Free Final Confession by Bill Crowley Dennis Lehane Gilbert Geis Brian P. Wallace Page A

them to think this was a small-time hood who got lucky, so I decided to bust the window and open the door just like we did when we were kids on Hanover Street.”
    Angelo was shaking his head in admiration.
    Tony said, “Yeah, Phil, but we never scored no hundred large on Hanover Street.”
    Then all three sat back, lesson over, and drove in silence until Plymouth, where Tony announced, “
Now
I get it! That’s why you waited two extra weeks? You were waiting for the snow?”
    â€œLight dawns on Marblehead,” Phil responded, and he and Angelo laughed the rest of the way to the Bourne Bridge and Cape Cod.

7
Holiday Weekend Activity
    B Y THE TIME 1965 rolled around, the Cresta crew was on the edge of “living large.” Besides the Quincy armored car heist, they had hit another Kenmore Square bank for $40,000, working on a tip from a woman employed in the bank, who was dating Angelo. As with the bank guard, she never knew that she had given out crucial information to her boyfriend, who was just a plain mechanic—or so she thought. It got to the point where Phil’s crew was getting too many leads, and as a result, they were able to choose their jobs.
    â€œWe were sitting pretty good in the mid-sixties. We had a lot of money stored away, and the word on the street was that we were stand-up guys who could be trusted. I always worried about Angiulo, because we weren’t giving him a dime, which pissed him off. But he never bothered us,” Phil said. “For a guy in my business, it’s always important to be dealing from strength. We were on top in the sixties and everyone knew it. We had juice even though we weren’t made men. You always rob from strength; never rob when you’re down, that’s when you get caught. We paid what we had to pay for information, and we never got burned. You do what you have to do, you pay what you have to pay, and you go on to the next job. Simple as that.”
    The barbershop where Phil hung out is located on the bottom floor of a five-story apartment building on Commonwealth Avenue. Phil was in the shop one day in April 1965 when a well-dressed man entered and asked Phil if he was next. Phil shook his head. The well-dressed man got in the chair and gave the barber precise instructions on how to cut his hair. When he left, Phil asked his barber friend, Frank, who the rich guy was. His name was Percy Rideout, Frank said, and he was a coin and stamp collector. “What’s he doing here?” Phil asked, his curiosity piqued. “He lives upstairs, on the third floor,” Frank replied. “How often does he come in for a haircut?” Phil asked. “Too friggin often,” the barber replied, not hiding his disdain. “He says the same friggin thing every time he comes in this friggin place. I guess he thinks I’m retarded or something. Those rich people, they’re all assholes.”
    â€œDo you get a lot of rich people in here?” Phil asked.
    â€œNaw, thank God. He’s about the only one.”
    Phil left the barbershop and walked down Commonwealth Avenue to Copley Square. He went into the public library there, to do a little research on this Mr. Percy Rideout. What he found started his juices flowing.
    â€œThis guy Rideout was the real deal,” Phil said. “Just about every publication on stamps, coins, or rare documents had a quote from this guy or at least used his name somewhere in the article.”
    Phil left the library, called Tony and Angelo, and asked them to meet him at McGrail’s. He told them about his run-in with Rideout and about his research at the library. They both listened intently. “What do you think?” Phil asked. “Let’s go for it,” Angelo said. Tony, a little hesitant, said, “Honestly, Phil, it seems like a lot of work just to get some stamps. Can’t we just buy them at the post office?” After they explained to Tony that they