By Howie Carr
October 31, 2018
Two final questions remain: Where are Whitey’s millions, his ill-gotten gains in cocaine cash?
And who’s got it, or is planning to get it?
The monster was murdered at a federal pen in West Virginia yesterday at age 89 — better late than never, I guess.
Was he murdered by a hit squad — from the Mafia, maybe, or perhaps even the Deep State? Whitey knew where a lot of bodies were buried — figuratively as well as literally. Those were the rumors anyway yesterday.
“It’s perfect karma,” said Johnny Martorano, the co-founder of the Winter Hill Gang. “He ratted all these guys into prison, and that’s where he gets it in the end. Karma. Everybody I know is celebrating tonight.”
That would include me, by the way. I understand that you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But there’s another old saying I remember, from Winston Churchill: There is nothing so exhilarating as being shot at without effect.
But you know what comes close to that kind of exhilaration? Having a guy put out a murder contract on you and then he’s the one who gets murdered.
Like Martorano said, it’s perfect karma.
I just thought of another unanswered question: Just how many people did Whitey Bulger murder over the course of his bloodthirsty career? I guess we’ll never know for sure now. His partner Stevie Flemmi last summer copped to being involved in more than 50 rub-outs one way or another.
Whitey was indicted by the feds for 19 murders, for which they had him cold, but a nutty juror stopped him from being convicted of eight. But there were so many more. Over the years, I would periodically get a Xeroxed old newspaper clipping from the ’60s or ’70s, with a handwritten note:
“This is a story from the Record about uncle’s murder. He was a bookie in (fill in the blank). Do you think Whitey killed him?”
Don’t know for sure, I would tell them, but yeah, he probably did.
But the murder toll is only the tip of the human devastation he wrought.
Whitey not only ruined the neighborhood, he ruined all the neighbors. The Davises, the Husseys, the Barretts, so many. One burglar who he killed for no particular reason other than to steal a few thousand bucks — that guy had two sons who both ended up as suicides, throwing themselves in front of Red Line trains. Whitey’s girlfriend — Catherine Greig, who’s still in prison in Minnesota for two more years. Whitey murdered not one, but two of her brothers-in-law, the McGonagles. After he whacked Paulie McGonagle, at Christmas, he called up the McGonagles’ house and told his 12-year-old his father wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas.
“Who is this?” the young orphan asked.
“Santa Claus,” Whitey sneered at him.
How about state trooper Billy Johnson, a decorated Vietnam veteran, his career destroyed by hacks at the State House because he had the audacity to stop Whitey from taking a satchelful of cash onto a Montreal flight at Logan airport. Johnson ended up killing himself.
How about Stippo Rakes? Whitey stole his liquor store from him and then made him come back to Southie from Florida to stand in the rotary to prove that he hadn’t been murdered. Although he was, later, just not by Whitey.
How about former state police Lt. Col. Jack O’Donovan? He ordered a bug in Whitey’s garage on Lancaster Street. In the next state budget, an anonymous rider ended up as an outside section, which would have forced the immediate retirement (i.e., firing) of O’D.
Thank goodness Ed King was the governor back then, and not Mike Dukakis, because King stood up to the mob, vetoed the section and saved O’D’s job.
If ever a guy deserved to get it that way, it was Whitey Bulger. What goes around, comes around. Whitey sleeps with the fishes. They made a movie about him, sort of. It was called “The Departed.”
Now they can make the sequel — “Dearly Departed.”
Order Howie’s book at the trial of Whitey Bulger, “Ratman,” at howiecarrshow.com.
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