I began telling one of my war stories to my wife this morning, about how I met Whitey Bulger back in the early seventies, and caught myself. I was fairly solid on remembering killing a half an hour or so in a little bar just off Broadway in the Winter Hill section of Somerville, waiting to see the guy, but did I get into the back room and actually talk to him? I don’t think so. I'd have remembered it if I had actually got through that well-guarded door. I think he sent one of his boys out to see me and tell me that Diane was okay, and we shouldn’t worry about her. She was up in New Hampshire with her mother.