I’m a little nervous.” “Okay. Don’t let it happen again.” Stuff on the jeep. They couldn’t say anything. Because the colonel’s insignia. On the jeep bumper.
    When I hear, “Hey. Where you going?” “I’m just turning around. What’s the easiest way out?” “Go down here.” “Go down there.” “Thank you.” And I scoot off.
    The first nine months. You could change Japanese yen. They gave us the American-Japanese money. You’re only supposed to change a little. Bring a bag full to the quartermaster. “Could you transfer this money? I’m a thief. And I’m not supposed to have this much money.” Of course. The quartermaster knew! Because EVERYBODY was a thief. He got DUKED. For changing the money.
    The Japanese even used Philippine pesos. I drove in one camp. Small towels roped up. Twenty. Thirty to a bundle. Filled my jeep up. Headed for a bridge. This was in Yokohama.
    Four hundred towels to the nearest bridge. See the broads. “This is what I want.” “Okay. Go over there. That’s my money basket.” “Okay. Here’s the goods.” They take the goods. And give me the basket. The money was like this (indicates~two feet high). Went back to the tent. The bottom of my basket. Found a lot of pesos.
    Most of the Japanese guys. Caught in the war. Didn’t come home. Until four. Five years after the war. There was hardly any men. Broads wasn’t interested in getting laid. They was interested in getting money.
    Like any country that falls down. Takes two. Three years. Get it running again. That’s all black market time. And everybody makes a fortune. Bing. Bing. Bing.
    First nine months was beautiful. No matter what you did. You make money. You throw it on the ground. You make money. Throw it in the shithouse. You make money. Spend it. Spend it. Throw it around.
    A case of Spam. Thirty-six cans. They paid eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty dollars. For ONE can. Evaporated milk was like ice cream. Evaporated milk was power in itself. For the babies. Only that big (indicates~four inches high). Fifty bucks a can.
    At first I bought sheets. I found out later on. When a squad moved out. I’d go there THAT NIGHT. And rob them ALL. Everything I could carry. Sheets. Blankets. Pillow cases.
    I worked alone. And with different guys. Everything was hot stuff. Sometimes with three soldiers. Sometimes with two soldiers. Sometimes with one soldier. We’d see the Red Cross guy. “Hey. I need some penicillin.” He’d give us a handful. “Is that all we get?” He’d give us a box. Instead of one box. Take ten boxes.
    We robbed rifles. Wooden box held twelve rifles. Fifteen to eighteen boxes of rifles. My jeep could carry that much. The Japanese bought them. And they took them. I don’t know how they used them.
    No matter where you went. Somebody wants to buy something. Sheets ten dollars a piece. The next week. Twelve dollars a piece. The next week. Three dollars a piece. Prices going back. And forth. They’d cut them up. Make all kinds of clothes.
    There was no such thing as stopping. Backing up. And unloading a jeep. Without somebody saying, “Hey, pal. What do you got?” Blankets. Candy. Anything.
    A bridge could hold. From ten. To a thousand people. When I was there. The only place to go. THE ONLY PLACE TO GO. Sell everything. People yelling. Screaming. Whatever they’re selling.
    You show up. Make the deal. You pull out. Go down the road. Pull the jeep over. A truck would pull up. Or they follow you out. “Okay. I’ll follow you.” You pull the jeep over. They come back with the truck. Throw your stuff on the truck. The soup. The rifles. Whatever you stole.
    A boat would come in. Throwing supplies on the beach. Nobody knew what was going on. We’d move in. “Take this.” “Take that.” “Take this.”
    Four. Five. Eight gas cans. Wrapped around my jeep. If there’s room for a couple more. I’d take gas cans off another jeep. An ambulance. Or a truck. I grabbed the gas cans. And went to a bridge.
    They couldn’t wait to get gasoline. So they could sell it. To guys with no legs. To the broads. For cooking meals. Bring it. Sell it. Go party it up. Bullshit with the soldiers.
    Colonel String was a thief too. Because he took care of himself. I knew he grabbed young broads. The khaki house he’d go visit. That was full of young girls. Nine o’clock in the morning. “Pick me up at two o’clock in the afternoon.” “Okay.” Bip.
    You’re moving up. As time goes on. All of a sudden. Bump into a hundred cases of Spam. We kept them under bushes. And INSIDE bushes.
    The Japanese dug all these holes. For ammunition. And everything. So they can take over the world (singing voice). Then we come by. Find the holes. Blow them up. Destroying everything. Moving. Moving. Moving. Forward. Forward. Forward. Fathers. And mothers dead.
    Everybody hated the Japanese. The treaty meant nothing. There was still plenty of killing. They was just fighting them. For FOUR YEARS. Guys would pull liberty. Get into pup tents. And start raising hell. Kill a half-dozen gooks.
    I was given a detail. I’d send them out with dynamite. “Go to this hill. Blow up everything.” Bang. I wouldn’t know what happened. For a week. Because stiff drunk! For a week.
    Blow up everything. No hesitation. There’s hardly any officers. They didn’t want to get killed. We’re all sergeants. Corporals. And privates.
    Five miles out. Twenty miles out. A hundred miles out. Find stock piles of goods. They made holes in mountains. Put the supplies in there. We didn’t destroy them right. Only half destroyed them. Blow up the front. Check it off. “This was done.” “That was done.”
    Almost three hundred miles from Tokyo. Now everything was moving so fast. Soldiers stealing anything they could grab. I didn’t have a jeep. Drove a medium-sized truck. Easily hold twenty soldiers. Whatever I could grab. Gasoline. Food.
    In the southern part. It was better there. Not that much killing. But a lot more stealing. It was all F… MONEY.
    Wine. Women. And song. I met this Master Sergeant. With about thirty-six men. He had three stripes on top. Two stripes on the bottom. I had three stripes (indicates top).
    He was placed on the border. That nobody could go in. The Hiroshima radiation area. Like a Route 1. He was stationed there. To keep you out. He’d tell soldiers, “If you go ten miles. You’ll be in radiation up to your neck (lifts hand to neck). You turn around. And go this other way (points finger).”
    Beautiful job for him. Screwing all the broads. Screwed so many broads. It ate a hole. In the side of his dick. I never seen a guy piss. Out the SIDE OF HIS DICK. Syphilis. The clap. His dick was rotting off.
    He said, “Take a look at this.” We laughed like a son-of-a-bitch. Pissing out the side of his dick. We said, “Get some medicine.” “F… you. I ain’t giving up this job.” He was right. They would have shipped him home. Bingo. I didn’t bother looking at his face. One look at his dick was enough to see.
    The broads was coming to the soldiers. They wanted the evaporated milk. The money. The clothing. All kinds of f…s.
    You went to the bridges. Picked up the broads. You caught the clap. Everybody was happy. “Yahoo!”
    Footlockers of money. FOOTLOCKERS. Ichi man yen. Ten thousand-dollar note. Today that’s two cents. We’re sitting back half drunk. Singing, “I’m in the Army…” “I’m in the lady…”
    Somebody said, “Take the footlockers. We’re having a barbecue.” “What?” “MacArthur changed all the money.” “WHAT?” “Yeah. There’s going to be red stamps.” We had to throw it away. Burn it.
    Two. Three weeks later. Footlockers of red-stamp money. Bingo. Bango. MacArthur did it again. Changed the money. “You dirty cocksucker.” Green stamps. Another two. Three weeks. Footlockers of green-stamp money. Then the American buck. OCCUPATION MONEY.
    I bumped into a guy. One of the guys. I knew from Chicago. Funny thing. I bumped into him in Chinatown. Didn’t see him for six years. He said, “F.X. How you been?” The name on my uniform. “F.X. Murray.” Everybody in the service. They call me “F.X.”
    The guy come to our table. “F.X. How you been?” I thought he was in the Navy. But he said, “Remember them footlockers? We had the barbecues.” I says, “That occupation money messed us up.” He said, “After you left. We counterfeited it. I was lucky. I only stood another six months. I was no sooner home. They all got busted.” They ran a counterfeit ring in Tokyo!
    Buy the broads. Buy the booze. You couldn’t send anything home. I tried to angle it. The only thing I sent home. My pay every month. Buck Sergeant overseas pay. Hundred twenty-five bucks.
    In Europe. They went easier on soldiers. Them guys made some big scores. Paintings. All that stuff. But I wasn’t in position. That’s where Joe Saxe come in (whispers). Joe Saxe was a major in the Army. In charge of the legal division. He was in good position. He made big scores. Shipping stuff back from Europe. I don’t know how he did it. But he was in position where he could. A major!
    Around Christmas time. After about four months. They changed all the money. About March. They changed it again. Then the occupation money.
    They started pinching servicemen. MacArthur said, “The game is over.” “The game is over.” He was a little emperor.
    No more kicking them in the ass. That was the end of the game. Before you could kill a gook. And get away with it. No more slapping them. No more doing anything. They built stockade. After stockade. After stockade.
    But General MacArthur couldn’t stop it. The madhouse was going strong. Two years later. I talked with servicemen. Some guys had tomato juice. Some guys had tomato paste. Some guys had pro-kits. They was selling everything. Back. And forth. Back. And forth.
    The first six months. All you heard, “When am I going home?” “When am I going home?” There would be dynamite explosions. Mortars going off. Shootings. Killings. You’d have to live it. To see what I’m describing. Strictly a madhouse!
    Everybody wanted to know. “When is the next ship going home?” “What’s the number?” “What’s the number?” That’s the magic question. “What’s the number to go home?”
    All of a sudden. A thousand go home. Two thousand come in. Two thousand go home. And four thousand come in. You’re always seeing new faces.
    You go home on credits. Guys with the most action. That was married. One hundred-twenty credits. I was down in the sixties. Half the guys went home. Before I went home.
    Now let the rich people go. Because the rich never went. Congressman has a cousin. Or a nephew. He’s not going. The same with George W. Bush. His father was a COWARD. An out. And out coward! He let two Navy navigators die. The plane got hit in the Pacific. The Navy guys was in the back. Bang. Bush went like this (mimics putting parachute on).
    He jumped right out. The plane went into a tailspin. The sailors was fighting to get in their parachutes. It was too late. Down they went. Bush was rescued.
    Everybody on ship knew about it. They WOULD NOT fly with him. And because he was a politician. They put him on a plane. Sent him back home.
    Bush even cried on TV. “I’ll always remember those sailors. I realize it was my fault.”

14. Dear Jean, I just spent wrote you a long response. Everything was lost because putting the wrong email address. I’ll try again tomorrow. Thanks for thinking about me.

15. Dear No Reason, I forgot to mention the tiny “Somerville” chapter. Here’s the book description:

    Francis X. “Gaga” Murray is a master storyteller. “Gaga”: The Real Whitey Bulger/Irish Mob Story is written in a unique style with all sentences rising and falling in a sing-song manner. The book gives new information about Whitey Bulger, World War II, Boston Irish War, Great Brinks Robbery, Plymouth Mail Robbery, Owney “The Killer” Madden, Elmer “Trigger” Burke, New England Mafia, and more.

    Whitey Bulger was indicted for 19 murders, the center of the nation’s worst FBI scandal, a weapons smuggler to the IRA, and an inspiration for the mobster played by Jack Nicholson in The Departed. After 16 years as a fugitive, he was arrested in Santa Monica with 20 guns and $800,000.

    Gaga laughed at Whitey Bulger, made love to his bank-robber girlfriend, then helped her spend Whitey’s stashed money. In short, Gaga knows Whitey better than anybody.

    “Gaga”: The Real Whitey Bulger/Irish Mob Story contains many truisms. It generates “I couldn’t put it down” praise for Gaga’s unique voice, the most definitive Irish mob book, and new Whitey Bulger information. Helping to produce this praise, after moments of self-reflection, is the hope for more life-changing insights.

    This definitive true-crime book describes Gaga stealing in America, Canada, Mexico, Europe, and Australia. It has chapters on gambling, seducing women, and gives new information about American soldiers in Japan during World War II. For example, consider these two World War II excerpts:

    “The people lined up. In public places. On the beaches. On the roads. Some was hiding in houses. The war wasn’t completely over. There was still plenty of fireworks. Americans killed Japanese left. And right. Bazookas. Hand grenades. You’d be sitting there. All of a sudden. Hear mortars going off. It was out of control.”

    “Small-heavy artillery. That soldiers carry. They’d get drunk. Kill Japanese guys. And GIRLS. The MPs come. ‘Knock it off.’ Everybody would scatter.
    Hear machine guns going off. Go down the road. They’d be thirty. Forty Japanese. Spread all over the road. I don’t know how they choose them. But they was DEAD.”

    Gaga enjoyed the military. Consider this Korean War excerpt:

    “It was snowing. Everybody’s pumping the booze. Coming down my joint. It got so bad. The Captain said, ‘I know what’s going on. MURRAY TAKE IT EASY.’ This come over the intercom. The whole ship heard it. He put the finger on me.
    We hammered around for month. And a half. Shooting small shells. Making it look good. Then another food re-supply. One of them small cities. Thirty miles from the bottom of Korea. Made the same deal for Suntory Whiskey.
    Seventy. Eighty sailors. Chief Warrant Officer. A REAL drunk. He’d come flying down (laughs). Kick the door open. Pull the curtain. Take two. Three jugs. ‘Everything okay?’ ‘Yeah. Everything’s okay.’ ‘See you later.’ Giving it away. Nobody paid for that booze. I made my money in the Mediterranean. On the aircraft carriers. Nothing but the best. Best whores. Best everything…‘Ohhh (regretful sigh)!’ I wasn’t leaving the service.”

    Gaga pulls the reader in with detail. For example, consider these two Owney
    “The Killer” Madden excerpts:

    “Receding-sandy hair. Five-five. A small guy. Owney wore regular pants. And short-sleeve shirts. Almost always a white shirt. Kept glasses in the shirt pocket. Outside he didn’t wear glasses. Inside the club. When reading something. He’d snap them on.
    Owney liked scally caps. The southern scally caps. One day red. One day white. The next day blue. Put the scally cap on. Wear it all day long.”

    “Guess who’s sitting there? Wearing cowboy boots. At breakfast. The sheriff. In the breakfast nook. With a liquid morphine vial. And a needle. A NEEDLE (loud voice). Bingo. He wore the sheriff’s shirt. With the muscles showing. In front of everybody (flaps arm down). Bang. ‘Qwirkk.’ ‘Slurrpp.’ He’s loaded on morphine. ‘Give me a napkin (groggy voice).’ He wipes the off blood. ‘Alright (pause).’ ‘What do you want to do (aggravated voice)?’”

16. South Boston
    You could not get in. And out of South Boston. Without going over a bridge. It was all farm land. They had wooden bridges. For bringing the cows. Over to the South End. Where they threw the garbage. That was a big marshland. Before it was filled in.
    The Irish did the filling. They always did the hard work. Next the guineas got the shovel. The Irish become the cops. The firemen. And the hoodlums.
    The Irish coming to Boston. They wanted to join a gang. The Gustin Gang was the top gang. Frankie Wallace. And Billy Wallace. Owned Mutt Kelley’s place. On Old Colony Avenue. They had the bootlegging. The guineas would try knocking them off. Taking whiskey over Boston Post Road. They’d knock the guineas off. During the roaring ‘20s. It went on until the ‘30s.
    There was like two thousand Gustins. Out of the two thousand. Might be ten thieves. Real thieves. Bank robbers. Everybody else was make-believe thieves. But they’d do a little stealing. “Hey. You want to drive the truck?” “What?” “Give you twenty-five bucks.” “Sure! I’ll do it in a minute.” That was big money.
    The Gustin Gang started on West Ninth Street. They had their little-meat companies. And stores. An old-timer. He hangs down the Quencher. The barroom on “I” Street. He was in the Gustins. When a young kid. He tells the stories.
    We all did the same shit. Beat the rent. Stole bottles. Held up banks. We even committed murders. Almost everybody in Southie. Did something like that. Only the names changed. Just change the names.
    You had your big brother on one corner. Your father on the other corner. Your uncle on the other corner. And another uncle over there. Walking from “O.” And East Second Street. Going to “L” Street. Walking through the park. It would take an hour. Because you had to stop. Say hello to the cousins. The in-laws. And the outlaws.
    All the way to “L” Street. We’d have free reign. Between “L.” And “I” Street. That was Guinea Emmet. Only place guineas could go. They had three blocks there. East Broadway to East First Street. With Emmet Street in the middle.
    We’d go down to Guinea Emmet. And steal the wine. The homemade wine. B&E the cellar window. One guy would sneak in. And pass the wine bottles out. We’d hit the backyards. Steal their grapes. Now they couldn’t make wine.
    There was a big fat guinea. Running a variety store. Sitting by the door. Always half asleep. Put a broom handle. Up against the bell. Open the screen door. Then lower the broom handle. So the bell wouldn’t ring.
    Grab cigarettes. Handfuls of change. Whatever we could grab. And run out the door. The bell would be ringing. “Ohh! Ohh!” Show up next week. Do it again.
    The gangs up the Point. The Mullens was the toughest. The next corner the Redskins. Two blocks away the Wildcats. There was the Indians. All different little gangs. Same down the lower-end. They had their football sweaters. With their own two colors. They wasn’t thieves. Just growing up. Fist fighting. Getting drunk. Chasing each other’s girl.
    World War II kept them from prison. They went in the service. When they come out. They’re in their twenties. Some went to school. Using the GI bill. It saved a lot of them.
    Other towns was the same way. They kept their mouths shut. Made a week’s pay. They become the firemen. And the policemen. The first ones broke it in. They had the hard part. They become the lieutenants. And the sergeants. They helped younger brothers. And cousins up the ladder.
    We had a gimmick for the Supreme Market. Up West Broadway. At closing time. We’d hide in the back. Before the bug went on. We’d toss cases of cigarettes. “Kwoow.” “Kwoow.” Over the hallway partition. Bingo. Out the back door. The bug wouldn’t go on. Until the store got locked up.
    The Supreme Market safe. It was beat to death. They kept using the same safe. Jack Ward took it down twice. They welded the door again. Welded the side up. Cleaned it up. Thieves did the same thing. Pushed the safe over. Tear the metal door. Put their hand in. Open it up.
    The Supreme Market kept being robbed. By the same guys. Their mothers shopped there! Nine. Ten in the morning. “Stickup.” They’d grab the money. Maybe a hundred bucks. Hit the Rex Cafe. The detectives would go there. Pinch them twenty minutes later. Like the Charlestown guys. They’d rob a bank. Guess what they did? Went straight to the housing projects.
    The Rex Cafe was like a whorehouse. Woody. And them guys. When I was coming up. They was small-time thieves. As soon as something happened. The detectives knew right off. Them guys was running over there. Buying everybody a ten cent beer. To show they’re big men. Getting the old-time hookers.
    Eddy Cougan. And Jody Barry. They was the kingpins. They had Southie sewed up. Barry was the top man. Half-dozen barrooms. Booking. Loansharking. They started coming up. After the guineas killed Frankie Wallace. Barry’s brother joined the Flying Squad. That was like the Death Squad. For the cops.
    They’d come flying in. “PULL THE F…ING LEVERS.” Beer went on the floor. Except for Eddy Cougan. And Jody Barry. Guess what they had? They had the drains. “OKAY PULL THE LEVERS.” When they pulled the levers. Beer didn’t pour on the floor. It poured down the drains. Into the cellar beer kegs.
    Guess what killed them? The Kefauver hearings. These guys here said, “The government’s going to grab our money.” They sold the barrooms. Kept the Pub Tavern. And the Tunnel Cafe.
    Cougan ran the Tunnel Cafe. He was so hungry for money. He wouldn’t hire anybody to book. Cougan booked from his own barroom. And he married a Marilyn Monroe.
    She took the phone off the hook. When screwing a guy. If the phone rang. And she didn’t answer. Cougan went running out the door. Seeing if he could catch her. She was screwing everybody. He couldn’t catch her. I don’t know the guy. But he was a smart prick.
    Cougan kept a cash box in his office. So this guy who was screwing her. Put the phone back on the hook. She was supposed to be home. But didn’t answer the phone. Cougan comes running out. Dashing home to catch her. This guy dashed through the back door. And grabbed the cash box.
    Barry had no muscle. He used cops for muscle. Eddy McLaughlin would go to Southie. “Hey. Instead of giving your action to Barry. Give it to me. You’re with Charlestown.”
    Charlestown was the best Irish place. Southie got a little n….. rich. People started moving out. They bought ranch houses. Down the South Shore. Fourteen thousand dollars. In Weymouth. All them little towns. In the late ‘60s. They really moved out.
    Charlestown stayed together longer. It’s a smaller city. More compact. There’s only two. Three ways in. And out of the city.

    Charlestown
    If something happens two in the morning. Everybody knows by three. If something happens at three. Everybody knows by ten the next morning.
    Charlestown was all Irish. They had scally caps. And longshoremen’s hooks. The Forty Thieves was scallying (non-union longshoremen). The Forty Thieves went from grandfather. To father. To son. Their biggest gaff was robbing junk. Fifty gallon drums of copper. And brass. From the junk ships.
    Eddy McLaughlin come from the old school. He seen bodies on the street. And seen it bringing heat. The guineas dumped bodies everywhere. The heat was coming up. When Eddy made his move. He had to take four. Five guys out. REAL quick. Bing. Bang. Bing. Bing. The rest fell in line.
    Eddy McLaughlin was the fifth. Sixth guy taking over Charlestown. Bobby. And his four brothers. They had it before Eddy. The brothers owned the Alibi. They had the bookmaking. The dogs. The horses.
    Eddy McLaughlin muscled the grain union. Then he wanted the Alibi. The two toughest brothers disappeared. One brother committed suicide. The other brother Bobby. He owned the Alibi on paper. There was a crippled brother. He robbed the jukebox.
    If you want the town. You have to TAKE the town. Charlestown had some real cuckoos. One of the toughest guys. Sonny Daley. He’d be tougher than Mutt Kelley. Stick Buddy McLean up his ass. He got three bullets in the head. And tried breaking out of the car trunk.
    Sonny Daley thought he was taking over. He walked in the Alibi. Laid a shotgun on Bernie. “You can tell your brothers. I’m taking over the city.” Out the door he goes. Bingo. Bango. In a few days. Sonny’s in the submarine. It happened so quick. People couldn’t believe it. Everybody was spellbound.
    McLaughlin gang was the “Company.” We met at the “Station.” That was the Alibi. “Meet you at the Station.” Bernie cut up the shylock profits. He cut them up six ways. Every month we got an envelope. Nine. Ten. Eleven hundred dollars. From that one enterprise.
    The reason the feds. Wanted to get rid of the McLaughlins. Remember I told you about different guys. That was real-big headaches. And guys that was witnesses. To bank scores. We buried them. Did it right.
    This is what Whitey heard. Whitey didn’t know about putting guys underground. Until he heard what we did. And decided to try it out.
    Whitey heard Jimmy O’Toole’s trick. Smashing the guy’s teeth out. With the forty-five. Throwing them away. This guy here. We buried under a house. After Jimmy smashed his teeth out.
    Whitey buried Paulie McGonagle. At Tenean Beach. But he made one big mistake. Didn’t go to the water’s edge. Now if anybody wanted to squeal on him. They couldn’t squeal on him. The body would be gone.
    Come back in two years. The body’s gone. Disappears forever. It walks through the sand. Eddy had ten years of doing it right.
    Alibi was a square-brick building. With two front doors. Two back doors. Hot stuff come in the back doors. You couldn’t count the safes. Going down that cellar. Like a school. For hitting safes.
    Crowd would come in. “Let us use the equipment.” “Okay.” They tear the safe open. Bingo. Bango. “Here’s a thousand. For letting us use the tools.”
    Bobby was told, “Red’s coming see you. You better fall in line.” Red didn’t come for eight months. A guy went in the Alibi. “Red’s coming.” Bobby knew his two brothers was dead. Bobby said, “Okay.” He fell in line.
    Bobby went to the bank. For a thousand dollar bankroll. He wouldn’t even reach the door. Barely pull his car in. To park it. “Shut up (holds invisible pistol). Give me the bag.”
    Everybody come over the Alibi. Billy O’Sullivan. Russ Hatch. Jimmy Keeney. Danny Murphy. Everybody come over to see us. “Hi. What’s going on?” “Have a drink.” Bing. Bing. Money back. And forth.
    “Okay. We’re having a party up the projects. Marylou’s house. Number four.” “Bang on number three too. And number two. We’ll get them in the party.” Party night all the time. And I loved it!
    Shootings. Stabbings. There was everything in there. Cops went on the payroll. One gets his uniform ripped. His watch broken. G-note. Bingo. Friday. And Saturday nights. We rented a cop. They was wild nights.
    The broads was unbelievable. Broads from Somerville. And Charlestown. Bernie knew a guy. That could put bugs in. We let him hang around. And gave him free drinks. He bugged the tables. The bar. Everything was bugged.
    When broads went in the shithouse. We’d go in the office. Hit the switch. Hear them talking. “I don’t know? He’s too big for me.” “I blew that other guy. Boy! What a cum juice he got.” What guys sucked their pussy. All that girl shit.
    While everybody’s dancing. We’re playing stink fingers. You’d be sitting there. “I’m so madly in love. Bup. Bup. Bup.” And under the table. You’re finger f…ing her. Getting the broad heated up. Because you haven’t made her. She’s being a good girl. In front of her friends. Once you’re finger f…ing her. She don’t care who’s watching!
    This broad Carol O’Shea. Bookmaker popped her cherry. When she was fifteen. I met her at eighteen. She was giving me the business. “Ha. Ha. Ha.” “He. He. He.” Billy O’Sullivan couldn’t stand it. Slapped her in the face. She went on her ass. Billy jumped up. I said, “Relax. Relax. Everything’s going to be alright. You girls take her to the bathroom. Clean her up.”
    Carol come out. Billy. And them was leaving. I said, “I’m staying. There’s nothing else to do. I’ll see you later.” I tell Carol, “Give me a ride. Will you?” “Alright.” Went up her apartment. I stayed the weekend. Now she was my girl. Bingo. Bango.
    Billy was famous for whacking broads. He liked them a certain way. Billy wanted to be with the guys. He didn’t want to hear girl shit. Slap them in the face. Bang them out.
    For five years. Carol was up my ass. She thought I hit her. I said, “I’ll be a good guy. I won’t hit you again.” She had about twenty girlfriends.
    Carol loved the shit out of me. But I was too busy. I screwed her sister. All her friends. “You dirty bastard.” “Shut up! What’s a little f… between friends?” She’s yelling. And screaming (laughs).
    We’ve all done some crazy things. I’ve done some crazy things. Got away with it. Done some crazy things. Got in hot water. That’s part of the game.
    One night I was half drunk. I climbed up four porches. Because Carol locked me out. So I climbed the porches. And broke the window. Small-door window. To open the latch. The cops was waiting. My hand went in. The handcuffs went on it.
    They brought me to Station Fifteen. Lieutenant Bill McDonald was my friend. He was a handsome bastard. He married O’Brien’s daughter. O’Brien’s funeral parlor. On Dorchester Street.
    Bill McDonald comes down. Brings me to his office. He goes in his desk. “Here’s some J&B. Take a couple belts. You’ll feel better.”
    I grew up with him. And his three brothers. Tommy. One of the twins. He used my car. For getting his driver’s license. Used it for the driver’s test. They all went big. In the police force.
    Bill McDonald was a roamer. Went to different precincts. He knew the thieves. Shook them down. Plus he paid out. Paid money to wiseguys. So he wouldn’t get killed.
    Narcotics was just starting off. They told him, “Don’t take the test.” Then told him to take it. They moved him out of downtown. Where he would have the narcotics. Bill was going to run it. He lost his position. Bingo. As luck had it. Things turned around. With all the killings. Bing. Bing. Bing. He become a commissioner.
    Tipped me off. Two. Three different times. Come up my house. Five o’clock in the morning. “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.” “They’re watching the pig tin.” “The federal warehouse.”
    This happened all over the country. Everything was a payoff. Especially New York. Boston. And Philadelphia. You get pinched. “Tell Joe I want to talk with him.” Joe comes in. “What can you get?” “I can get eleven hundred.” “Twelve hundred.” “Thirteen hundred.”
    The next morning. We go to court. They have the burglar tools. The ripping bars. The drills. Sledgehammers. And everything else. Took about five people. To carry them in the courtroom. The judge would say, “Well. I don’t see anything in this. Case dismissed.”
    Thompson. An old-time hoodlum. A Tammany Hall Irishman. Most powerful guy in Boston. Thompson opened the Stock Club. It wasn’t closed one time. Open through all the Depression. During the Kefauver hearings. When everybody closed up. His speakeasy stayed open.
    Middle of City Square. Sturdy-brick building. Flat roof like the Alibi. Behind it was the ocean. The Alibi faced Main Street. Ten blocks away.
    During ‘50. And ‘51. The Alibi was shut off. The Kefauver hearings shut everything off. There wasn’t a bookmaker. N…..pool number. Nothing for two years. Thompson was so powerful. The Stock Club kept going. Twenty-four hours a day. For more than forty years.

    Somerville
    Somerville wasn’t even on the map. Until Buddy McLean put it on the map. Somerville was shit. Buddy was coming up. Robbing down the fish pier.
    The chocolate factories moved to Somerville. There was more stuff to steal. And more guys got involved. Steal off the chocolate factory. Lose it to the bookmaker. Have the wives out whoring. To pay the shylock.
    Buddy McLean’s wife screwed for a living. Howie Winter’s wife screwed for a living. It was a Somerville thing. The guy with Buddy. When Buddy killed Bernie. Alex Rocco. He took off to Hollywood. Howie moved in with his girlfriend. She was already on the street. I knew at least fifteen of them. That had their broads screwing for money.
    Harry Johnson went with the money. Harry did alright with broads. But he’d get them whoring. His wife was a whore. He’d hang in Somerville. Howie Winter. And Buddy McLean. They laughed about it. They screwed each other’s wives. It was one big happy marriage in Somerville.
    The broads grabbed a taxi to the Combat Zone. Get a guy to rent the room. Bing. Screw the guy in the room. Keep the key. Throw the guy out. And get other guys. Pay for the room. That was already rented. “Give me twenty bucks for the room.” “Now give me fifty bucks to suck my pussy.” Bingo. Bango.
    They was nice-looking blondes. Kept themselves in good shape. Make four. Five hundred dollars. Jump in a taxi. Go back to Somerville.
    I heard they did dope. And pills. Before doing that. Whoring to play the horses. They started off as horse girls. Being with the wiseguys. And the bank robbers. Graduated to dope. Bingo. Bango. Selling it. And milking it.

    Gaga I
    I’m a baby. I was in the carriage. We had the mattress on top. And the pots underneath. Moved to Athens Street. Jumping from two. And a half dollars a month. To three dollars a month. A cold water flat. Shithouse down the cellar. No such thing as toilet paper. Wipe your ass with a hand. Rinse it in a pail. When we was kids. Southie was something.
    The building owners. They didn’t live here. The real estate guy. He’s trying to grind-out money. So if you beat him. He beats somebody else. And that guy. He heats somebody else. This was the rat race. Going on in Southie.
    Come from here. Beat the rent. Go up there. Bump into other people. That just left an apartment. Where they beat the rent. “I got a job.” Boom. Boom. Boom. Now we get behind. Get thrown out. Mom goes to the next apartment.
    All you could see in Southie. When I was a kid. Baby carriages. With a mattress on top. And once in a while. A piss pot underneath (laughs). Baby carriages going up. And down the streets. “Any apartments?” “Any apartments?”
    Back in them days. Your word was your bond. You tried being a right person. But you had to cheat on something. The beautiful part. Nobody felt different. Today you’d feel different. Back in them days you didn’t.
    I got stuck with “Gaga.” They said I was yelling. And arguing. After losing a fight. Ripped a porch slat off. Hit a kid over the head.
    When wanting to look at broads’ tits. We’d bang on the pipes. To let them know. We’re down the cellar. They’d come down. We’d play doctor. And lawyer.
    During the ‘30s. Sheriff Dowd was a crook. The Sheriff of Suffolk County. His hands was in everything. The scrubbing women. Seven bucks a week. Working in City Hall. Six days a week. Ten hours a day. Wednesday they come early. Because Wednesday was payday.
    A five dollar bill. And a two dollar bill. Bring the two dollar bill. Up to the sheriff’s office. They called my mother May. Her name was Mary. She’d go to the window. “Hi, May. How you doing?” “Okay. Here’s the sheriff’s donation.”
    If you didn’t give him two dollars. DON’T COME BACK. He shook everybody down. Dowd was a thieving son-of-a-bitch. From day one. Dowd finally got pinched. It was a federal beef. Held him in Charles Street Jail. He escaped. The sheriff escaped!
    You seen the sheriff’s house. Connected to Charles Street Jail. Thirty rooms of furniture. He took the furniture. The GRAND PIANO. Clothes. Stockings. Every loaf of bread.
    The story goes. Dowd used horses. And wagons (chuckles). The wife. The kids. The horses. Grand piano. Everything disappeared. He was never caught (eyes widen).
    Every third Wednesday. Mom. And I went to Chinatown. A big bowl of chicken chop suey. A big piece of Chinese bread. Butter. Tea. And a BIG bowl of ice cream. That’s what us kids wanted.
    The nineteen cent meal. She’d get that meal. It was my mother’s treat. She’d give us the ice cream. She never smoked. Never drank. My sister. And my older brother. We loved that ice cream.
    The refrigerator was our window. You open up the window. For the wooden-milk case. If any leftovers. They went in there. “Put it on the cuff.” “Put it on the cuff.” At the grocery store. Everybody used “the cuff.”
    Mom finally bought an ice box. It had two little doors. Open the top door. An ice block fit inside. The ice melted right down. Lasted a day. And a half. If the pan wasn’t emptied. Water drenched the kitchen floor.
    You had a sign like this (indicates~square foot). “ICE.” Turn it over. “OIL.” Put it in a window. The ice man looked up. It told him what you needed.
    I started stealing. Five. Or six. Living on “O.” And East Seventh Street. Every kid in Southie was a thief. Every kid that could walk. We’d steal some cocoa. From Meyer’s store. Steal sugar. Vanilla extract. Go to my house. Stir it with water. And put it on ice. The cold hardened it up.
    This was during the depression. Cocoa. Vanilla extract. And sugar made fudge. In the cold weather. It went on the porch. Come back an hour later. If during the summer. And having ice. Leave it on the ice. Make sure my mother didn’t know. Because it made the ice melt faster (chuckles). Ice was ten cents a block!
    Welfare gave oleo butter. Cheese. Raisins. Prunes. And beans. The oleo come wrapped in plastic. It was a piece of lard. Yellow coloring in the middle. Throw it like a football. Squeeze it. The yellow coloring. Turn the lard into oleo.
    Welfare gave us coveralls. We hated wearing coveralls. Cut the top off. Tie a rope here (taps waist). For a belt. Make them into dungarees. And we’re big shots.
    Welfare gave knickers around Christmas. Gave knickers once a year. Like a Christmas present. They come to here (taps knees). We’d rip the pockets out. Now we could REALLY steal. Put milk bottles in there. Walk down the street. With four. Five milk bottles. The elastic around your knees. Held them in place.
    “D” Street. And Old Colony Avenue. That was all horse barns. The Hess Gas Station was a barn. Behind it was barn. After barn. After barn. Whiting’s Milk Company. Four horses pulled their wagons. That barn had shaggy doors.
    We’d squeeze in there. Creep in the dark. And feel the bottles. If they was smooth. Not worth a nickel. If they had bumps. Worth a nickel. BIG SCORE.
    Six years-old. I learned the hard way. Stole a bunch of chocolate. Stuffed it in my knickers. The chocolate melted all over me. I was down there with my hand (mimics eating handfuls). “Grumm.” “Grumm (big smile).”
    At Woolworths. “F” Street. And West Broadway. I’m trying to steal chocolate. I couldn’t see the shelf. I reached for the chocolate. Instead of chocolate. I grabbed Bobby Pins. The broads was yelling, “Hello Gaga (sweet voice). Are you coming out?” It was all stink fingering.
    Hood’s Cupcakes delivered in Southie. Brought packages of cupcakes. And donuts to birthdays. With a horse. And buggy. The nice neighborhood. By Farragut Road. They delivered up there. We’d hide in the garbage shed.
    The guy would walk in. He’d stop. Wait a minute. Maybe two minutes. Then come running out. To check his wagon. We’d be sitting in there. Watching the whole move like this (mimics peeking out). He’d go up the back stairs. To deliver the order. By that time. We’re eating the goodies.
    Cat Pies was a big thing. A damaged one. Cost a penny. A good one. Two pennies. Like an apple pie. Little bit of everything. Thrown in with it. There was a pie company. Climb in a side window. Sneak a whole pan out. Pass it to your buddies.
    Sneak in the silent movies. Silent movies cost two pennies. People went to the silent movies. Because they could only afford two pennies. This was the era of pennies. Pennies was everything.
    Penny on the ground. Five guys would kill themselves. Get stabbed over a penny. Nicky Moran got stabbed over a penny. Saint Brigid’s School yard. The Catholic school. They was fighting over a penny. This kid said, “You prick you (loud voice).” BANG.
    Guess what Nicky was worried about? His underwear! His underwear was brand new. Nicky said, “My mother will kill me. There’s blood on my underwear (laughs).” Cops brought him to the hospital. They pinched the other kid.
    Nicky was seven. Eight. I dropped a Christmas tree on his head. We was getting the old Christmas trees. Pulling them up “M” Street Park. For the big Christmas tree bonfire.
    Nicky loved getting them Christmas trees. I threw one off a porch. And hear nothing. Poor Nicky. He’s laying on the ground. Blood’s squirting from his head. That’s another time the cops come. And took him to Carney Hospital. It was closer than City Hospital.
    Dorchester Street. And West Fourth Street. The Marion Manor nursing home. That was the Carney Hospital. For the South Boston whippings. Stabbings. And killings.
    Waldorf cafeteria at South Station. You took a ticket when entering. You needed the ticket for food. Everything that you ordered. They punched a hole. If the cashier lady wasn’t looking. We’d pull two tickets out quick. So the bell wouldn’t ring twice. If one of us got away with it. We’d double up on him. And walk out together. “It’s alright Miss. I ain’t paying.”
    Beside South Station. A half-sunk rowboat. We pushed it along. At the sugar warehouse. The workers was looking at us. We gave them the crying act. “Our fathers. And uncles are going to kill us.” “We’ll help you.” They lugged the rowboat out. Put it on a pushcart. We’re going up “A” Street. Our knickers hanging down.
    Bang. Police Station Six. My mom. And Nickie’s mom come there. The cops said, “They’re too small for the cells. We’ll keep them in the radio room.” Soon as our moms left. “Bat.” “Bat.” “Bat (slaps air with hand).” “Get in the cell. You little cocksuckers (tough voice).” They kept us overnight.
    I was seven. My first pinch. And Nicky’s second. Or third pinch. Cops caught me shoe shining. Without a license. Down South Station. They arrested twenty. Thirty shineboys for no license. They cleaned South Station out. That made me break probation.
    We robbed empty soda bottles. Jackie Smith. Charlie Johnson. Nicky. And me. From Farragut Road. To “L” Street. To Guinea Emmet. 7-Up bottles. Pepsi-Cola bottles. All kinds of soda bottles. We’d climb up the porches. I was always the climber. Smitty would open his sweater (extends hands). I’d drop the bottles. And he’d catch them. “Piquew.” “Piquew.” Never get a case. Only steal two. Three bottles. Because people cashed them in.
    Everybody had a milk box. On their window sill. Facing inward. You opened the window. “Kwikkk.” Now you reach in. Take what you want. Push the window down.
    With a locked window. There was this much room (indicates~three inches). I’d put my hand in there. Feel around the wooden box. Found a little of everything. Steak. Hamburger. If already cooked. I’d eat it myself. Or drop it down.
    We finally reached “I” Street. And Emmet Street. The same thing there. Except in Guinea Emmet. All kinds of cheese. And salami. The Irish had peanut butter (laughs).
    We did this months in. Months out. Year in. Year out. It was going on. Three years of my life. Before going to Lyman School.
    My next pinch. Stealing newspapers. Next pinch. Stealing food. In the summer. We tucked shirts in. Left the top buttons open. Barrooms put food on the bar.
    We’d walk through the barrooms. Taking handfuls of baloney. And cheese. Loading up our shirts. We’re saying, “Papers.” “Papers.” Not even have a newspaper. A dime was a fortune. Steal a twenty pound haddock. Store would pay a nickel.
    Coal. And wood. That heated the house. Coal trucks used East First Street. They drove past “M” Street Park. When one went past the trees. Throw a cobblestone under the back wheels. “Bapoop.” Coal would come sliding off. We’d be grabbing it. Go running home. “Hey, Ma. I got some coal.” Do it again. Do it again. Getting coal for the kettle.
    All Southie was cobblestones. In the ‘30s. Southie got tar blocks. First up the Point. Then down the lower-end. We’d be there with baskets. And wheelbarrows. Filling up the cellars.
    We lived off the tar blocks. Used the them for heat. And cooking. Made plenty of soot. It clogged the chimneys. When cleaning the chimney. Burlap bag with cobblestones. Drop it down the chimney. Looked like an A-Bomb going off.
    “Here it goes.” Drop it down. And we duck. “Boom.” Soot all over the place. Always let the people know. So they wouldn’t have laundry. Drying on the back porches. “Yeah. Bup. Bup. Bup. It’s about time we did it.” “When are you doing it?” “We’re going to do it tomorrow.” “Thanks a lot. We’ll let the word go out. We’ll do it tomorrow too.” Neighbors knew their neighbors.
    People was the same. All scratching to survive. Do you know a skeleton key? A skeleton key would open Southie. Completely open Southie. The stores. And everything else. Because it was so lax.
    Everybody lived in three family houses. In the front door. Out the back door. Walk on the back porch. Jump over to the next porch. “Hey. You got any sugar?” “You got any coffee?” “You got any bread?” This was the atmosphere. In the ‘20s. And the ‘30s.
    The trolley was a big thing. It used an overhead-electric wire. A trolley driver we didn’t like. Throw a rope over the wire. Make the trolley hook come off. He’d give us a dirty look. “WE’RE RIDING.” They’d be a gang of kids. On the back of the trolley.
    Otherwise we’d keep unhooking the wire. Trolley driver would be running in. And out. In. And out. People yelling. They’re going to work. Wanting to get home.
    Subway cost a nickle. You could take the bus. Subway. And trolley to Mattapan. Inside the subway station. You just walk up. “Give me a transfer.” Andrew Station had guards. Both ends of the building. We’d sneak in with a bus. Creep right along the other side. When the driver waved to the guard. “Whishhh.” Run down the escalator. Into the subway.
    Beside Broadway Station. There was a Moxie company. The Moxie bottles was always full. Each of us would steal a couple. What terrible tasting soda. Go across the bridge. Empty them out. Smitty liked it. He’d drink anything.
    We got Royal Crown. Smitty liked Royal Crown. I liked Royal Crown too. “D” Street. And Old Colony Avenue. The big fence was there. That fence was forty feet tall. What a monstrous fence! We’d climb the trees. And bend the branches. To get over it.
    Fill a bag with two-cent bottles. Other side of Broadway Bridge. Next door to Stuart Theater. There was a White Tower. For a dime. Three hotdogs. Or three hamburgers. With the trimmings. And a root beer. All ROT-GUT stuff.
    Behind the Stuart Theater. Kids went in the alley. Bought boxes of ice cream to sell. Carried the box on their back. Some kids had a bicycle. And they bicycled around. We’d grab a box. Popsicles. Fudgesicles. Forty-eight ice cream bars.
    See a car window open. Jump in the car. Make believe driving. “RRR (moves invisible steering wheel).” Joey Pickard. We all did it. Bingo. Bango. When with Nicky Moran. We’d really be driving. Nicky would say, “Push the petal.” “PUSH.”
    Nicky was a short kid. But he had the brains. All we’d have to do. Sit under the steering wheel. Nicky said, “Push the clutch in.” “Push the brake in.” “Give me some gas.” Bing. Bang. Bang. That’s how we went joy riding. One guy would be on the floor. And Nicky would be steering. We’re all six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
    Every time I turned around. Nicky was saying, “Hey, Gug. You want a ride? Hop in. And hit the pedals.” The other kid hops out. I hop in.
    From horse. And buggies. To broken-down cars. But still PLENTY of horses. The milk company. The bread company. The rag men. You should have seen the rag men. They was rag men (serious voice). I mean RAG MEN. Rags falling off them. Bumble bees. Cockroaches. Ants. They’d have the hand scale. Wrapped over their shoulder. Like this (swings arm up). Talking to their horse. “AUUUAA (loving voice).”
    Ten pounds of newspapers. Slide slate between the papers. It would be twenty pounds. He’d throw it on the wagon. When he was busy with somebody else. We’d go to the other side. Sneak the bundle off. Make the double trip. Sell the bundle again. Sell it RIGHT THEN. They paid nickels. Dimes. Pennies. But they made a buck. Them guys would go home. The next time seeing one. He’s driving a new Cadillac. And wearing a Baron Anderson (chuckles).
    Model T’s was still around. The first tire I stole. No lug nuts. A lever here (indicates top). And a lever here (indicates bottom). Pull the levers out. The tire comes off.
    On East Fourth Street. A wheel come off. I jumped out. Nicky jumped out. Let the car crash. The front wheel kept rolling.
    We’d hit the chocolate mill. On River Street. In Milton. We had a swing. “Weeee!” You let it go. “Splash!” Into the Neponset River. Bare-ass ballicky. After doing that. We’d be hungry. Grab a slab of chocolate (spreads arm~two feet). Big. Heavy motherf…er. Slab this thick (indicates~three inches). Bingo. On the sidewalk. Slam it down (strong voice). Fill up our pockets. Bing. Bing. Bing.
    Jackie Smith. Charlie Johnson. Franny Haywood. And me. Four of us. We went on the run. There was an open field. With a junk car. Swallow Street. And “O” Street. That was our home.
    Middle of the winter. We stole thick blankets. From the moving trucks. To keep our ass warm. Come out at night. Kick through store doors. Break the front windows. “Smash.” Run in there. Grab hats. Coats. Whoopie pies. Break into bakeries. Have pie fights.
    We’d wash up in Meyer’s. A beat-up variety store. Open twenty-four hours. Back to the car. Might wake up. One in the afternoon. Somebody would get coffee. From the nearest variety store.
    We’d clean up a little bit. Go to the bus yard. Beside the Perry School. Grab the bus. “Hey! Why aren’t you kids in school?” “We got out early today.” Go in town. To the movie houses.
    We stole a lot of nickles. Dimes. Quarters. A couple times. We found two. Three hundred dollars in ones. Two months of robbing stores. And sleeping in the car.
    Nobody knew who was doing it. “The Midnight Cowboys.” That’s what they called us. We’re going horse back riding. Out near the Blue Hills. Cost twenty-five cents. A car pulled up. Red Smith jumped out. Smitty’s older brother. He was seventeen. Eighteen. He grabbed Smitty. Punched the shit out of him.
    Smitty ratted us out. We’re horse back riding. Acting like cowboys. “Yahoo.” “Yahoo.” They said, “Help bring the horses in the barn.” “Sure (excited voice)!” The doors close. “What’s going on?” Flashlights. Cops. State troopers. We’re all pinched.
    Held us in Milton Police Station. Near the chocolate factory. For two. Three days. They brought us back here. Showed pictures of the stores. “Name this store.” “Name that one.” We couldn’t name them all. There was so many.
    Albie Clancy. Guys that I knew. They searched the junk car. Robbed our quarters. Half-bucks. And Whoopie pies.
    Three days in Station Six. “Ha. Ha.” “Hee. Hee.” It was a new adventure. The court couldn’t do anything yet. They didn’t have all the evidence. Charlie Johnson was the oldest. I was ten. The youngest. But I’m the tallest.
    First time kids going to Charles Street Jail. They put us in a side wing. Started calling it Boy’s Town. The prisoners laughed at us. We’re tough. Wiry-little kids. The guards said, “We’ll straighten your ass out. You’re going to reform school (strong voice).”
    Charles Street Jail used candlelight. And shit buckets. Eat the wax. Off the candles (chuckles). Bull Durham tobacco. Two cents a package. I couldn’t roll cigarettes. Traded a baloney sandwich. For a corn pipe. We used half matches. Skin the paper match (pulls hand up). Make two matches from one (smiles).
    I never heard about diddlers. Never heard about faggots. Until about sixteen. Too interested in squealers. Worst thing you could be. Worst thing in the world.
    Two months in Charles Street Jail. Southie court declared us juvenile delinquents. Sent us to Lyman School. Up in Worchester.
    Lyman School took our clothes off. Gave us white smocks. Like a hospital smock. Slippers. A cold shower. Stand in line. Stand like this (folds arms chest high). Stand until bedtime. If you’re a smart ass. You sat on the floor. With your feet on the bench. Hold arms out like this (extends arms straight out).
    Guards was punch drunk. I mean PUNCH DRUNK. Bent noses (twists nose in both directions). Monstrous cocksuckers. They’d hit you. “Bang.” “Boom.” They had no mercy. And they got away with it.
    These guys was fifty years-old. They was broken-down boxers. Always talking about fighting. And boxing. Little kid’s making trouble. They get a big kid. “Go ahead. Let me see you handle him.” “BING.” “BANG.” “BANG.”
    Every morning. A cold shower. We’d be shivering. Six at a time. “Okay out.” “Next six.” “Next six.” It made your balls curl up. We helped build cottages. The bricks you carried. According to your age. I carried ten bricks.
    When I turned eleven. I carried eleven bricks. Up. And down ladders. Bringing them to be cemented. Every once in a while. You sneak a couple bricks off. Throw them on the ground. When you get caught. Walloped with a rake. Bang. Boom. Crash.
    Breakfast was oatmeal mush. Plenty of oatmeal. Nothing in it. No sugar. No milk. Half cup of diluted coffee. Lunch had slabs of bread like this (indicates~one foot). All the bread you want. Bowl of misery soup.
    Big meal was supper. Plate of beans. Spit soup. Bread. Bread. Bread up the ass. Wednesday night was plain macaroni. Sunday afternoon a cup of milk. Sunday night they gave shit fish. Never seen a piece of meat.
    We slept in a cow barn. They had a watchman. Both ends of the barn. Runaways was handcuffed to the bed. Handcuffed ankle. They’re tossing. And turning. Which ankle got handcuffed. Depended on the bed. They might get a beating. Crawl to the first empty bed.
    No luxuries. No pissing at night. Bingo. You wouldn’t dare piss the bed. Not only did the bedwetter get a beating. He’d carry the mattress on his head. The other kids wanted to sleep. They’d moan about the noise. When the guard come near. The kids kept quiet. The guard would break their heads.
    Compared to ten years earlier. We felt real lucky. They slept Indian-style. On the ground. Guards stuck coal. And forks up their ass.
    You go to the brick department. Two. Three months. Work your way out of the bricks. It took me a year. And a half. I was pissing bricks.
    All of a sudden. “Murray. Chickens!” “Murray. Planting!” “Murray. Cow barn!” “Murray. Do this!” “Murray. Do that!” Back to the bricks. “Come on. We need you.” Bingo. “Get over here. Shovel shit.” I’m happy for a day. The next day. Back to the bricks.
    Killed all breeds of chickens. One kid would hold the chicken. Other kid would be the crusher. It looked like a nutcracker. Crush the chicken’s skull. Let it bleed to death. Sometimes we put the chickens down. The cocksuckers ran across the floor.
    If you had two chickens. One chicken in each hand. Stand at the hot water. Dip them in like this (drops clutched fists). In the hot water. For two minutes. Three minutes. They get steamy wet. Go to the rack. Hang them upside down. You’d have other kids. On that side of the barn. “Kwoooo.” “Kwoooo.” “Kwoooo.” Pulling off the feathers. Cleaning them up.
    When you’re nice. And dirty. With bloody hands. Back for lunch. No washing up. Have misery soup. Pieces of bread. More killing chickens. Then have supper. No hand washing. Until the cold showers.
    Again stand at attention. The guards walked between you. Waiting for you to smirk. The right hand would come. “BANG.” If you was a wise guy. “I’m going to punch YOUR HEAD IN (leans forward with glaring eyes).” “WHACK.” He hits the kid behind back of you (moans). You never know who’s getting hit. Eyes in back of their heads.
    We built three cottages. You had Lyman Hall. Cottage L. And Cottage LL. The cow barn got ripped down. And we kept building cottages.
    Lyman Hall held fifty kids. Day room had showers. The shithouse. And wall benches. Guard booth in the middle. You only needed one guard. To watch what’s going on.
    “Bang.” “Bang.” “Crash.” Blood’s flying. “What’s going on?” “What’s going on?” Blood’s making a big puddle. Two kids smashed the guard’s head. With a baseball bat.
    We’re sitting there. Minding our own business. The booth was five feet away. First time seeing a guy dead. The booth was wide open. He’s laying there. Two steps up. Blood pouring down the steps. They jumped in his car. And took off. We’re looking. Looking. Looking. His head was hanging down.
    You can take a kid. When he’s five years-old. Make a boxer out if him. Bang. Bang. Bing. ZINGO. BINGO. Little at a time. He’s fighting back. “You cocksucker. I hate you.” “You don’t hate me enough.” Smack. Bang. Boom. Boom.
    There was a lot of kids. Like that up in Lyman. A guard told us, “The reason these kids are so crazy. Their mothers. And fathers beat the piss out of them. They won’t last long.”
    Two weeks later. Up in Lowell. Found them kids in a field. That guard couldn’t wait to tell us. “See! I told you.” We heard they committed suicide with shotguns. We didn’t know any better. But the cops killed them. For killing the guard.
    Day room had closets. For your coat. Work clothes. Toothbrush. Comb. If you had a comb. Some kids didn’t have a comb. Nobody could buy a comb. Somebody had to bring one. I got my comb. From somebody leaving.
    Everything was brought from the outside. After you get a visit. They take your bag. Handkerchief. Toothbrush. Pair of stockings. Salt for toothpaste. Whatever your mother brought you. It went under the staircase. There was two big doors. Here’s where a spoon come in handy. I took the hinges off a door. With a spoon. Unscrewed the hinges. Went in there. Robbed the bags.
    Whatever I found. Pieces of candy. Bubble gum. Bingo. Bango. Locked the door back up. The kids opened their bags. “Ahh!” “Ahh!” “Ahh!” “Ahh!” They was screaming. The guard yelled, “Shut up. Get out of there.”
    Every so often. I did that with a couple kids. They didn’t bring me in on it. I fell into it. With the spoon. I said, “What’s this?” Put the spoon in there. The screws come out easy. You might find a lifesaver. A candy bar. BIG score. You couldn’t hide it. You couldn’t take anything. You had to eat it.
    Marched you upstairs. The first staircase. The dining room. Where you ate. The second staircase. They barricaded you for bed. We went to bed. Seven. Eight o’clock. Guard booth had three windows. The booth light shined out. He could see all areas.
    From killing chickens. To digging cow shit. Digging shit behind the piggery. Forty kids with pitch forks. Everybody would be digging. No rubber boots. No gloves. “Pitch.” “Pitch.” “Pitch.” If you was stabbed with a pitch fork. Nine in the morning. Tough shit. They wasn’t marching everybody in. You lay there until lunch time. Bleeding to death.
    This hole right here (touches between eyes). Hit between my eyes. From a kid digging like this (throws hands over shoulder). Pitch fork bounced off my face. Stayed in the hospital two days. I was happy being in the hospital. You’re laying in bed. Getting three meals.
    Another pitch folk. The small of my arm. They let me lay there. I’m crying. Moaning. Bleeding. Blood all over me. “Shut up. I’ll bust your head (angry voice).”
    They’d have a big hoe. That can dig the ground up. The guard would have one like this (mimics hoe laying across leg). Because he’s watching you. Whatever was in their hands. They’d hit you with it. I got hit with a shovel. I wasn’t shoveling fast enough. During a snow storm!
    They wanted tough guys. Punch-drunk ex-fighters. For handling these kids. Keep them in line. And they did. When they yelled. We’d shit our pants.
    I used an old pocketknife. To cut this kid’s slippers. When he’s taking a shower. I cut the cocksucker’s slippers. So he’d fall down the stairs. They turned the place upside down. Looking for the knife.
    In my drawer. Somebody before me. Stashed a razor blade. The guards found it. “Oh! He’s a wise guy.” They whacked me handcuffed. Bounced me off the wall. Threw me in the truck. Brought me to Cottage LL. Bingo. Bingo. Bingo. I was never so happy. When getting that cold shower. So they’d stop beating me.
    Again in Cottage LL. The cottage for TOUGH guys. We pushed this little cart. The guards was getting pound cake. We cut it in the middle. We cut another sliver off. Pushed the cake back together. Covered the line with spit. On our hands. And knees. Did this (makes small circles with index finger).
    Nobody squealed. We did it twice. And didn’t get caught. Rubbing the cake with spit. They just stumbled into it. That REALLY made them mad. They beat us every night. Anything for a piece of cake!
    They whacked you going to church. Whacked you going to communion. “You don’t want communion? DO YOU?” “Bang (slaps hand)” “DO YOU (slaps hand again)?” “No. No. I don’t want to go (crying voice).”
    Everybody liked church. For one reason. You could sit down. And get out of work. School was the same thing. They only had school. Every other week. Half a day. The teachers was guards. Instead of hitting you with rulers. They’d hit you with their fists. But you could sit down. And not work.
    When cutting hay. You pushed the lawn mower. Through acres. And acres of hay. Kids racked the hay up. Put it in the baskets. Lugged it to the cows.
    Racking up the hay. That was alright. They’d be three. Four of us. Racking up the hay. One kid pushing the lawn mower. “UAUAUAUAUAUA.” You did what the guard told you. If the guard said, “Murray. Jump down. And pull your prick. In the middle of the street.” I did it. If he said, “Murray. Shit your pants.” I shit my pants.
    They’d be six of us. Filling up the manure wagon. Two horses pulled the wagon. We’d march with it. Two. Three miles. Out to the fields. Take handfuls of manure (tosses hands). Throwing it in fields.
    The guard carried a stick. Walk two miles this way. Three miles that way. “Move faster cocksucker.” Boom. Bang. Smash. Everybody’s scared shit. Pissing their pants.
    These guards was lucky having a job. Half of them walked around. With a pint of whiskey. And a corn pipe. They’d mix the tobacco. With old-tea bags. Whatever they could afford.
    Smitty was a house boy. For Master Gates. Stocky guy. No bent nose. But broken-down ex-fighter. The meanest prick up there. Smitty was a good boy. He was a good houseboy. So he decided to take it on the lam.
    They brought Smitty back at supper time. Gates was at the head table. He’s there with his family. In comes Smitty. Handcuffed. “You want to be a tough guy. I’ll TEACH you. You break out of my f…ing house.”
    Gates said, “I’m going to show you boys a little trick.” He starts hitting Smitty with lefts. And rights. Bing. Bing. Bing. Blood was flying up. Smitty laid on the floor. Until they ALL ate. Cleaned their plates off. Finished brushing their teeth. And went downstairs.
    Broke Smitty’s nose. Broke his teeth. Broke his lips. A year later. I become a houseboy. I’m in the same cottage. They showed me Smitty’s blood. On the dining-room wall. And on the ceiling. A year later! Gates didn’t show me. The other kids showed me. “Look what he did to Jackie Smith. For screwing.”
    There was ten of us. Gates had a Lassie dog. The cocksucker bit me. I’m running through grass. After supper. Barefoot. Having fun. The dog bit my chest. Ripped holes in my chest. Gates didn’t care.
    We’d make beds. Do washing. Wash his automobile. Spit shine it. Shine the tires. Shine the hubcaps. It was the best job. Every once in a while. You got a piece of apple pie. And some vanilla ice cream. Master Gates was a motherf…er. I was there six. Seven months. Finally I smartened up. “Yes sir.” “No sir.” I earned a parole.
    I did three years. I’m thirteen. Five-eleven. A hundred seventy pounds. I had muscles in my fingers. Muscles in my shit. From all the working. Because the right sleep. And plenty of exercise. Carrying bricks!
    I come home. Guys I grew up with. I’m looking down at them. They said, “What happened to you (eyes widen)?” I didn’t realize. I was so big. Going into Charles Street Jail. I was just a skinny kid.
    Cops kicked me out of bed. Slam. Bam. Bam. Bounced me from the third floor. To the first floor. Threw me in the paddywagon. I’m back in Charles Street Jail. For B&E in the nighttime. Sending me to Concord Reformatory.
    I made a deal. For the Merchant Marines. Sure enough. It worked. They gave me probation. Ammunition ships to Russia. It took twenty-eight days. I wanted that dynamite run. They loaded the big ships. In the middle of the harbor. In case there was an accident. It wouldn’t blow up Southie. But I needed sea experience.
    Instead I went Coast Waters. Boats handling sugar. And coal. Sugar company on “A” Street. The boats docked down there. Taking out the sugar. Bringing in the coal.
    From the sugar company. Up to Portland Maine. For a load of coal. Now they fill the boat. “RRRRR” Right up to the brim. They take the long beams. Place them into stations. By the wench. Solid-steel beams. Bing. Bing. Bing (twice crisscrosses wrists). To make smaller sections.
    We take wooden squares. Stacked on each side. Drop them in place. The wooden squares had metal corners. And metal around the holes. Where your hands went in. For lifting them up. Three feet. By four feet. They’re heavy as hell. We put them in by labor. There’s that much opening (indicates~two feet). You take wooden planks. Fill in the edges. That seals the roof. Roll the canvas over. Nail it down.
    During the watch. You’re looking for ship lights. You see any lights. You hit the bell. “Ding.” “Dong.” Twice for starboard. Once for port. Water splashed like this (tosses hands at face). You kept close as possible. Hugging the bow. Staying warmer. Once you stepped back. You’re hit by the wind. You hated relieving each other. Because you walked forty feet (shivering noises).
    All depends on the weather. One hour up. One hour back. One hour up. One hour back. When the weather was bad. Half hour up. Half hour back. Twenty-four hours a day. That was just a gimmick. They didn’t really need it. Because everybody in the bridge. They seen it TEN TIMES. Before we seen it.
    The sailors was drunks. We’re the youngest. Fifteen. Sixteen. Guys that was thirty-five. They’d give us a drink. There was no gambling. Not in them ships. In the merchant ships. The ships that went overseas. They spent their life gambling.
    I made one trip. Up to Portland Maine. For load of coal. Down to Newport Virginia. Cleaned it off. Norfolk Virginia. Loaded up with coal. Back for more sugar. Back to Portland Maine. For another load of coal. Bing. Bang. Bang.
    Happy as a pig in shit. Being a good guy. That took thirty-two. Thirty-three days. A nice paycheck. Three hundred-fifty dollars. Because pulling in ports. And tying up. On watches. Everything goes by watches. Three eight-hour watches. One of the watches. You’re off eight hours. The other two watches. You divide them. Tying up. And untying.
    What you always hoped. It didn’t dock on your watch. Docked on the other guy’s watch. Unload it. Get double time. Docking on my watch. Two dollars an hour. Docking on their watch. Four dollars an hour. It was all luck.
    I kept stealing. B&Eing. Doing something. Worked with different kids. “Okay. What do we got?” “We can get the Strand.”
    The Strand movie house was “F” Street. And West Broadway. We watched the cashier. The front-cashier booth. She’d take a piss. Open the back door. She’d bring her pocketbook. But the cash drawer was there. All you do is pull it out. No cash register. A wooden drawer. Robbed the Imperial movie house. “I” Street. And East Broadway.
    Underneath the Strand. They had a bowling alley. With about fifteen pool tables. And benches along the wall. Benjamin. A big. Tough prick. He’s stiff drunk. Passed out on a bench. We’re rolling him. Benjamin wakes up. Starts throwing punches. I’m on my back. Bingo. Bango. Wally’s going, “Oh! My arm.” Red was holding his nose.
    Broke Red’s nose. Broke Wally’s arm. Knocked five of my teeth out. Knocked five teeth right out! Benjamin staggers up the stairway. His fingers was hanging off. He went down to Cassidy’s. For more booze.
    Gangrene set in. They cut off four fingers. And part of his thumb. He’s in the Merchant Marines. He went back out to sea. His hand was almost cut off.
    Benjamin comes in the International. Twenty years later. With Debby Flannery. Rita Sullivan. And that crowd. I said, “You knocked my teeth out. When I was a kid.” He says, “You’re the guy. I lost my fingers off?” “Yeah. That was me (laughs).”
    One big pollog. He was sleeping. “AUGGGGG (drops head back with open mouth).” We thought it was a score. I’m taking off his watch. I had it like this (dangles invisible watch). “BANG.” I’m on my back. Kept holding the watch.
    “Putff.” “Putff.” “Putff.” “Putff.” “Putff (mimics spitting out teeth).” I didn’t know how much damage. Thought it was just five teeth. But he shattered the bone. INSIDE my gum. That bone was sticking out. Carney Hospital stitched it all up.
    My teeth went on the floor. Now they had to pick. Cut. And saw. To fix my gum. Wally’s running around like this (bends arm up). With a sling on him. Red Hayes got the nose patch (laughs). We all got them nose patches. Growing up in Southie.
    Never rolled anybody again. Before this happened. I rolled sailors. Up “M” Street Park. We’d steal their wallets. When they’re screwing broads. Pants down around their knees. “Hee! Hee (raises invisible wallet)!”
    We’d sneak up. Grab their wallet. Half the time. They didn’t know we’re there. The other times. They’d try to run. With their pants down. And their dick sticking out.
    Benjamin stayed on the drunk. That’s what killed us afterwards. I said, “Guess what? That prick. He went down Cassidy’s. Buying up a storm.” I says, “We missed out on a good score.”
    I didn’t think anything of my teeth. I was thinking about that prick getting away. Probably had forty. Fifty dollars on him. That son-of-a-bitch.
    Albie Clancy. And Franny Haywood. They come to my house. “What have you been doing Gug?” Because Albie had a score. Little store near the fish pier. Top of that curved ramp. There was a plank. Laying against the wall. Albie said, “All we need to do. Pick up this plank. Push it to the window. And crawl across.” Bingo.
    Albie. And Franny crawled across the plank. They jumped in the store. And come running out. “What’s going on?” “The cops are coming.” Franny ran one way. I followed him. We crossed train tracks. Going towards the water. I’m jumping a fence. I said, “Come on.” Franny kept running. With the money.
    Albie squealed. I went home. Early in the morning. The cops drag me out. Bing. Bang. Pulled me down the stairs. “Bing.” “Bang.” “Boom.” “Bang.” “Boom.” “Bam.” Again in Charles Street Jail.
    My mother visited me. And Albie. His father screwed. His mother was a drunk. Hanging in the South End.
    Franny never went to jail. He’s hiding in the S.O.S. The hotel for sailors. Franny had seaman’s papers. Merchant Marine papers. Get them five years-old.
    I heard from my mother. Franny went to a lawyer. The lawyer brought him to court. They gave him personal recognizance.
    We made the military deal. To dodge Concord Reformatory. I went in the Army. Franny went in the Army. Albie went in the Air Force. Getting my front teeth knocked out. That made me want the Army. So I could get them fixed.

17. Dear No Reason, It was Lombardo’s in East Boston, not Lombardi’s. How did you know about Walter’s Lounge? That’s in the “Bennetts” chapter.
    Here’s 15 more pages: “South Boston,” “Charlestown” and “Gaga I” chapters.
    Should I send more tomorrow? Wait a few days? Is anybody else reading it?
    One good thing – Matt doesn’t seem to mind.

    1. Lombardi’s. I believe Flemmi said in his book he was partners for a time with a “Sonny C” in a joint named Lombardi’s around Uphams Corner.Before him and another guy were whacked for shaking down dealers. Stevie got his start in the rackets by whacking Wimpy, who was a rat first, and taking over his. YES, keep sending Chapters. Hook, Line, and sinker. Thanks.

    2. afraid- You bet your ass I am reading it, much love to you.

18. Dear Rather Not, I remember a Lombardi’s in East Boston. Walter’s Lounge is before my time. I really don’t need serious help. But because of my lawsuit, I’m living in Australia. I married a woman from Australia. My lawsuit needed to be filed. I couldn’t live in America and file a lawsuit against the FBI. I’m not that strong. But, I would like to ask a small favor because daytime here means nighttime there. I need someone to call the Moakley courthouse and request that my brother be included as a Whitey victim. If you agree, I’ll send you his case number.
    Later today, I’ll send you a couple more chapters.

19. Dear Rather Not, Now I’m going to explain my “Afraid of FBI” name. Because I’m afraid of the FBI. That’s why I created the name.
    The FBI kills people. In 1985, the FBI asked me for criminal information. Since I lived in Southie, giving them any criminal information meant my death (Whitey killed all Southie FBI informants).
    This petition to investigate Kevin Weeks is something that must be done carefully. I need people like you to carry on if I somehow die.
    This is SERIOUS. But I somehow feel protected because being a “good guy.”
    I previously explained how helping a Southie friend named Mike Joseph allowed me to meet Gaga. Here’s what happened the night Mike Joseph died (from my journal): “My son Benny woke three times because of ‘dreams.’ Finally, ~3am I brought him to living-room couch. That night went to sleep tired, but with only two hours sleep, felt very awake.
    While Benny watched TV, I sat at computer desk and wrote first draft of Physicians AIDS Brigade letter. Procrastination delayed this letter for months. Now first draft of letter to Yale Medical School classmates was finished.
    Slight worry about Benny’s ‘dreams.’ This never happened before. Walking home from Boy Scouts, I asked, ‘What were those dreams about?’
    Benny replied, ‘Someone was saying, ‘Goodbye Jon.’’ Immediately knew source of dreams. Morning after Benny’s dreams, I went to corner store. Mike Joseph (close friend) lived upstairs. Heard, ‘Last night, Mike died.’”
    I truly believe Mike was mentally saying “Goodbye” to me before he died. My son never had such dreams before and never had such dreams again.
    But I still worry about my safety. The below small part of my lawsuit mentions Jeremiah O’Sullivan’s testimony before Congress:

    “437. On or about 2003, former U.S. Attorney Jeremiah O’Sullivan testified to Congress, ‘[I]f you go against [the FBI] they will try to get you. They will wage war on you…’6
    6Everything Secret Degenerates: The FBI’s Use of Murders as Informants, Report of the House Committee on Government Reform, November 20, 2003.”
    This is true. David Boeri knows it is true. I know it is true. So please believe Jeremiah O’Sullivan’s words: “[I]f you go against [the FBI] they will try to get you. They will wage war on you…”
    Knowing the FBI will kill you. Are you still willing to help me?

20. Dear Rather Not, Here’s the “More Information” chapter. Without David Boeri, we wouldn’t know that Stevie Flemmi killed a mafia don.

    More Information
    WBUR (August 11, 2011), “Sources: Alleged Mobster Rossetti Was FBI Informant” states:

    “BOSTON – It’s a well-known story – a reputed Boston mobster, working as a top informant for the FBI, even while he was allegedly committing serious crimes.

    You’d be forgiven if you thought we were talking about James ‘Whitey’ Bulger. We’re not.

    Those details also describe the case of Mark Rossetti, who, allegedly, was the No. 2 figure in the Boston Mafia, who’s now in jail and accused of drug trafficking, loan sharking and extortion.

    WBUR’s David Boeri has been digging into this case and spoke with All Things Considered host Steve Brown about it Friday.

    Steve Brown: First off, who is Mark Rossetti?

    David Boeri: Rossetti is a convicted murderer. According to organized crime investigators, he is a ‘capo regime’ in the local mafia, which means he’s in the top three of the leadership.

    He was indicted last year in state court, charged with drug trafficking as well as extortion and loan sharking. Rossetti made headlines Friday when, according to published reports, he was indirectly described as an FBI informant in court papers filed Thursday. But WBUR has now confirmed that Rossetti has in fact been a longtime informant for the FBI. He was accorded the same top-echelon status that Bulger once had.

    Rossetti’s lawyer denies he’s an informant?

    She denied that in a story published Friday morning, but law informant sources have told me that Rossetti became an FBI informant as long ago as the early 1990s. Furthermore, as I have learned, while Rossetti was an informant, he told one FBI agent, who was his handler at the time, about a murder involving a mafia don and Steven Flemmi, who like his partner Bulger, was also a top-echelon informant.

    That kind of information would be sensational, right?

    It gets even more sensational. According to our sources – who called him ‘the rabbit’ – Rossetti informed the same FBI agent that Flemmi and Bulger were getting inside information leaked to them about the legitimate efforts of law enforcement to catch them.

    At the time, the FBI was using secret court-sanctioned microphones called ‘roving intercepts.’ The enforcement team had their own special name for the equipment. They called it ‘the rover’ and they knew they had a problem when Rossetti used that same name. He said Flemmi knew about the rover because Flemmi had an inside source.

    What happened to the information Rossetti gave back then?

    That’s certainly a timely question now that Whitey’s back. The idea that the mobsters had someone inside the FBI betraying information to them was huge. Our sources say the FBI agent told his supervisor and a federal prosecutor inside the Organized Crime Strike Force that they had an enemy within. But what if anything was done with that explosive discovery is unknown. Our sources think nothing came of it.

    So bring us up to speed on this case.

    All these years later, Rossetti was himself caught on court-approved wiretaps last year. But now – and the story gets wilder – he was caught by State Police conducting 40 conversations with an FBI agent, according to court records. From that the State Police determined Rossetti was an FBI informant. He was even using a phone given to him by the FBI.

    How does this compare to the Bulger case?

    Bob Fitzpatrick, former FBI agent and supervisor, has testified about this in court – that the FBI’s own policy should have prevented Bulger from ever becoming a top-echelon informant and should have been closed. And when called Friday, he insisted that Rossetti’s top status should have disqualified him from FBI protection as well.

    What’s the reaction from the FBI?

    Friday afternoon the local FBI spokesperson said that a statement is under consideration but for the time being they are sticking with their earlier statement: ‘The Department of Justice rules require us to report criminal wrongdoing by any of our sources. The FBI followed those guidelines.’”

    Don Peppino was a right guinea. He had Walter Bennett married. Stevie Flemmi killed Walter Bennett. Sonny Calo ran Walter’s business. Stevie killed Sonny Calo. And grabbed the business. Peppino still got money. Stevie kills Peppino. He keeps all the money. Stevie was a CHEAP guinea.
    Joe Peppino was THE MAN. When a big guinea dies. The other guineas show respect. They go to the funeral. No funeral for Peppino. They never found his body.
    Wimpy Bennett went with the fishes. And Walter Bennett went with the fishes. We learned that from Larry. The same with Joe Peppino. You gut a person. “Kwikkk.” The air comes out. And the body sinks. Everything gets after him. The crabs. And the eels. They eat him up.

    1. Walters Lounge? Lombardi’s? Tell me, do you remember a used furniture or appliance business across from Casale’ s ? Dudley/Uphams Corner area.

21. Dear Rather Not, Here’s the “Boston” chapter.
    Boston
    The whole country was Indians. And Irish. The British was the ringleaders.
    The dollar seventy-five Irish. They went to Nova Scotia. That’s how much it cost them. They’re what you call the cheap Irish. The two dollar jobs that come over. They went to Boston. The three dollar jobs. Went to New York. The ten dollar jobs. They went to Chicago (singing voice).
    My mother come over the late 1800s. She was four years-old. The third. Fourth wave of Irish. My mother was always saying. We was two dollar peasants (laughs).
    Joe Kennedy lived in East Boston. One of the smartest Irishmen. In the whole world! He come from nothing. Hated the English. Married Honey Boy Fitzgerald’s daughter’s daughter. Honey Boy was a big politician. And Joe Kennedy went into politics.
    When Joe Kennedy was in politics. He made money bootlegging. He went into real estate. Made money in real estate. He went into the bond business. That’s where he did the big score.
    Do you know what a boiler room is? You’re sitting with a phone. And you’re calling up suckers. “Okay Jim. Do you want to buy these bonds? They’re going up to forty dollars a piece. So. And so says so. Keep it under your hat. Bup. Bup. Bup. Baa.”
    The boiler room makes thousands. And thousands of calls. Giving out the shit. Selling the phony bonds. Number nine-boiler room collapses. Somebody steals all the money. That was Joe Kennedy.
    The stock market collapsed. He went to President Roosevelt. And double-crossed his friends. “I’ll make the stock market sound.” “What do you want?” “I want to be the Ambassador of England.”
    Joe Kennedy wanted the Scotch. Put his friends in jail. Helped the stock market. Helped stop stock fraud. Once becoming the ambassador. He got the Scotch rights.
    While Joe Kennedy was in Europe. Hitler was ready for war. He’s doing business with Hitler. On the ball bearings. Hitler needed the ball bearings. Joe Kennedy made them in New Jersey. He should have stood back from it. Joe Kennedy said, “No. No. My contract!”
    The Scotch was shipped in wooden barrels. Went to his bottling companies. They bottled the Scotch up. Sold it around the country. Jack running for President. Joe Kennedy said, “I’m giving up the Scotch rights.” But you know they just transferred them.
    The guineas started in Scollay Square. They had their food pushcarts. Moved down to Hanover Street. The top of Hanover Street. Living in the slums there. They’re going towards Atlantic Avenue. The Irish was forced out. More guineas come in. They’re getting stronger. Buying the houses. Throwing the Irish out.
    The Irish couldn’t fit in Southie. They couldn’t fit in Charlestown. Them places was already flooded. Only place they could go. In Bowdoin Square.
    South End had the high-lace Irish. There was some beautiful restaurants. The restaurants had n…..s outside. Holding the carriages. And cleaning your boots. Beacon Street was all carriages. Hanover Street was the swill. Carriages never went down there.
    The top of Hanover Street. And in Scollay Square. That had the whorehouses. The drunken sailors. The hell raisers. The carriages DROVE by there. The courthouse area was slums. Going to Tremont Street. And Beacon Street. The carriages drove by there.
    Carriages went down Bowdoin Street. Going over to Cambridge. That was all money. Cambridge opened up big. The Jews with money.
    In Scollay Square. Everything was pennies. You could get a carriage. If you had the money. But who had the money? It probably cost two pennies. Three pennies for a carriage. There was no extra pennies. And nickels laying around. Ferry cost a penny. Went from Atlantic Avenue. Over to East Boston. Pulled right into Maverick Square.
    World War II made Bowdoin Square. And West End into shit. The sailors in Scollay Square. They start drifting towards Cambridge. Down by Charles Street Jail. The classy-drinking places there. They turned into f… bars. And gambling joints.
    The top of Hanover Street. Big building with Army cots. Beat up old-movie house. The guineas ran that whorehouse. Twenty-five cents to get laid. Ten cents for a hand job.
    A line of thirty guys. You come to a room. Old-time guinea said, “Take your pants off. And give me the quarter.” Broads on cots. You jump on one. And hold onto your pants. So she don’t rob you. She’d wipe a rag across her pussy. “Next.” “Next.” No condoms. I caught my clap. Down at Timilty’s barroom. In the South End. By the Rex Cafe. Timilty’s was for hoodlums. Young guys coming up. Buying ten cent beers.
    East Boston turned Italian. Right after World War II. They made money in whorehouses. In groceries. And markets. Now they reached over. And bought them houses. They opened housing projects. For the poor Irish.
    The kingfish-mafia guineas. Little Joe Peppino. And that crowd. They stood downtown. Essex Street. Washington Street. Tremont Street. The State House. Getting the bookmaking. And the politicians.
    The South End restaurants. People sat in the window. They’d have a roast duck. Eat right in front of you. You’d have a dirty-little nose. Looking up at the window. Trying to sniff it. They’d keep eating. When them customers stopped coming. The restaurants moved farther away. Moved out to Forest Hills. Where it was nice. And quiet. Away from the n…..s.
    Never mind a n…… A guinea was no good. We wouldn’t talk to a guinea. They didn’t mingle with Irish. Until after World War II. Then bingo. Little at a time. Irish guys married guinea broads.
    Guess who we learned to hate after that? The n…..s. They outfoxed us all. They stood down South. Sent one n….. up. “Sign.” Over City Hall. His brother’s name. His sister’s name. Sign everybody’s name. Hitchhike back down South. About two years later. They’d hitchhike to Boston. Go right on relief. “We’ve been living in Boston. For years. It’s right here.”
    Politicians made the poll tax. To register in City Hall. A two dollar-poll tax. They stopped the poll tax. N…..s could get on welfare. Without paying the two dollars.
    First they didn’t want the Irish. Keeping them from the city jobs. Cops. Fireman. All the good jobs. Next it was the guineas. Then it was the n…..s.
    Today only money matters. Nationalities. And colors don’t matter. The rich robbing the poor. The world keeps going round. And round.

22. Dear Rather Not, Here’s the table of contents. The chapter page numbers aren’t exact but that doesn’t matter. The ebook won’t have page numbers. But they can give you an idea of the chapter length.
    Everything is Gaga’s words except part of the last “More Information” chapter. That chapter uses material from David Boeri to help explain Stevie Flemmi killing Joe Peppino.
    This book is full of such new information. The fact that Don Peppino ran the New England Mafia isn’t totally “new information” because Fat Vinnie Teresa’s book, “My Life In The Mafia,” mentions Don Peppino, but he is mentioned by Gaga in the “Boston” chapter and in other chapters.
    So, I’ll post both the “Boston” and the “More Information” chapters. Now I’m working on the final “Whitey’s Trial” chapter. This last chapter will use several media articles and, since it will be my own writing, will not have Gaga’s sing-song style.
    In 1999, I self-published a “Letter to Norman Mailer: From Jail to Yale.” Half this book was about jail (third-person narrative) and half my journal using another “new” style. This style doesn’t use articles except within quotations.
    I don’t know what style I’ll use for the “Whitey’s Trial” chapter.
    TABLE OF CONTENTS
    Southie Map (circa 1970)
    Whitey I 5
    Boston 12
    South Boston 14
    Charlestown 16
    Somerville 19
    Gaga I 20
    World War II 32
    Gaga II 39
    Korean War 42
    Gaga III 48
    Whitey II 78
    Hank Garrity 82
    Richie Kelly 84
    Jimmy Keeney 87
    Seducing Women 89
    Killeens 93
    Mullens 98
    Kevin Weeks 101
    Stevie “The Rifleman” Flemmi 103
    Bennetts 106
    Great Brinks Robbery 118
    Elmer “Trigger” Burke 123
    Plymouth Mail Robbery 125
    The Waterfront 127
    Irish War 129
    Owney “The Killer” Madden 138
    McCormacks 143
    Joe Moakley 144
    McLaughlins 145
    Hughes 158
    Harold Hannon 161
    Jimmy O’Toole 162
    Billy O’Sullivan 167
    Vincent “The Bear” Flemmi 175
    Joseph “The Animal” Barboza 178
    Edward Deegan 180
    Roy French 181
    Arthur Ventola 181
    Danny Murphy 184
    Eddie Cronin 184
    Doc Madden 185
    Ralphie Mazuca 188
    Bucky Barrett 189
    Tommy Callahan 191
    Richie Castucci 193
    Jay Johnson 195
    Mike Whalen 198
    Johnny Quill 200
    Horse Racing 207
    Onion Joe 211
    Gambling 212
    Casino Gambling 214
    New Orleans 216
    Ben Tilley 217
    Knickerson 219
    Charlie Carr 220
    Eddy Connors 221
    Rooney 222
    Sonny Calo 223
    Robichaud 224
    Tubby Flannery 226
    Sonny Daley 227
    Willie Delaney 228
    Romeo Martin 229
    Dick Buck 231
    Overseas Travel 233
    Ireland 236
    Australia 237
    Tommy Ballou 240
    Martin ”Mutt” Kelley 243
    Jerry Blanchard 247
    Matty Landy 249
    Tommy Nee 251
    Harry Johnson 252
    Buddy McLean 256
    Joe McDonald 260
    Howie Winter 260
    Bernie McGarry 262
    Abie Sarkis 264
    Larry Baione 266
    Phil Waggenheim 269
    Gerry Angiulo 270
    Mafia 271
    Russians 275
    Gaga IV 275
    Whitey III 282
    More Information 287
    Whitey’s Trial

    1. Afraid, thank you for the new chapter. I am really starting to consider trying to contact you outside the confines of this website to possibly have a private conversation. Is that possible? Thanks, Rather.

23. Dear GOK, I’m going to communicate with Rather Not about something spiritual. But last night I dreamed of being in bed with a beautiful woman. I woke several times and returned to the same wonderful dream. Nothing happened between myself and this woman but I was very aroused.
    This morning, I thought such luck (having these long-lasting erotic dreams) might indicate other things are going well. Earlier, I thought Rather Not saying, “Hook. Line. And sinker.” was the related good luck. It felt good reading those words. But maybe it’s you.
    Please give me more hints about “GOK.”
    Are you a man?

24. Dear Rather Not, You’ll need to wait like the public once did for Dicken’s. Every day possible, I’ll post a new chapter. Later today, I’ll post the table of contents and the second chapter. The second chapter is “Boston.”
    These are Gaga’s words. He was a master thief and is a master storyteller. I’ve shown material to enough people for a 100% belief this book will be a bestseller. As I already stated, the whole book is written like a song. The sentences rise and fall in a sing-song manner. That’s the way Gaga speaks. He will say the same sentence twice to make sure this natural style doesn’t falter.

    1. Dear Afraid, can you be reached at another website, and will you please post another chapter tonight before I hit the rack? Thanks.

25. Dear GOK, Thanks for the advice. At first I feared creating an online petition would be difficult. But like everything else, the biggest hurdle is focusing on completing the task. What makes the online petition bothersome is that you also need to have a website.
    Again, the difficult part was focusing on learning HMLT code. But hurray! Setting up a website is almost as easy as creating the online petition – weebly makes it almost as easy as registering a domain name.
    Right now, my main focus is finishing the Gaga book. I need to reduce the trial (the book’s last chapter), into a few interesting pages. Once the book is finished, definitely before the November 13th sentencing (you know the quote: “In publishing timing is every thing), I’ll finish the website and online petition.
    I’m paying a professional to do the formatting for Amazon and Smashwords. That will take a week or two, maybe only a few days, but enough time where I can finish the online petition website.
    So until that happens, you’ll have to take the several seconds to find the chapters on Matt’s website.
    If I may ask you a question? What does GOK stand for? What do those initials represent?

    1. Hint: “West Side Story”

26. Dear Rather Not, I often send things before making sure my ideas are presented correctly. I meant to say Stephen Lunch’s daughter and my daughter sang as a duet during that end of school year celebration. It’s not a big correction, but it helps explain that Stephen Lynch is “the people’s” kind of politician.
    Now I’m sending David Boeri an email. I hope Matt doesn’t delete the book chapters, because it will increase interest in his website.
    I’m contacting David Boeri both to let him know others value his work and to maybe increase the chance he’d write more about those 6 FBI agents ready to hop in Whitey’s car with a machine gun. As far as I know, nobody has ever asked Weeks, Flemmi, O’Neil or anybody else the question: “Who machine gunned Michael Donahue’s car?”
    My brother testified about before Judge Lindsay about the car being machine gunned. A government lawyer asked my brother if he heard any shots before Micheal Donahue’s car drifted across the street and almost hit his car. He answered, “I heard a ping.” I think that noise was made from one of the bullets hitting a piece of metal. So the only information known about Michael Donahue’s car being machine gunned was that the machine gun used a silencer.
    Kevin Weeks was facing Michael Donahue’s car when it was machine gunned. He testified had been watching the Pier restaurant with binoculars.
    This question – “Who machine gunned Michael Donahue’s car?” – could only be answered by additional Congressional hearings on FBI corruption.

    1. Afraid of FBI,

       With all due respect, I believe you should post here on Matt’s blog a link to your website, and there you could organize and post some or all of your lengthy writings, chapters, etc.

27. Dear Rather Not, Here’s the first chapter. Tomorrow, I’ll give the table of contents and the second chapter. Each day, I’ll give a new chapter. The book will be available on Amazon and Smashwords long before it’s fully available here because it contains many chapters. Not to clog up this website – not to hinder the flow of ideas – I won’t post chapters on Matt’s most current post.

    Whitey I
    Whitey Bulger’s full of shit! When I first met him. The talk of Andrew Square. Whitey being thrown out of the service. For raping a broad. He was a weasel. A skinny kid. Living with his mother. Hanging over the Davis Street Cafe. Laughing. Joking with us guys. Just living on the edge. Bumming dimes. And sawbucks. Waiting to get on somebody’s gangway.
    This was the early ‘50s. The Davis Street Cafe. In the South End. A n…… And white hangout. That’s where we drank. The Davis Street Cafe in the day. The Transit Cafe at night. All us tailgaters. And stickup guys.
    Richie Kelly was real good at tailgating. But he only took two. Three packages. Nylon stockings. Suits. Cigarettes. Whiskey. From the trucks. He’d never take the whole load. Whitey got put away with him. I told Whitey, “Work with Richie. And learn the ropes.”
    Richie Kelly was famous for it. He’d jump on the back. Swing the door open. Get the cases ready. When the truck turned. He’d tip them off. Cases of Baron Anderson sportcoats.
    Richie Kelly was one of the first guys at it. Twice a day. Three times a day. Grabbing whiskey. Twenty dollars a case. Grabbing cigarettes. Thirty dollars a case. All day long robbing. Boston. Rhode Island. Down the Cape.
    Jimmy Keeney worked with Richie. And Whitey. I grabbed Jimmy. Whitey went with the Greek. Louding houses. And apartments.
    Sam. What’s his name? Whitey worked with him. He had a big mustache (spreads fingers~ten inches). Big son-of-a-bitch. But great for house breaking. They made a couple good scores. Whitey said, “F… tailgating. I’m going with Sam.” You push the loude in. The door opens.
    We used a twelve inch ruler. Metal ruler that could bend. When the cops searched you. “What are you talking about? I bought this for my kid. For doing arithmetic.” Then the credit card. And you told the cops, “I found the credit card. That’s why it was in my pocket.”
    Some people thought two locks would keep thieves out. The vice cops had special-made loudes. They looked like ice-cream cones. Flexible metal. Round at the top. Narrow at the bottom. It worked good on double locks.
    The lock’s facing the other way. We used an L-shaped loude. Put the loude behind it. And pull the L back. The square lock come in. The key pushes the bolt. Now you spin the cylinder. Or just rip it open. Tear the door open. Whatever man makes. Man can tear apart.
    Whitey almost got caught. People coming home. Back to Richie. Back to the Greek. Whitey worked with other tailgaters. We all helped each other.
    Certain time for Baron Anderson. Railroad Express was at South Station. The very end of South Station. Stuart Street ran into Rail Road Express. Take a left. Drive along South Station. Half block up was Baron Anderson (flips hand indicating across street).
    Five o’clock. Richie. And Whitey show up. Whitey’s driving his grey ‘54 Buick. They drove identical-new cars. Big four-door jobs. Hank Garrity bought them. Hank paid seven thousand dollars. Thirty-five hundred a piece. He was holding their money. They had a kitty with Hank. Because cops pinched you. And took your money.
    Hank seen Whitey’s bankroll. He said, “You know what happened to Richie?” Richie kept money in his pocket. From one score. To another score. To another score. Somebody was always robbing him. He’d wake up half drunk. Go do another score.
    Over in Fields Corner. Richie had big money. And he got caught. Stealing thirty-two pounds of butter. Cops took him to Station Eleven. “Where did you get the money?” Down the stairs he goes. Threw him like a rag.
    They knew he was tailgating. Brought him to court. Richie’s all beat up. Black. And blue. The judge said, “I think he learned his lesson.” They kept the money. His case was thrown out. Hank told that to Whitey. And said, “Let me hold your heavy money.”
    Whitey had a better car. But mine held more cases. A green ‘52 Plymouth Belvedere. The trunk door folded down. You didn’t drop cases in. You slid them in.
    All around South Station. You could park kitty-corner. We watched the loading platform. The driver put on Baron Andersons. Cases wrapped with wire. The truck pulled out. I pulled out. Whitey followed me. Took a right. On Summer Street. And a left. To Northern Avenue. By the shoe companies.
    Driver went up the elevator. I snapped the padlock. We had these bars. Looked like a bullet. An over-sized bullet. Round piece of steel. Round to a point. Square on the top.
    Like a tack-hammer head. This big (indicates~eighteen inches). Richie. Or Jimmy Keeney got them. And we all had one. Kept it under the dashboard. When cops searched our cars. They never found them.
    I jumped up. Bingo. Richie was beside me. I handed him three cases. Bing. Bing. Bing. Dragged them down the alley. Put them in Whitey’s car. A fence on “B” Street. Around the corner from here. He paid top dollar.
    Whitey was the driver. Richie stood on the bumper. Whitey eased up behind the truck. Richie jumped on the back. Snapped the padlock. Opened the door. Positioned the cases. And pushed them off.
    On other tailgating scores. Whitey watched where the driver went. To have a highball. Richie would grab two cases. Put them in the alley. “Everything look clear?” Grab two more cases. Bingo.
    Whitey hung with Richie. In different barrooms. The Davis Street Cafe. Mirrors all over the barroom. Big mirror behind the bar. In front of the bar. In every back-room booth. A small broken-down mirror. Whitey combed his hair off. And on. For hours. In the car. Standing by the bar. Sitting in the booth. Combed it while talking. Like a young cunt. “HERE I AM.” He had blond hair. Before he lost it. Bingo. Bango. Bango.
    Whitey wore a short-suede jacket. And the Alan Ladd trench coat. Alan Ladd was big in the movies. Alan Ladd always scored the broads.
    We would kid him. In the Davis Street Cafe. “Hello Whitey. The Alan Ladd movie is on.” He’d be combing his hair. And wearing his trench coat.
    We stole hundreds of them. On a side street. Near Fenway Park. Going towards Sears & Roebuck. This joint shipped suede jackets too. Everybody on the waterfront wore one.
    Around five o’clock. In that district. Get suede jackets. And Alan Ladd trench coats. Go back for Sears & Roebuck. We could hit them eight. Nine o’clock for whiskey.
    The trucks loaded up. Parked right outside. We’d come by. Grab ten. Fifteen cases of whiskey. We had Southie guys. Working for the railroad. They used the locomotives. Pulled freight trains out. From behind Sears & Roebuck. So we could ransack them.
    Whitey told us, “Yeah. Richie threw the bundle off. Everything went perfect. By the time I got to it. Three n…..s was ripping it apart. ‘Get away. Get away you cocksuckers (flings arms out).’ ‘F… you.’ They grabbed the pants.”
    He seen our faces. “How could you screw up? You must have REALLY held them back (held cars back from seeing Richie). For somebody else to get there. And steal the case.” We laughed at him. Because Whitey was a NOTHING.
    Whitey listened to the bank robbers. I told him those days are over. “There’s more money in this racket here. You. And Richie are racking up twelve. Fifteen hundred a week. If you get caught. You’re only doing thirty days. Six months in the can.” All the judges. When they looked at it. It’s like they once did. Stealing an apple off a truck. That’s how they looked at it.
    On weekend nights. Whitey would buff up. Go see Donald Killeen. Donald always had a table in Blinstrub’s. They’d laugh. And joke. He’d go down the Transit. Try being a big man. There was an after-hours barroom. Off Stuart Street. Mostly for guineas. And Jew bookmakers. Whitey went there to see Mutt Kelley.
    Mutt Kelley played gin with Larry Baione. Larry’s with Joe Lombardo. Mutt Kelley shows up. Two in the morning. After closing his barroom. He’d go there. Play gin all night.
    Whitey wanted to be a big shot. A big shot with the broads. Now he’s getting into bank robbing. Made a score in Rhode Island. It was the only good one. Something like forty grand. Split three ways.
    That thirteen grand. Stands for fifteen. Twenty-five years in prison. Twenty cases of razor blades. Four. Five times. The same thirteen grand. The most time you’ll get. Six months in the can.
    I told Whitey, “I’ve been in that business before. You’re missing the boat. Get back to tailgating.” But Whitey was happy. Whitey the BANK ROBBER.
    It was nighttime. Down the Transit. Whitey’s running around. The Alan Ladd treatment. “I made a nice score.” Bragging about doing banks. Telling everyone he’s Mr. Wonderful.
    Whitey liked Joe Murphy. Timma Murphy. And them guys. They’re railroad guys. Regular-city workers. Making seventy bucks a week. Whitey especially liked Joe Murphy. Because Joe Murphy had the broads. Whitey bought them drinks. Down the Transit. The Tunnel. The Surf. Took them to the Beachcomber. Took them down the Cape. Hit the waiter with a lobster. Saying the lobster wasn’t cooked right. One of his Alan Ladd tricks.
    Whitey made a few more scores. Twenty. Thirty thousand. They robbed a bank in Indiana. “Let’s rob a bank in Indiana. Like Dillinger.” I’m sure that crossed his mind (laughs).
    The guys bring their girlfriends in. It’s cut up five ways. Two guys getting two ways. Whitey’s getting one way. The last bank. Whitey had Jackie McGoliff. She was the lookout. Whitey thought that was smart.
    Grabbed twenty grand from the bank. Split it six ways. Whitey goes on the run. And takes Jackie with him. They get pinched down in Florida. Jacko McCormack was in Florida. Jackie somehow reached Jacko. Told him what happened. Jacko got them out.
    Two weeks in the can. Whitey’s on the lam again. He comes back up here. We laughed like hell. His hair was black. Thin-blond hair. You could see his scalp. When he dyed it black. You could REALLY see his scalp. Every strand of hair standing straight up. The blackness made them like porcupine quills.
    The feds f…ed up on him twice. He escaped on them in Florida. The second time was the Transit. It’s a nightclub. With the broads. And the whores. We’re laughing. And giggling. The feds come in the front door. Somebody yelled, “COPS.” We thought it was a booking raid. Whitey ran out the back with Jackie.
    They said Donald Killeen squealed. Whitey went to see him. Because Donald was holding money. Donald owned three barrooms. The Transit. One on Revere Beach. And the Reef in Revere. Whitey went there for his money. He always thought Donald took his money. Put it to work down the Reef. But Donald got that money cheating on horses. The feds pinched Whitey at the Reef. And Donald got the reputation of ratting.
    I’m in federal court. Whitey was in the bullpen. You could talk with prisoners. Talk through the bars. Give them cigarettes. Food. Give them almost anything. Jackie McGoliff was in the courtroom. They had her locked up too.
    I said to Whitey, “Why did you plead guilty?” “I made a deal to get Jackie ten years probation.” I felt like saying, “Boy. Are you a sucker!” He screwed the other guys. None of them copped out. They fought their cases.
    Whitey tells me about a garage. The corner of “P.” And East Sixth Street. “You’ll see two tomato cans laying on the ground. Make sure that Jackie gets them.”
    I’m sitting with Whitey’s father. Boom. Boom. Boom. I said, “That’s a tough break. Him having to plead guilty.” When Whitey got twenty years. The father had tears in his eyes.
    Whitey took his personal stuff. Handed it to his father. Whitey said, “Give him the keys to the garage.” He grabbed the car keys. Whitey says, “No! No! These keys here (points finger).” Whitey said Jackie’s getting out. “She’ll know what to do.”
    So I waited. Drove to the garage. Jackie didn’t want to come in. I thought bodies was in there. The way she dodged it.
    The garage was empty. No cars. Nothing. Just two tomato cans. Middle of the floor. Give them a kick. Out comes the money. Seventeen hundred in one can. Two thousand in the other can. Couple of hundreds. Mostly twenties. And fifties.
    It went in Jackie’s handbag. She bought new clothes. And dished it out. A king-sized room. In the Hotel Bradford. Meals in the room. Hot. And cold running pussy. Bingo. Bango. I partied like a soldier. Jackie still had two grand. When I left her.
    At Kelly’s Landing. Whitey stashed money. Stupid prick! Buried money down there. Skinny dipping by the poles. He didn’t realize that mud moves. Whitey went to get it. And the money’s gone. He was almost crying. I said, “How stupid can you be? Burying money in the mud. You know the mud moves.” He turned bullshit. “RRR.” “RRR.” “RRR (growling).”
    Whitey went away like a big boy. “I did it for my girlfriend.” He always wanted to be Alan Ladd. Put the Alan Ladd coat on. The collar up. The sunglasses on. “I’m a tough guy.”
    Alan Ladd played the bad guy. Another Humphrey Bogart. The sun could be out. Whitey still wore his Alan Ladd raincoat. The kind you see in old movies. Whitey had that topcoat. The white one. The belt on. The lapel buttoned here (touches neck).
    Whitey was a poser. “Hi Gug. How you doing?” “How’s Jimmy?” “How’s the family?” “How’s this?” “How’s that?” “See you later.” He was Alan Ladd. The biggest sucker with broads.
    Toastie lived on the third floor. Whitey’s screwing a broad on the second floor. And on the first floor. Buying them washing machines. The broads saying, “I’d like to get my hair done.” Giving them one. Two hundred dollars. He’d go off with the boys. Toastie comes down from upstairs. Takes the money. Parties it up.
    When Whitey went to prison. We wore better clothes. When he come out. No more topcoats. No more big overcoats. That fancy style disappeared.
    Before going to the can. Whitey felt guilty for raping the broad. He tried being like Alan Ladd. After the can. “Look how tough I am!” Whitey’s wearing sweatshirts. With the muscle shoulders. And the muscle things. Whitey come out with the reputation. “ALCATRAZ.”
    Whitey first went to Atlanta Penitentary. He’s taking a shower. Some n…..s come in. “Hello. We’re going to f… you in the ass.” Whitey was yelling. And screaming. Two. Three n…..s. It just so happened. Boston wiseguys walked in.
    The wiseguys used pipes. Worked the n…..s over. Crashed them up good. Smashed their heads open. All of them got pinched. The other guys get solitary. Whitey gets sent to Alcatraz. They thought he was the ringleader!
    I heard the story a year later. I’m in an after-hours joint. Drinking with one of the guineas. That was in Atlanta with Whitey. I said, “Oh, Jesus! They must be really screwing him in Alcatraz.” That’s the name of the game. They get a weak kid. Close their eyes. Think of a screwing broad. And screw him in the ass. He don’t want to get screwed. But what can the kid do? With four guys holding him down. They tear his whole asshole open.
    Whitey’s only visits was from Hank Garrity. This guy did everything for him. Hank had the Pen. At “D” Street. And West Broadway. The Pen was the best hangout. Hank’s the biggest wiseguy in Southie. He was famous for screwing boys. Hank took a liking to Whitey. Because he was a handsome boy.
    Hank met Whitey through Richie Kelly. They was good friends. In fact. Richie Kelly MADE Hank. Richie was the ringleader of trucks. He was robbing trucks. In the ‘20s. And ‘30s. During World War II. You bought forty cases of shit. To buy one case of Scotch. And Richie was stealing four. Five cases a day. Selling them to Hank. Ten dollars. Twenty dollars a case.
    Hank was the bouncer for Hurley’s Log Cabin. One block from Boston City Hospital. It was a hot spot. Hank sold Scotch to politicians. Judges. And important people.
    The Scotch was shipped from England. The big ships was being torpedoed. Richie Kelly went after different whiskey trucks. Through the years he got to know them. Richie was dumb in reading. And writing. Dumb in that way. But the king of robbing trucks.
    Hank. Paul Watson. Billy Driscol. And Jim McCann. They bought the Pen. Each of them become millionaires. Through the ‘40s. ‘50s. ‘60s. And ‘70s.
    Here’s what saved Whitey. Hank brought him G-notes. Hank would never tell you. He’d leave that to Whitey. Billy Bulger. The brains. He’s becoming a priest. Hank told Billy, “F… the ministry. Get into politics. By you getting into politics. We can help get Whitey out.”
    Billy Bulger gave up the ministry. That’s exactly what happened. Billy went into politics. Hank explained it. He said, “I talked Billy out of it. I told him if he went into politics. I’d help him.” Which Hank did. Pushed Billy right up the ladder. Boom. Boom. Boom. Billy become a big man. Sent the paperwork in. And Whitey hit the streets.
    Whitey lifted weights in the can. He learned how to read. That’s what made him lucky. Whitey read in Alcatraz. Read. Read. READ. Book. After book. After book. He was pretty smart. As far as reading goes. He read like a champion.
    Twice a year Hank visited Whitey. Hank liked West Coast football games. Hank played football in Holy Cross. Couldn’t make it all the way. But he knew the football players. Bing. Bang. Bang. I’d see him over the Pen. “What’s new with Whitey?” “Nothing new. He’s doing good. Reading books. Minding his own business. I told him to keep his mouth shut. And not get into any trouble.”
    Alcatraz’s main cellblock floor. They called it Broadway. Whitey had a job. Polishing Broadway. Waxing. And brushing. Making Broadway shine. Except for talks with Hank. Whitey wasn’t even mentioned.
    Whitey’s on parole. Working as a janitor. At the downtown courthouse. Working for my mother. Thirty years she scrubbed the courthouse. She made sure it was cleaned up.
    Hank used Johnny Powers. To put Whitey in there. Johnny Powers ran the courthouse. Whitey worked eight months. Johnny Powers. And Billy had a beef. Billy said, “F… you.” Billy got his brother fired!
    There was this little guinea. Eighty years-old. Charlie. Past poster. Card sharp. Weasel like the rest of us. Charlie married a young broad. She was thirteen. Charlie had her until seventeen. Whitey gets out of prison. “I was in Alcatraz.” Whitey tells her that shit. And ends up screwing her. Charlie finds out about it. He’s going to kill Whitey. “Jesus Christ. I’m on parole!” It was forgotten a couple years.
    Whitey starts becoming a big man. Working with the Killeens. He chased Charlie to Haverhill. “You better get out of Southie. We’re going to kill you.” Whitey kept the broad a month. Before tossing her aside.
    Billy O’Sullivan. And Whitey get together. They tell the Mullens. “We’re taking over Southie. Everybody that owns a bar. If they don’t pay us. We’ll SMASH the joint up.”
    This is when Donald Killeen. The brains behind the Killeens. He tells Billy. And Whitey. “F… them kids. I’ll give you fifty grand. We’ll put it on the street for shylocking. We’ll be partners.”
    Billy said, “I’m all for that.” Bingo. He tells the kids, “Stay away!” The kids are hopped up. Thinking they’re going to run Southie.
    The kids tried muscling Donald. They went down the Transit. But Donald wasn’t there. The Killeens was bookmakers. Good street fighters. The kids tell Kenny Killeen. “A hundred bucks every week.” Kenny bit Mickey Dwyer’s nose off. The hospital sewed it back on. I call him, “No Nose.”
    Billy. And Whitey went prowling. In the Pony Room. A barroom up West Broadway. They talked to Buddy Roach. Buddy wanted to be boss. Billy pulled out the gun. And popped him. Bingo. Whitey wasn’t hiding. The kids was hiding. Whitey was with Billy. The kids ran like cocksuckers. Billy would punch the shit out of them.
    There’s a little shooting war going. This went for six. Eight months. Billy gets drunk down Mutt Kelley’s. Bepo was giving him a ride home. Bepo said, “I’m leaving in an hour.” Buddy Roach’s sister. That’s married to No Nose. She sees Billy stiff drunk. And gets on the phone.
    She called her brother’s friends. Every son-of-a-bitch name in the world. “Here he is. Walking around Southie stiff drunk. And you’re bup. Bup. Bup.”
    The kids put their balls together. They went over Billy’s house. Instead of riding with Bepo. Billy took a taxi. They come flying out. “Bang.” “Bang.” “Bang.” “Bang.” Shot him four times. That ended Billy.
    The kids was celebrating. “We killed Billy O’Sullivan.” Bing. Bang. Boom. “We’re taking over Southie!” Whitey’s with Donald Killeen. He gets Billy Daggart. Tommy Flagerty. And Mickey Dempsey. One Mullen got shot. Billy Daggart did the shooting. But Whitey took the credit.
    Stevie Flemmi comes into the package. He’s a pretty-good fighter. Physically strong. A number one rat. They didn’t know it. But we knew it. Because of Wimpy Bennett.
    Wimpy Bennett was a notorious rat. And Stevie Flemmi hung with Wimpy. You got the propaganda part of it. I’m telling the other part of it. The Gospel truth part of it. Whitey’s full of shit!
    Like with Joe Murphy. Kingpin quarterback. Fullback. Whitey idolized him. To show he’s a tough guy. Whitey brings him to Slade’s Chicken. On Tremont Street. It was a popular place. Everybody went there for chicken. Whitey hit the waiter with the chicken. In the face! Like James Cagney. “I’m a big shot.” The n…..s almost killed them. Slade’s was a n….. joint.
    Whitey did this before Alcatraz. They’re all up his ass. Whitey was showing them. “I’m a tough guy.” “I’m a bank robber.” Their saying, “He’s a big man.” And Whitey, “Give them another round of drinks.”
    Some of them wasn’t too stupid. First buck Joe Murphy ever made. He kept in his pocket. “Jesus Christ Whitey. You’re the greatest.” “Oh. You’re the greatest (sweet voice).” “Give me another drink.” “You’re the greatest (more sweetness).”
    After Whitey leaves prison. He kills Donald Killeen. And starts making good money. Guess who puts his name in the newspaper? Howie Carr. He was after Billy Bulger. Howie Carr hated Billy Bulger. Because he was a good swindler. And there was no way of catching him. Howie Carr wanted to make a name for himself. “Whitey the killer.” “Whitey could punch this guy out.” “Whitey could do this.” “Whitey could do that.” Instead of the truth. “Whitey takes it up the ass.”
    Whitey grabs Kevin Weeks. To be his bodyguard. An old-timer owed Whitey money. Whitey put a knife to his throat. Weeks said, “For Christ sakes. He’s an old man. Do you want to kill him?” Whitey says, “Don’t ever stop me. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill everybody!”
    When Howie Carr was building up Whitey. Kevin Weeks spread that story out. Told all the thieves. Word went around Southie. “Don’t say anything about Whitey Bulger.” “Don’t even mention his name!” “Oh, Jesus. Whitey’s coming this way (fearful voice)!” “Oh, Jesus. Whitey’s coming that way (flashes wide eyes)!”
    Kevin O’Neil worked for Donald Killeen. Another ballsucker. The Transit bartender. O’Neil started the shit. “Call him Jimmy. That’s his name. Jimmy.” O’Neil sobered up a bit. And tried being a businessman. Getting houses for twenty grand. By using Whitey’s name. “Jimmy likes this house. He can’t pay a hundred thousand for it. I’ll get Jimmy to give you twenty thousand (tough voice).”
    Whitey got the Transit. They named it Triple O’s. Because O’Neil had two brothers. O’Neil owned Triple O’s on paper. Whitey couldn’t put it under his name. Like when they muscled Stippo Rakes. And took his liquor store. O’Neil owned it on paper. O’Neil sold the liquor store. The bank gave a mortgage. Four hundred thousand! Whitey grabbed it. Of course. Whitey knew he was screwing. He was grabbing all the money.
    Guess where Whitey wouldn’t go? The Rabbit Inn. On Dorchester Street. Joe Pickard. And Jimmy Liden. Hung in that barroom. Liden was the toughest kid. Coming out of City Point. He was an iron worker. The iron workers hung in there.
    Whitey drove by the Rabbit Inn. Joe Pickard. And Jimmy Liden yelled, “Hey. You faggot motherf…er.” “You f…ing stool pigeon. Come on back here. Come on over here.” They ran after him. Banged on the hood. Whitey knew his shit with these guys. They didn’t give a f…. Terrors! Like tough football players. They dive in head first.
    Howie Carr MADE Whitey Bulger. BIG MAN in Southie. Dorchester. And everywhere. Even in Walpole. Guys was running around. “Whitey’s my brother-in-law.” “Whitey’s my boss.” “Whitey’s this.” “Whitey’s that.” If they only knew the truth.
    Whitey wouldn’t have lasted in our circle. He was too much a movie star. When Whitey left the can. He had a lucky run. We was gone. Nobody was around to stop him. He went up against small guys.
    But Whitey made a ton of money. Made millions shaking down Joe Murray. Getting his drug money. The World Jai Alai. They was milking that dry.

    1. Afraid, You have me hook, line, and sinker. Please send me the rest immediately.

28. Dear Rather Not, Matt previously deleted information I posted here concerning Kevin Weeks’ perjury. It was two sections from my lawsuit that mentioned Stephen Rakes. Matt inferred that this website contained only a limited amount of room and I should communicate such information with others by email. I re-posted those two lawsuit sections and they weren’t deleted.
    If there is only a limited amount of room here, this idea won’t work. But if possible, I’d like to give the followers of this website a free copy of my book: “‘Gaga’: The Real Whitey Bulger/ Irish Mob Story.”
    If Matt allows this, it would surely increase interest in this website.
    I feel slightly bad for saying Matt believed the online petition to investigate Kevin Weeks wouldn’t work. I know it will work. I feel slightly bad because without Matt the online petition it might never have happened. Without Matt, this chance to generate more interest for additional Congressional hearings concerning FBI corruption might never have occurred.

29. Dear Rather Not, I previously posted here about my brother’s Boston Police Incident Report and his testimony before Judge Reginald Lindsay. I previously wrote here that my brother’s police witness statement was sealed because it was completely different than Kevin Weeks’ under-oath testimony concerning the Michael Donahue and Brian Halloran murders.
    There was NO mask. Whitey DID NOT wear a wig. Kevin Weeks is enjoying freedom while his victims rot. Weeks admitted to participating in five murders. Twice myself, and others, protested outside the federal courthouse demanding that Kevin O’Neil and Kevin Weeks be asked about the Joseph Ingemi and Brian Watson murders. We distributed fliers that stated Weeks committed perjury concerning the Michael Donahue and Brian Halloran murders.
    Weeks is known in Southie for having no balls. He wrote in his book and testified about knocking out two hundred people. He knocked nobody out. I know he was in two fights but he didn’t even come close to winning. He would have recieved a severe beating if others didn’t come to his rescue.
    Weeks was deep inside Anthony’s Pier 4 parking lot watching the Pier Restaurant with binoculars. After Michael Donahue’s car was machine gunned, it drifted in front of three buildings. Weeks couldn’t see those murders unless he was Superman with X-ray vision.
    You were absolutely on the money when mentioning that Weeks previously told David Boeri that Whitey said he had 6 FBI agents ready to hop in his car with a machine gun.
    I would bet my right arm that one of those 6 FBI agents machine gunned Micheal Donahue’s car. It wasn’t Whitey or his killing associate because they came from a car parked in the alley beside the Stop and Shop fish company. They walked right past my brother. My brother couldn’t flee because another car, most likely the same car machine gunning Michael Donahue’s car, boxed him in.
    The morning after our second federal courthouse protest, the State Police Task Force woke my brother up. Of course, this made him nervous. They said, “Don’t worry about anything. We just want to ask you one question. Did any of the killers wear a mask?” My brother quickly answered, “No.” They said, “Thank you.”
    The FBI put terror in my brother. They said gangsters lived near him. They offered him the protective witness program and a credit card if he would identify James Flynn as the killer of Brian Halloran.
    I consider Representative Stephen Lynch as my friend. His daughter Victoria and my daughter Sylvia were friends in school. They even sang together at the end of school year celebration. I have spoken with Representative Lynch many times. He is the type of politician you can go to his office and he’ll talk with you about your concerns.
    I will soon publish what I believe will be a bestseller. The last chapter deals with the Whitey trial and asks readers to sign an online petition to investigate Kevin Weeks. investigatekevinweeks.com has already been registered.
    Matt is a good man and his writing shows his intelligence. But he is wrong saying a petition to investigate Kevin Weeks will do nothing. There is power in numbers. If one million people read my book, and one tenth of them sign the online petition, that should be enough to restart the Congressional hearings on FBI corruption.
    The only reason I got to write the book is because helping Michal Joseph, my Southie landlord’s brother for years and refusing to accept money as payment.
    I passed all the courses required for Yale Medical School graduation, obtained a degree from the Yale School of Public Health, an attended courses at Yale Law School. During one Yale Law School class, Professor Stephen Wizner said, “Only Jon Parker knows what’s happening in class today.”
    I don’t like tooting my own horn, but MANY signatures will be gathered seeking to investigate Weeks for perjury.
    Mike Joseph told former-McLaughlin gangster Gaga Murray how I would continued to refuse payment for giving him medical help. That’s how Gaga and I became friends. He knows Whitey Bulger better than anybody. The whole book is written in a sing-song manner. The sentences go up and down. The first in American literature.
    Let’s you and I work together gathering enough signatures to restart the Congressional hearings about FBI corruption. Using Barboza as a witness after knowing he committed perjury cost taxpayers a $100 million settlement. They did exactly same thing with Weeks.
    Now I’ll include information, which Representative Lynch helped write, that states further Congressional hearing should occur if new information develops:
    “EVERYTHING SECRET DEGENERATES: THE FBI’s USE OF MURDERERS AS INFORMANTS
    ADDITIONAL MINORITY VIEWS BY HON. JOHN F. TIERNEY, HON. STEPHEN F. LYNCH, HON. ELIJAH E. CUMMINGS, AND HON. BERNARD SANDERS
    February 3, 2004.–THIRD REPORT
    This Committee’s work is not done concerning any
    determination of facts relevant to the Federal Bureau of
    Investigation’s (FBI’s) conduct toward informants’ testimony.
    The Justice Department has withheld potentially significant
    information, and several potentially significant witnesses have
    not been fully interrogated due to the assertion of on-going
    investigations or prosecutions, or because they, at least at
    this time, are unwilling to testify.
    The Committee should, and we believe it has the obligation
    to, continue its work by pursuing as yet unavailable records
    and other information from the Department and by interviewing
    relevant witnesses once the Department’s investigation and/or
    prosecutions are complete or if the circumstances occur that
    encourage heretofore unwilling witnesses to testify. We believe
    further important and helpful information could certainly be
    available, and it should be pursued.
    More thorough inquiry should have been made on behalf of
    the Committee about the relationship between the FBI,
    informants, and members of the informants’ families and whether
    those relationships impacted FBI investigations outside the
    scope of Patriarca, Barboza, Flemmi, or “Whitey” Bulger’s
    activities. The Committee should consider whether further and
    more in-depth investigation would tend to inform the goals of
    its subject hearings or would instead serve only to gather
    information, however indicative of improper activity, outside
    the scope of purpose for this particular inquiry.
    The Committee needs to conduct further efforts aimed at
    examining what, if any, Department and Bureau corrective
    actions have been undertaken since this scandal first came to
    light and the adequacy of same, as well as what actions must be
    taken legislatively, through regulation, by oversight activity,
    or some combination in order to prevent a continuation or
    recurrence of similar events in the future.
    Finally, this Committee would be well served, and would
    serve Congress well, if it conducted follow-up hearings on the
    disgraceful conduct of the Justice Department in its lack of
    forthrightness and cooperation. If Congress is to assert its
    role as a co-equal branch of the government, and fulfill its
    responsibilities of oversight, it must be able to obtain
    honest, responsive, and timely information from Executive
    departments and agencies, barring some privilege justifying any
    failure to appropriately respond to Congress’ requests.
    The Committee’s work should not be considered complete
    until the foregoing is accomplished.
    Hon. John F. Tierney
    Hon. Stephen F. Lynch.
    Hon. Elijah E. Cummings.”

30. David Boeri is both an excellent journalist and an excellent man. He did the first AIDS Brigade TV story back in the 1980’s when I was busted for distributing clean needles to addicts in Mission Hill. Recently, he interviewed my brother Jaime about the Michael Donahue and Brian Halloran murders. My brother went from being a normal citizen (plumber) to state mental patient because of the fear instilled by the FBI. Even David Boeri seemed slightly surprised when hearing my brother describe how, after James Flynn was arrested, they took my brother from the mental hospital and brought him to a grand jury. Imagine a mental patient being driven to a grand jury by two FBI agants then going against the wishes of those two FBI agents. When my brother wouldn’t say James Flynn was the killer of Brian Halloran the FBI agents were furious! They didn’t even transport him back to the state hospital Unlike the FBI, my brother simply couldn’t send an innocent man to prison. Those two FBI agents found my brother at his girlfriend’s Dorchester apartment 40 minutes after the Michael Donahue and Brian Halloran murders. His car was registered to our mother’s house and my mother didn’t know the girlfriend’s address. You heard this from me before, but either the FBI followed my brother from the murder scene, or one of Whitey’s gang followed my brother and contacted the FBI. There is no statute of limitations for accessory to murders. Those two FBI agents should be indicted for accessory to murder!

    1. That little fact ( the agents mysteriously showed up 40 min later ), in my opinion, is very, very strong evidence. I posted a little youtube video, in which Boeri interviews (rather, tries to interview) Pat Nee walking down the street in Southie in 2000 and asks him some very pointed questions, which he does not answer. Then, in the same story, an FBI Informant says, in 1989, that Nee was the shooter in the back seat, and then got out and pumped 20 more slugs into Halloran. In the current trial, it was proposed that the Man in the backseat was masked, and that Whitey got out and stood over Halloran pumping more slugs into him. Who was it, really? Maybe it was really one of “six agents who would hop in the car with a machine gun with me” that Whitey bragged about. Maybe it was an agent shooting, or at least on the scene to run interference. Something is rotten in Denmark. How the hell could those agents show up at this guys girlfriends house so quick? Someone should look into Montinari,and Gianturco (I think), the two agents who were handling Halloran at the time of his death.

31. Bill Bulger said on many occasions that the media was just another business trying to maximize it’s profits. When one looks at the tv and newspapers coverage of events a person should always take into account who the sources are. Sources are treated favorably and the targets of the leak are smeared. If all or almost all of your information comes from the judiciary, prosecutors and police, state and local, you will invariably get a distorted, slanted view. There is no more real investigative journalism because that would be expensive and reduce margins. The press has taken a shortcut, the business approach, and is dependent on accurate ” leaks” from the DOJ, FBI and State Police. But what it has gotten is propaganda and spin. As the British historian MaCauley stated ” the most bitter food is the bread of dependency”. That is what is being fed to the public. The press is incapable of judging the accuracy of what it is told. Reporting by the Boston media in the area of crime is as reliable as the intel on WMD. 2. America is on the verge of war because 1400 Syrians were killed with chemical weapons. Yet the Mafia has used a chemical weapon ( heroin) to kill about a million Americans. But they are protected by the FBI, DEA and DOJ. Just as Putin is the protector of Assad the DOJ is the protector of LCN. How else does one explain Salemme ( head of NE Mafia) Limone ( head of NE Mafia) and the Martorano brothers ( top two hitmen of LCN) walking free. The question has to be asked who is the real Godfather of the NE Mafia? The answer may be at the Moakley Courthouse. 3. The local press is complaining about the high cost of the WB defense. They say it will exceed three million dollars. In response to this C and B smartly issued a statement saying that WB was prepared to plead guilty to all counts and accept the maximum life without parole sentence in exchange for mercy for Ms. Grieg. Ming the Merciless ( Wyshak) refused to accept costing the taxpayers ten million. The feds anticipated great acclaim for their efforts. But what was exposed was pervasive dishonesty and corruption by the government. The trial completely backfired on the DOJ. Esteem for the judiciary, DOJ and FBI is at an all time low.4. When WB is sentenced he should refuse to leave the lockup during the victims statements. He should waive his presence. He should say he is willing to meet individually with each one in his cell. All will decline the invitation. If forced to attend the hearing he should pull his shirt over his head and cover his ears. C and B have to remind the judge that people were denounced in MAO’s China by vulgar and boorish mobs and that uncivilized practice has never been a part of American legal practice. He should also remind Casper J that he didn’t shoot three unarmed Blacks in the head, Gucci did. IF Gucci, Nee and Weeks get six months per killing equal protection compels a five and a half year term for him.

    1. Brilliant Analysis, N. Everyone should memorize what you just wrote!!! Proof positive of the corrupt press/media/doj/fbi in Boston; all of them were and are in bed with the serial killers and the Imperial City which is managed and controlled by corrupt FEDs, imperialist new-world-order Wall-Street-banker-types and their lobbyists, and the perennially intermeddling interventionist militarists like McCain, the scion of the Warfare State and Spy State. (Is scion or godfather the right word; The Moakley Courthouse is the godfather of cover-ups). The Media is in bed with the BIG FEDs and the BIG fed financiers. Please re-read N.’s incisive post.

    2. 1. “The Most Bitter Food is The Bread of Dependency.” Absolutely true – when you are dependent on another you lose your freedom to do as you want. You have to always, like a slave, please the master. That is why Billy Bulger was right in a certain respect when he suggested that his silence in response to many press inquiries was because he did not want help the media make money. He was wrong in not recognizing that as a public official he did have an obligation to respond to the public for his official actions. It is also true that we have seen nothing in the media that amounts to an investigation of any of its law enforcement sources since it will do nothing to bite the hand that feeds it.

       2. The American figure of 1400 is a gross exaggeration; Germany has generously put it at around 500. You’ll note Obama’s words spoke of a thousand. The problem with your suggestion is that the federal involvement in the Mafia’s heroin distribution business remains hidden behind the wall of federal secrecy. We do know that Mark Rossetti a big heroin distributor was a top echelon informant for a Boston FBI agent who said his job is to keep him safe. As for all the Mafia figures now out on the street, the federals have decided that Catherine Greig presents a greater threat to public safety than Whitey.

       3. One has to wonder why it was worth over what will eventually be four million dollars to the federals to refuse to give Greig the deal and take Whitey’s plea. We know that what Carney and Brennan allege is true because there has been no denial by Ortiz and her staff. The problem with Whitey’s offer is it came at a time when Ortiz was seeing sugar plums in her dreams with the idea she was going to be the next senator or governor and any and all publicity was to be her road to those positions for which she is singularly unqualified other than we have not had a Latino in one of those positions before. (Do you think there will be a law at some time in Massachusetts calling for rotating a senate seat and governor’s post among groups that represents a certain percentage of the population?) Ortiz’s woke up when she pulled the up the ante trick on Aaron Swartz – the same trick that has twice been pulled in the probation case by Wiley Wyshak.

       4. Whitey did the best thing in his life (aside from helping all the old ladies cross the street in Old Harbor Village) when he refused to testify. It wasn’t so much that the trial was a sham, it wasn’t since Whitey was well represented even though the issue of immunity was wrongfully excluded from the trial, but rather he’d be feeding the malicious media that has been living off him for years. Why provide comfort and lucre to your enemy. It was obvious that his testimony would accomplish nothing and better take his secrets to the grave than let your enemies dance on your grave. Whitey knew enough to bury his murder victims since without a body it is hard to prosecute; without his story it is hard for the media writers to produce anything new. There was little at the trial that happened that was new although the media will spin it as if something new happened.

       The next best thing he could do is to waive his appearance at the flogging. No need for him to hear the vile vituperations that will be thrown at him. We saw how Judge Woodcock let people call Greig horrible names without doing anything; so Whitey can expect the same to happen when he is brought in for the hearing. As you say what happened in the federal court is reminiscent of the Cultural Revolution in China or the Colonial times in America where people were put in the stocks in the middle of the town square. Perhaps we can up the ante with Whitey and have a drawing once we decide what letter to use.

       We have precedent for it in Massachusetts in the person of Hester Prynne. I suppose if Wiley Wyshak had his way the letter would be “I” for informant. If Wyshak’s friend Murderman is given a choice it will be “R” for rat. The victims would go for “M” which like the chalk on the back of Peter Lorre would stand for murder. If I had a choice it would be “S” for Southie, the root of all evil according to the federals and media. Whatever letter we decide on, then we let one of the members of the victims’ families use the branding iron with the letter affixed to it burn it into Whitey’s forehead.

       No matter what the pre-punishment, Whitey is best advised to spend his waning days in his Plymouth cell and refuse to come to court.

32. Dear Firefly,

    I agree very much with your thesis concerning the relationship between Mafia figures in New York and linkages with events in Boston. The RICO approach to prosecution itself was, after all, developed by U.S. Attorney Giuliani, and it is there that it all began. While I have not researched that specifically, it is also plausible to state that informants in Boston, Rhode Island, and Connecticut played a role in facilitating the takedown of La Casa Nostra in New York. There must have been some level of cooperation between prosecuting entities, as the opening paragraphs of the Flemmi, James Bulger, et el. indictments cites La Casa Nostra.

    In short, you appear to be on an interesting path, Firefly.

    Sincerely,
    Jay

    1. Jay:

       The Mafia in New York was taken down not so much from out of state informants but from flipping Mafia members who rather than doing big time gave up their fellow made men. Whitey, Stevie, Murderman and Two Weeks were not taken down by informants but by people who were squeezed and hard work by law enforcement officials. Remember informants are not as necessary as the FBI pretends; they are a lazy cops tool. We do need a study on the value of informants in relation to the value of the squeeze method. I think if this could be done we’d see that the idea of needing informants is highly overblown.

    2. Jay,

       I hope you’ve been able to read the link I left above.
       The scale of criminality is off the charts in the above incidents.
       Yet Whitey Bulger was declared second only to the great mastermind who attacked NYC.

       Twice.
       At least.

       It is truly beyond belief.

       1. Hi again,

          Here it is:

          http://peterlance.com/wordpress/?p=560

          I have read it multiple times. The scope is wider than my abilities:)

33. Paul Quinn-Judge and Charles Sennot of the Boston Globe ran a story in 1995 about the entrance of a spy into our country. They wrote that government sources thought his entrance was initiated by Langley in 1985. James Risen of the New York Times wrote in 1998 that the CIA did not help this spy, but it could not be ruled out that another federal agency helped this spy enter our country (Triple Cross, Peter Lance).

    Matt et al., I went into the archives of the Globe and read this story along with many others. They were our own guys over there sending back daily reports. Paul Quinn-Judge must have been young; his CV says he was studying at Trinity College at the University of Cambridge at the time.

    ——————————————

    Studies at Trinity College, University of Cambridge. 1992-96, National Security Correspondent, Boston Globe, Washington DC; 1996-2006, with Time Magazine including: Bureau Chief, Moscow; Acting Bureau Chief, Iraq and Afghanistan; 2006-07, Knight International Fellow; since 2007, with ICG. Expertise and interests: internal Russian politics, North and South Caucasus, Central Asia, Southeast Asia.

    http://www.weforum.org/global-agenda-councils/paul-quinn-judge

    —————————————————-

    I may also research other journalists who served our area as well, but the point is that there were real journalists who were following what was happening around the world and reporting back. There still are. Our job is to find them.

    The Trial of Whitey Bulger was a place where I found some of the real story about what happened to my city. The story of my city is inextricably linked to New York, and we’re going to have to work together if we want the truth. I’d say that Peter Lance has done his part in ferreting out what led to the explosions in New York.

    The Trial of Whitey Bulger is the created cover up for the Non-Trial of Greg Scarpa, Sr. of New York.

    The Trial of John Connolly helps to cover up the Non-Trial of FBI agent, Lin DeVecchio of New York.

    And in 1994, a 33 year old Patrick Fitzgerald, fresh off the Gambino Crime Family Trial, took on the blind sheik and those who blew a hole in four floors of the World Trade Center.

    This Trial covered up the Non-Trial of the spy who was let into our country in 1985 and documented by Paul Quinn-Judge, Charles Sennot and James Risen. Peter Lance has done his part in dismantling the cover up in his four books about what happened to his city.

    I will try to find and support those who are doing their part to uncover what happened to Boston.

    1. Firefly:

       The cover-up relating to Ali Mohamed is set out in Lance’s book Triple Cross. What I find amazing is he is still around somewhere.

       But we can only start to see the top of the mountains when we fly above them and the clouds obscure all that is beneat those peaks juting out into the blue sky. As long as we countenance having agencies like the CIA and FBI hiding everything behind the secrecy mantra there is little we can do to understand what is really happening. Even in Boston we have no idea of what is happening in the FBI. We don’t know its relationship to the Tsarnaevs. We don’t know whether he was used by the FBI or the CIA as part of one of their lame brain plans.

       You are right we have to work harder to understand what is happening in Boston. Wasn’t it the Russians who first disclosed that they had alerted the US to Tamerlan’s dangerousness. Isn’t it strange that we have to go to Russia to find out about what happened. Isn’t is stranger still that the Congressmen who went didn’t think it was weird flying to Putin Land to find out what was happening in America. What about the enormous cover-up in the most simple matter in investigatory history in the USA, the killing of Todashev.

       The trial of John Connolly was the cover-up for the massive failure of the FBI from the top through the bottom. It was participated in by the US Attorney’s office in Boston by its willingness to go after only Connolly while letting others escape any sanction. New York is a mess. Those cases went away because the FBI would never let another situation like what happened in Boston occur again. It lost control and had to open its files because of the stubborness and perseverance of Judge Wolf. Once it did, it began to selectively leak reports to the people who wrote the books on Whitey so that the big media entitities in the city would go along.

       The greatest fiction that still exists is that the Boston FBI office was uniquely corrupt. It is impossible to maintain that because we have not had a chance to look at the other FBI offices but what we do know is the over the years FBI agents passed in and out of Boston knowing what was going on and that many at FBI headquarters knew what was going on so the cancer was not contained in Boston alone. Sadly, an fearful Congress won’t dare go near the FBI so it operates in every way like a secret police. Again, what greater proof of that is they kill a man in a closed environment and almost four months later it won’t tell us what happened.

       1. Matt,

          I was trying to answer you when I found this:

          http://peterlance.com/wordpress/?p=560

          Yes, it’s a mess. Organized crime, terrorists and the Feds have intersected in the Land of Crazy.

34. Matt, ever since I saw the first mention on your blog of the authors O’Neill and Lehr, I’ve been meaning to write something about Black Mass.

    Shortly after that book came out (1999?), I was in a meeting where an attorney (a Globe reporter in the ’70s and perhaps earlier) was asked his opinion of the book. Shaking his head, he replied something to the effect that “These guys are amateurs.”

    So it’s been good to read your comments that echo that sentiment. And very disappointing to find out how very unprofessionally these “professional journalists” working for some deep-pocketed media outlets have conducted themselves for so long.

    “… advanced the public understanding…” indeed!

    1. GOK:

       Unfortunately I have to admit that Black Mass took me in when I first read it. I had no idea how bad it was until after I started this blog and looked closer at these matters. The problem is most people don’t have the time to do what I have done and accept what has been written as truth. The thing that most disturbs me about Lehr and O’Neill is that their purpose is not to tell the story of Whitey but to malign his brother Billy. I’ve told some that their last go around on this subject which they titled “Whitey” may have been more appropriately titled: “Billy.” At least Howie Carr was out front on his animus toward Billy, while Lehr and O’Neill try to disguise it.

35. Hello Matt. I think David Boeri is an excellent journalist, having followed his coverage of Whitey’s trial in parallel with yours. Here is a video of him talking to Pat Nee in 2000 including some interesting comments from an FBI Informant in 1989. http://youtu.be/BuSVPQyTsmo He is similar to you, in that you are a truth-seeker, above all. I have the utmost respect for both of you, unlike all the rest of the sheep in Boston that either have an agenda, or make things up completely, and call themselves “journalists”. You and Boeri should collaborate on something…..

    1. I’m not familiar with David Boeri’s other work but am familiar with this piece he wrote which skews the facts surrounding William Bulger’s involvement in a number of matters, including 75 State Street and makes veiled and overt accusations against him: http://bulger.wbur.org/story/1977/?location=27923

       I won’t do a point by point issue rebuttal here, but if you actually read the evidence submitted to the House Committee, the big picture is more clear. From failing to point out that the Committee is REQUIRED to grant the closed session if they decide the proceedings could “defame, degrade, or incriminate…” under the cited House Rule. That is the standard for granting the request, not simply if they arbitrarily want to or not.

       What David Boeri displays there is as true as THE DEPARTED was a true depiction of James Bulger’s life. There are numerous misstatements, and the clear thesis is that rather than having a separate life, William Bulger “enabled” James Bulger even more than the Government ever did. That was my takeaway after reading that piece. Being a person who has exhaustively researched primary source documents stemming from those events, I note the many instances by which Boeri omits key details and does not tell the whole story because it would dilute his thesis.

       Boeri may be a truth-teller on other topics, but in my opinion there he is not — and I would say that Mr. Matt Connolly considers the other side, presents the other side, and seeks to refute the other side when due. He does not ignore it as if it does not exist; a truth teller must tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

       I hope you consider what is said here and at least peruse that piece above if you have not done so previously.

       Respectfully,
       Jay

       1. Jay:

          By no means do I agree with everything Boeri has put out. He and I differ totally on Billy Bulger and have discussed our differences. But when I did run into him I found him willing to listen to another side of things – I didn’t expect him to agree with me but I was pleased to see he was open minded and truly interested in arriving at his own conclusions and not those formulated by the group think atmosphere that exists in Boston media. I’m sure some of his conclusions run along the same line as the mainstream media but I don’t see him as a participant as I do the others.

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