‘Criminal’ waged war with Whitey
By Patrick Nee/ Book Excerpt
Sunday, March 12, 2006

Editor’s note: Patrick Nee enjoys the singular distinction of being the only mobster who went into business with James J. “Whitey” Bulger after Whitey tried to kill him - twice.

A self-styled career criminal, Nee was a significant player in the Hub underworld for more than two decades - from his discharge in 1966 after a tour of duty with the Marines in Vietnam to his 1987 conviction for smuggling guns to the IRA.

In this installment from his profane, often brutal memoir, “A Criminal & An Irishman: The Inside Story of the Boston Mob-IRA Connection” (Steerforth Press, $24.95) - which hits bookstores Tuesday - Nee provides new details of the South Boston gang war that left Whitey Bulger atop the Irish mob.


War is war. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Vietnam or Southie - war is a game of kill or be killed. . . .

The shooting war had started . . . one summer night in July of 1969. Some of the Southie guys from the Killeens and the Mullens - including me - were drinking at The Improper Bostonian, right behind the (old) Roxy (Hotel) in Park Square.

The Killeen brothers - Donald, Kenneth and Edward - were big-time organized criminals who ran the sports betting and loan sharking in Southie. The Killeens controlled every illegal activity that emerged in South Boston for nearly two decades. They used muscle to make collections, and to make examples of those deadbeats who didn’t pay in a timely fashion.

The Mullens, by contrast, were a loosely organized bunch of thieves. But being in Southie, it was just a matter of time before we butted heads with the Killeens.

Drinking with Whitey

I was sitting at the bar next to Whitey Bulger (the night the war started). We knew each other from Southie - that was the extent of our acquaintance. He was 40 and I had just turned 25. I remember his biceps bulging out of his extra-tight blue T-shirt as he lifted his beer. Whitey kept buying me drinks and I accepted out of respect. We never mentioned the Killeens or the Mullens. I knew he was muscle for the Killeens and he knew I was a Mullen. We talked about (women) and other such matters of import in our world. I’ll never forget how pretentious Whitey was. He just loved hearing himself talk.

“I’m an expert on military maneuvers, Pat,” he said. “I’ve studied Patton and MacArthur. Read everything I could about strategies of war.” I nodded politely, while inside my head I was holding a different conversation with him: “(Expletive) you, (expletive). Anything you know about war comes from a book. You’ve never actually done (expletive).”

“So you saw combat in Vietnam, I heard,” Whitey said.

“Some, not much really. Not like the heavy (expletive) they’re facing now.”

He kept asking me about Vietnam, but I didn’t trust him enough to talk about it. His hairline was receding and a thick gold chain hung from his neck. I couldn’t help but notice how his gaze traveled, never resting on one object for more than a few seconds.

In Whitey’s cross hairs

(The gang war breaks out, and various Killeens and Mullens end up in the hospital or the morgue. Whitey and Nee, meanwhile, track each other’s moves, each looking to get the drop on the other. At one point, Nee catches Whitey stuck in a traffic jam, but Bulger pulls up onto a median strip and escapes.)

One night the Mullens needed to get a message to me. Jerry Roake came to see me in Charlestown after he’d had too many beers. The instant I saw him at the door I was apprehensive.

“Jerry, did anybody follow you?”

“No, I watched my mirror and I drove around the block three times. Nobody followed me. I made sure of it, Pat.”

Two nights later I was sitting watching television in (my girlfriend) Ronnie’s first-floor apartment. My .45 was on the coffee table next to me, covered by a dish towel. (Ronnie’s daughter) Theresa was sitting in front of me on the floor playing with Legos. Ronnie was in the kitchen cleaning up after supper. I was tired from hunting Whitey and was planning on going to bed early.

It was then that I noticed a rifle barrel reflected in the window. I saw Whitey in the corner of the window; he was looking right at me. I lunged for my .45, threw the magazine into it and pulled the slide back. Whitey took aim. Theresa saw me grab the gun. She stood up, confused. Theresa was right in the field of fire. Everything stopped. I glanced at Whitey. For seconds nobody moved. Then Whitey lowered the gun barrel, smiled, and took off running. I picked up Theresa, ran to the bedroom, threw her softly onto the bed and grabbed my 30.06 rifle from the closet.

The bedroom window faced north, the same direction in which Whitey had escaped. I opened the window and jumped to the pavement. There must have been a dozen residents walking or sitting on their stoops. But it didn’t matter, this was Charlestown - nobody saw a thing.

‘Now I’m dead’

After that Whitey (nearly) hit me (again). The first time Jimmy Mantville and I were double-parked on M Street, waiting to talk to a friend. I was in the driver’s seat and wasn’t watching the mirror. “Duck!” Jimmy yelled suddenly. Three shooters in black ski masks suddenly pulled up beside us. The shooter in the passenger’s seat wielded a sawed-off shotgun. Whitey was driving; I would have recognized those eyes anywhere, even behind a ski mask. The other shooter was in the backseat pointing his .38 in our direction.

Flashes of light and flying glass surrounded us almost instantly. Within seconds Jimmy was crawling out the passenger-side door and I rolled out from behind the steering wheel.

I’m not sure why - rage, I guess - but I took off running after Whitey’s car. I didn’t even have a gun on me - I had nothing for my own protection. I was chasing after his car screaming “Come back, you mother(bleep)!” when Whitey saw me. He locked up the brakes and pulled a quick U-turn. “Now I’m dead,” I thought. I didn’t even have something to throw at the car. All of a sudden I saw an alley on my right and dove into it. It’s a good thing Whitey kept driving, because I was wide open there on the cement.

They missed us that day but they killed our car. The driver’s side was riddled with something like 40 bullet holes. The shotgun blasts had demolished every piece of glass and blown away a chunk of the roof. When the Boston police arrived, guns drawn, they couldn’t believe we were still alive. A young, green detective took us to Station 6 on D Street and Broadway and questioned us, but neither one of us could remember much. I was just thankful Whitey and his boys couldn’t shoot straight.

Ellie