You know this mob thug from Springfield, Fotios “Freddy” Geas, the main suspect in the murder of Whitey Bulger?

I sent $100 to his Bureau of Prisons canteen fund yesterday.

I don’t know, I just felt a need to … help out. You know, support prisoners’ rights and all that good ACLU stuff.

Actually, it was at the suggestion of Tommy Donahue, the son of Michael Donahue, one of Whitey’s victims back in 1982 on Northern Avenue.

It just seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, it was Halloween, and I was thinking about Whitey’s Greatest Hits, and I do mean hits.

Halloween was the date of one of Whitey’s more macabre stunts. They’d been burying bodies in a house in Southie belonging to a gang member’s brother, and the guy, who had no idea what was going on, decided to sell the house.

This was in the 1980s, when Whitey and Stevie Flemmi were making $1 million when Joe Murray would bring a boatload of marijuana into Boston Harbor. (Whitey provided his own particular brand of “protection,” which consisted of not calling the cops.)

You’d think the boys would have been willing to spring for a couple hundred thousand dollars to buy the little house they were using as a cemetery. But no, they had a different solution: Dig up the bodies and move them to a vacant lot across Hallet Street from Florian Hall in Dorchester.

It was Halloween — perfect time for dirty work, Whitey decreed.

Whitey had Pat Nee and Kevin Weeks dig up the three bodies in the cellar. It was hard work, sifting through the dirt to get all the little bones. Whitey had already dug the hole on Hallet Street. The sun was already down when they arrived. They gave the dimwitted Weeks a machine gun.

The serial killers were hard at work reinterring the bones when a car pulled up. They hit the dirt. A guy tipsily got out and relieved himself. He’d obviously been at a Halloween party. He zipped up, got back in and drove away. Whitey ran over to Weeks and grabbed the gun.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” he yelled. “We had plenty of room in the hole!”

Trick or treat! Now it’s on to Christmas, and that reminds me of another Whitey story.

Whitey did the actual hit, and one of Stevie’s guys, Phil Costa, brought over lime to speed up the decomposition. Weeks was the gravedigger and Stevie Flemmi handled the dental extractions. He’d learned the hard way about pulling teeth. He’d once capped a guy named Peter Poulos in the Nevada desert, and when they found the corpse, even though the coyotes and vultures had eaten most everything, the cops identified Poulos’ skeleton from his teeth.

Well, Stevie learned from his mistakes. From then on he made sure he always pulled the bum’s teeth. So one year, it was getting close to Christmas, and Stevie noticed his trusty pliers were getting rusty. Plus, they’d gotten into killing young women, and their mouths tended to be smaller. Bottom line, Stevie needed a newer, smaller tool.

Whitey’s now-incarcerated girlfriend, Catherine Greig — and I’m not sending anything to her canteen fund — was a dental hygienist. Whitey told her to bring home a dental catalogue. That Christmas, Whitey gave his dear buddy Stevie a very special gift — a state-of-the-art tooth extractor.

Whitey is gone, so it’ll be on Santa this year to make sure the Rifleman isn’t forgotten. I’m not sending anything to Stevie’s canteen fund. Freddy Geas is enough responsibility for me.

Order Howie’s book on the trial of Whitey Bulger, “Ratman,” at howiecarrshow.com.