Where the Bodies Were Buried (13 page)

Bulger's mistaken-identity killing of Donnie McGonagle had more severe repercussions for O'Sullivan than it did for Bulger. On March 28, 1971, O'Sullivan was gunned down in the street outside his house. The killing of Billy O. was perpetrated by a trio of Mullen gang members, including Paulie McGonagle, who saw it as revenge for his brother's death.

The killings went back and forth. It was during this era that Bulger and Pat Nee became archenemies. As rival gang members from the same neighborhood, they were pitted against one another. One night outside the Mad Hatter, a bar located downtown, they traded gunfire in a wild shootout. Another time, the Vietnam vet had Bulger literally in his sights in an alleyway in Charlestown, but chose not to pull the trigger.

Nee had met Bulger a few times and didn't care for him; he thought Whitey was uptight and pretentious. But he also knew that Bulger was “connected.” He had a brother who was a rising political star in Southie. You couldn't kill someone like Bulger without there being repercussions of some kind.

The murder of Billy O. spooked Bulger, who went into hiding for a while out on Cape Cod. By the spring of 1972, he ventured back into South Boston, only to have his world rocked by another high-profile gangland hit. This time it was his boss, Donald Killeen, who was shot multiple times in a car outside his house in suburban Framingham. The murder was carried out by the Mullen gang.

Though it could be argued that by taking out high-ranking members of the Killeen gang, including the top man, the Mullens were winning this war, there were casualties on both sides. As a result, in late 1972, Pat Nee arranged for a major summit meeting between various criminal factions in the city.

The meeting took place at Chandler's, a bar located at the corner of Dartmouth and Chandler streets, in the city's South End. Partly owned by the Martorano brothers, John and Jimmy, Chandler's was not exactly
a dump, but it was raffish, a typical early-1970s saloon for workingmen, hoodlums, and off-duty cops. Present at the meeting was Howie Winter, a highly respected mobster who had taken over as a leader of the Winter Hill gang after Buddy McLean was murdered. Also present was Joe Russo, a Mafioso who represented the Italian North End, with direct links to the all-powerful Patriarca crime family in Providence. Pat Nee represented the Mullen gang. And Bulger was there as a representative of what was left of the Killeen gang, which was now led by Kenny Killeen.

In many ways, the gangsters were doing Bulger a favor by including him in this meeting. With Donald Killeen dead and his gang under siege, Bulger was not dealing from a position of strength. But he did have a card to play.

In the interest of creating an underworld business atmosphere that was more conducive to making money than the endless gang hostilities that benefited no one, the mobsters were looking to establish a power-sharing framework. Kenny Killeen had been making noise that he would never willingly turn over the Killeens' lucrative bookmaking business without a fight. If Bulger could neutralize Kenny Killeen and bring what was left of his organization into the fold, he would be granted an equal spot at the table.

The meeting at Chandler's lasted nearly eight hours. The mobsters ate and drank and worked things out until they reached an agreement. They didn't know it at the time, but this multi-ethnic collection of hoods had just taken part in a gangland summit meeting that would dictate the direction of organized crime in Boston for decades to come.

A few weeks after the meeting at Chandler's, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, Kenny Killeen stepped out onto the patio of his South Boston apartment on Marine Avenue overlooking Dorchester Bay. From somewhere in the distance, a sniper fixed Killeen in his sights. At the moment the sniper fired, Killeen bent down to pick up his morning newspaper. The bullet hit the balcony's wrought-iron railing and splintered into pieces that hit Killeen in the wrist and torso. Killeen went down, but as it turned out, the balcony's wrought-iron railing saved his life.

One week later, Kenny Killeen was limping past a car at City Point when a voice called out, “Hey Kenny.” Killeen turned to see the familiar
face of Whitey Bulger in the passenger-side window; he was holding a gun. “It's over,” said Bulger. “You're out of business. No future warnings.” The car drove off.

Having handled what was left of the Killeens put Whitey in good standing with his newfound partners. More and more, they all began hanging out in a garage in Somerville called Marshall Motors, which became the headquarters of the new and improved Winter Hill gang. Bulger was not by any means the leader, but he had survived a gang war and emerged as a member of the underworld's ruling elite.

The bloodshed did not end. Decades later, Pat Nee would look back on the meeting at Chandler's and the alliance with Bulger as a big mistake. Often, when asked if he had any regrets about his life of crime, Nee would say, “Yeah. I wish I killed Whitey Bulger when I had the chance.”

IN THE RACKETS
, there are the leaders, and then there are the rank and file, the men whose responsibility it is to keep the money flowing via an array of criminal businesses. Throughout the post–World War II years and into the 1970s, among the most solid of moneymaking rackets was bookmaking, a mainstay of the criminal life since at least the late nineteenth century.

Bookmaking was a remnant of the era of the gentleman gangster. As part of a larger organization that backed an individual bookie with money and muscle, the bookmaker was a gangster, but invariably he was not himself a man of violence. Bookies were often guys with personality, people who were popular and well liked. After all, a prospective bettor could place a wager with any number of people; usually, he chose a particular bookie because he had a good personal relationship with that person.

In Boston, the best bookies were often Jewish. The common mythology was that Jews had a head for money, and out of that stereotype began a tradition that lasted for generations.

The profession of bookmaking was on display in day three of the Bulger trial. On this day, Whitey wore a gray Henley, a color that made him look withered and old. From among the various monocolored Henleys that he wore throughout the trial, this was the one that, if he had a stylist, would have been banished from his wardrobe.

The defendant hardly seemed to notice as an unassuming man in his midseventies, wearing a sport coat, was led into the courtroom and put on the witness stand. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” asked the bailiff.

“I do,” said the man.

“You may be seated.”

Prosecutor Fred Wyshak ambled to the podium. “Good morning, sir. If you can please state your full name and spell your last name for the record.”

“James J. Katz. K-A-T-Z.”

“You have used another name in the past, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“The government gave me a new name in the witness protection program.”

White-haired and slight of build, Jimmy Katz was clearly not from the strong-arm side of the rackets. He was a bookmaker, a Jew with a head for numbers, and, as such, had once been a valuable cog in the machine.

As with all the former criminals who would take the stand at the Bulger trial, Katz had to first explain how he had come to be a witness. Back in the early 1990s, he had become a target of the original case against Bulger initiated by Wyshak, Kelly, and state trooper Foley, among others. The state police had bugged Heller's Café, a diner in Chelsea that turned out to be a meeting place for some of the most accomplished bookmakers in the Boston area. Katz was caught on tape and approached by the investigators. He refused to cooperate and was later indicted on RICO and conspiracy charges.

In March 1993, when called in front of a grand jury, Katz took the Fifth. He was cited for contempt of court and thrown into jail. While in jail, Katz learned that his rabbi in the bookie business, Chico Krantz, had cut a deal with the government.

Chico Krantz was a legend in the business, the biggest bookmaker in the Boston area. Katz got his start with Chico and had worked for him as a subagent, or street bookie, until 1978, when Chico had a parting of ways with the Winter Hill Mob. Word that Chico was cooperating with a federal investigation and was being held at a secret location—soon to be entered into the witness protection program—was a game changer for Katz.

He hinted that he might be willing to cooperate with investigators.

In January 1994, Katz was once again called in front of a grand jury. All these years later, seated on the witness stand at the Bulger trial, he remembered it as if it were yesterday. Asked Wyshak, “And at that time, in January of 1994, was your testimony truthful?”

“Mostly not,” said Katz.

“Were you afraid?” asked Wyshak.

“Yes.”

“Why were you afraid?”

“I knew that the people I would testify against, they could even reach me in jail.”

“And who were those people you were concerned about?”

“The Bulger group, Stevie and Whitey.”

The prosecutor and the witness seemed to share a wry familiarity—and for good reason. It was Wyshak who, twenty years earlier, had sought to elicit Katz's cooperation in front of the grand jury. It wasn't that Katz lied on the stand so much as that he offered very little; his testimony did not meet the legal standard of “substantial assistance.” Katz was thrown back in jail and told that the eighteen-month sentence he received on the contempt charge would be added to his four-year sentence on racketeering and conspiracy charges. His home was seized under forfeiture laws and his wife and kids were made to fend for themselves.

Katz stewed in jail for a year, then contacted Fred Wyshak and told him he was ready to spill everything he knew. After consulting with his lawyer, he signed a cooperation agreement with the U.S. government.

It turned out to be a good deal for Katz. He and his family were given new names and identities and relocated to an undisclosed location. In exchange, Katz testified in front of another grand jury—this time, in a manner that was beneficial to the U.S. attorney's case. He named a total of fifty-eight racketeers he did business with as a member of Bulger's organization. Then, in January 1995, Whitey went on the run. Katz never did have to testify in open court. The Bulger case was stillborn. Katz and Wyshak parted ways for twenty years, until now.

Methodically, Wyshak proceeded to do what he had intended to do back in the early 1990s: use Jimmy Katz as a guide through the venerable
world of bookmaking. Katz was a suitable guide, his answers short and pithy. Whatever fear he had years ago about taking the stand and testifying against Bulger had dissipated. The passing of the years made Katz nostalgic and relaxed. “I was a bookmaker,” he said. “I'd take bets on sporting events,” adding with a tinge of pride, “A bookmaker may be able to give a customer credit, so there's no trail for the government to [demand taxes] on winnings and losing.”

“When were you a bookmaker?”

“From 1971 to 1993.”

“During that period of time, what options did citizens of Massachusetts have to place bets on sporting events?”

“There was none, other than if you lived in Las Vegas.”

“So if you wanted to bet on sports, you had to bet through a bookie?”

“That's correct.”

As Katz saw it, he was part of a business that provided a public service, a venerable business with a predetermined underworld structure that had been refined over the years through trial and error—which meant beatings, extortion, killings, legal challenges, and other means designed to make bookmaking a profitable venture for all but the inevitable—and necessary—sad sack on a losing streak.

Katz broke it down for the jury: A bettor placed a wager with a bookie, using Vegas odds. The bookie charged a 10 percent commission on the bet. Often, a bookie worked as an agent for a larger bookmaker. The agency covered the bookie's winnings and losings. If a bookie's customer won big, the agency would cover the payment, but the bookie was placed on “makeup,” meaning he had to pay that money back out of future proceeds. Often bookies would “lay off” bets with other bookies to protect themselves from taking a big hit.

Mostly, bookies made their money off the vig, or interest, from each bet.

What made the business potentially perilous for the bookie is that there were many ways to cheat; it was a cash business with no records to speak of. A bookie might misrepresent the odds on a game, to his advantage. He might simply underreport his take to “the office.” He might engage in “skimming,” taking a little off the top. In bookmaking, there were a million ways to get cute. Said Katz, “I mean, in those days, if you wanted to cheat,
that was up to you, but if they caught you, you were going to get into trouble one way or another.”

“What do you mean by ‘trouble'?”

“You could wind up in a hospital, let's put it that way.”

Katz explained how, in the late 1970s, there was a seismic shift in the business of “making book” in Boston. After decades of bookmakers acting as free agents, being allowed to align themselves with whomever they wanted, a new mandate was being enforced by the Winter Hill Mob. Whitey Bulger and Steve Flemmi had begun to corral all of the nonaffiliated bookies in town and demand that, if they wanted to stay in operation, from now on they had to pay “rent,” or tribute, on a weekly or monthly basis to the Winter Hill Mob.