05/20/2026
The Case That Brought Down Wh**ey Bulger's Right Hand Man
January 6th, 1998. Quincy, Massachusetts. A cold New England morning. The kind where your breath hangs in the air like smoke. Kevin Weekes walked out of his house, glanced at the street, and saw the cars unmarked. Government plates. He didn't run. He didn't fight. He just stood there as the FBI agents stepped out, hands near their hips, and told him he was under arrest.
Federal racketeering, murder, extortion, the whole menu. Weeks looked at the agent in charge and said five words that would echo through South Boston for the next decade. You took your time, fellas. Then they put him in cuffs. Kevin Weekes was 38 years old, a former Golden Gloves boxer, a bouncer at a souy bar called Triple O's, the right hand of James Wh**ey Bulier, the most feared gangster in Boston history.
He knew where the bodies were buried, literally. He had dug some of the graves himself. He had pulled teeth from corpses with pliers so the dental records wouldn't match. He had watched Wh**ey strangle people in a basement on East Third Street while he stood there holding a body bag. This is the story of the kid from the projects who became a monsters monster.
The man they called two weeks because if you crossed him that's about how long you had to live. This is the story of how Kevin Weekes watched, learned, killed, and buried for the Winter Hill Gang. And then when the walls finally closed in, he became the one thing the Boston underworld swore never to produce.
A rat, a talker, a witness for the government. But here's what makes this story different. Weeks wasn't a coward. He wasn't broken. He was something stranger. He was a man with a conscience that had been buried for 20 years. And when it finally cracked open, it didn't just bury Wh**ey Bulier. It dug up the FBI itself. Kevin Patrick Weekes was born March 21st, 1956, South Boston, Old Colony Housing Project, the sixth of six kids.
His father was a Korean War veteran who worked as a janitor at MIT and used his fists at home. His mother held the family together with rosaries and rage. In Souy back then, you didn't grow up so much as survive. The neighborhood was Irish, workingass, fiercely loyal, and walled off from the rest of Boston by an unwritten code.
You didn't talk to outsiders. You didn't talk to cops. And you sure as hell didn't talk to the FBI. Weeks was a fighter by age 12. Not by choice, by necessity. His older brothers boxed at the local gym. He followed. He had quick hands, a flat nose by 15, and the kind of cold blue stare that made grown men step back.
He went to South Boston High School during the busing riots of 1974 when the neighborhood erupted in violence over court-ordered integration. He watched cops beat his friends. He watched his friends beat back. He learned early that authority was just another gang. The only difference was the uniform. By 1978, Weeks was working the door at Triple O's Lounge on West Broadway.
228 West Broadway to be exact. A dive bar with sticky floors, cheap beer, and a back room where deals got made and beatings got delivered. He was 22 years old, 6 feet tall, 210 lb, and he could put a man through a plate glass window without spilling his drink. The owners loved him. The wise guys noticed him.
And one night, a man in a Red Sox cap walked in, ordered a club soda, and watched Kevin Weeks toss three Marines into the street in under a minute. That man was James Bulier, wh**ey, 49 years old, silver hair, ice blue eyes, a body kept lean by daily push-ups in a basement gym. He had done nine years in Alcatraz for bank robbery.
He had come home in 1965 and quietly, methodically built an empire of drugs, extortion, and murder across South Boston. By the late 70s, he ran the Winter Hill gang, and he ran it with a secret weapon that nobody in the neighborhood knew about. Wh**ey Bulier was a top echelon informant for the FBI. He had been ratting out the Italian mafia to a corrupt agent named John Connelly since 1975.January 6th, 1998. Quincy, Massachusetts. A cold New England morning. The kind where your breath hangs in the air like smoke. Kevin Weekes walked out of his house, glanced at the street, and saw the cars unmarked. Government plates. He didn't run. He didn't fight. He just stood there as the FBI agents stepped out, hands near their hips, and told him he was under arrest.
Federal racketeering, murder, extortion, the whole menu. Weeks looked at the agent in charge and said five words that would echo through South Boston for the next decade. You took your time, fellas. Then they put him in cuffs. Kevin Weekes was 38 years old, a former Golden Gloves boxer, a bouncer at a souy bar called Triple O's, the right hand of James Wh**ey Bulier, the most feared gangster in Boston history.
He knew where the bodies were buried, literally. He had dug some of the graves himself. He had pulled teeth from corpses with pliers so the dental records wouldn't match. He had watched Wh**ey strangle people in a basement on East Third Street while he stood there holding a body bag. This is the story of the kid from the projects who became a monsters monster.
The man they called two weeks because if you crossed him that's about how long you had to live. This is the story of how Kevin Weekes watched, learned, killed, and buried for the Winter Hill Gang. And then when the walls finally closed in, he became the one thing the Boston underworld swore never to produce.
A rat, a talker, a witness for the government. But here's what makes this story different. Weeks wasn't a coward. He wasn't broken. He was something stranger. He was a man with a conscience that had been buried for 20 years. And when it finally cracked open, it didn't just bury Wh**ey Bulier. It dug up the FBI itself. Kevin Patrick Weekes was born March 21st, 1956, South Boston, Old Colony Housing Project, the sixth of six kids.
His father was a Korean War veteran who worked as a janitor at MIT and used his fists at home. His mother held the family together with rosaries and rage. In Souy back then, you didn't grow up so much as survive. The neighborhood was Irish, workingass, fiercely loyal, and walled off from the rest of Boston by an unwritten code.
You didn't talk to outsiders. You didn't talk to cops. And you sure as hell didn't talk to the FBI. Weeks was a fighter by age 12. Not by choice, by necessity. His older brothers boxed at the local gym. He followed. He had quick hands, a flat nose by 15, and the kind of cold blue stare that made grown men step back.
He went to South Boston High School during the busing riots of 1974 when the neighborhood erupted in violence over court-ordered integration. He watched cops beat his friends. He watched his friends beat back. He learned early that authority was just another gang. The only difference was the uniform. By 1978, Weeks was working the door at Triple O's Lounge on West Broadway.
228 West Broadway to be exact. A dive bar with sticky floors, cheap beer, and a back room where deals got made and beatings got delivered. He was 22 years old, 6 feet tall, 210 lb, and he could put a man through a plate glass window without spilling his drink. The owners loved him. The wise guys noticed him.
And one night, a man in a Red Sox cap walked in, ordered a club soda, and watched Kevin Weeks toss three Marines into the street in under a minute. That man was James Bulier, wh**ey, 49 years old, silver hair, ice blue eyes, a body kept lean by daily push-ups in a basement gym. He had done nine years in Alcatraz for bank robbery.
He had come home in 1965 and quietly, methodically built an empire of drugs, extortion, and murder across South Boston. By the late 70s, he ran the Winter Hill gang, and he ran it with a secret weapon that nobody in the neighborhood knew about. Wh**ey Bulier was a top echelon informant for the FBI. He had been ratting out the Italian mafia to a corrupt agent named John Connelly since 1975....Read more in comment👇👇👇
