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Sometime that night, he reached out to a couple of Bristol goons, Ernest Wallace and Carlos Ortiz – two stumble-bum crooks with long sheets of priors and no job or fixed address to lay their heads – and ordered them to take the two-hour drive to Boston on the double, telling one of them, .According to family friends, Hernandez was using angel dust and was so paranoid he always carried a gun.All night Friday, they’d kicked it at Rumor, popping bottles and pulling models up the steps of the VIP section of the Boston theater district’s hottest club.

“You’re gonna start some shit ’tween me and him.” “Well, I don’t want you with him, he’s a punk,” said Lloyd’s cousin, jabbing his finger again in Hernandez’s direction.

When Lloyd went back upstairs, Hernandez was enraged.

The sweet, goofy kid from Bristol, Connecticut, with the klieg-light smile and ex-thug dad who’d turned his life around to raise two phenom sons – Aaron Hernandez had barely been heard from in the seven hard years since his father was snatched away, killed in his prime by a medical error that left his boys soul-sick and lost.

Once in a great while, the good Aaron would surface, phoning one of his college coaches to tell him he loved him and to talk to the man’s kids for hours, or stopping Robert Kraft, the Patriots’ owner, to kiss him on the cheek and thank him damply.

He went on hitting the clubs with his boys, including Lloyd, who was dating his fiancee’s sister.

That Sunday, Lloyd’s best friend urged him to stay home, saying he needed his sleep for the week ahead.

Per a close friend of Lloyd’s, they’d been getting buzzed in VIP when Lloyd saw two of his cousins downstairs.

He went to hug them up and buy them drinks when one of them, a West Indian with dreads, started pointing and mean-mugging Hernandez.

Around a.m., Hernandez set off with Wallace and Ortiz in a rented Nissan Altima to pick up Odin Lloyd.

Hernandez’s security cams show him with what looks like a Glock .45 in hand, pacing in his living room.

We kept rolling past dawn at his big-ass mansion, then he tossed me the keys to his Suburban.” Big doings for a semipro football player and underemployed landscape helper, though there, too, fortune smiled on Lloyd, 27.

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