now, they had slightly different priorities. For Coonan, the early Seventies had been days of planning and hustling and laying the foundation for a time when he could resume his war with Spillane.
For Featherstone, they were days of random violence and self-hatred.
4
MICKEY
W hen Mickey Featherstone walked into the Leprechaun Bar with two friends early on the morning of September 30, 1970, he had every reason to believe there might be trouble. Just forty-eight hours earlier, across the street from the bar on the northwest corner of 9th Avenue and 44th Street, there had been an altercation. A bunch of female impersonators were beating up a neighborhood kid and Mickey had done his bit.
A fight between someone from the neighborhood and a group of “fags in drag” was not an altogether uncommon sight in Hell’s Kitchen. Especially on 9th Avenue, just a few blocks from the heart of Times Square, prostitutes, transvestites, and other creatures of the night often made the rounds looking for business, drugs, or just plain companionship. It was Frank McCarthy, a neighborhood kid in his early twenties, who had been walking home with his girlfriend when he came across three men dressed as women cruising along West 42nd Street. Various insults were hurled back and forth; then McCarthy and his girlfriend headed north. The drag queens followed. A scuffle broke out across the street from the Leprechaun Bar, located at 608 9th Avenue. When Featherstone arrived, he did what any self-respecting West Sider would have done. He dove right in, no questions asked.
Before Mickey even had a chance to land a punch, a huge black guy who identified himself as a police officer intervened. The guy moved and spoke with a certain authority, so his claim seemed plausible enough. He was also carrying a police billyclub, which he used to force Featherstone and McCarthy up against the wall.
When a squad car from the Midtown North Precinct pulled up, much to Mickey’s surprise the black dude and the drag queens scattered.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” asked one of the patrolmen as he stepped out of the car and approached.
By this time Mickey realized the guy who had said he was a cop wasn’t really a cop at all. He and McCarthy told the patrolmen what had happened—that the three transvestites had jumped McCarthy and his girlfriend, and that a big black guy with a billyclub had pretended he was a cop and tried to shake them down. The patrolmen didn’t seem too concerned; and since no one was willing to press charges, McCarthy, his girlfriend, and the cops went on about their business.
Mickey would have let it slide, too, if he hadn’t walked into the Leprechaun Bar two nights later to find the asshole who had pretended to be a cop, billyclub and all.
The Leprechaun Bar was another typical Hell’s Kitchen bistro. To the right, as you entered, were four booths against the wall. In the middle of the room there was enough space for three or four tables. To the left, running nearly the length of the wall, was a counter flanked by a half-dozen stools. There was a cigarette machine near the front door and a jukebox in the back. The rest of the room was cluttered with empty beer kegs, cases of booze, and cardboard boxes that lined the walls leading down a hallway to the restrooms.
Mickey was with two neighborhood acquaintances, Jimmy Russell and Kevin Kerr. They ordered a few drinks; then Featherstone asked the old Greek bartender, “Who’s the dude with the billyclub?”
The Greek looked to see who Mickey was talking about, then answered: “That’s Milton. Security.”
Oh shit, thought Mickey, this fucking guy’s a bouncer!?
The last thing he and his companions needed was trouble. Jimmy Russell was a small-time criminal with an assault charge pending. He was also a heroin addict. Kevin Kerr had no criminal record, but he had been seen hanging out with neighborhood crooks so often that the cops had his name right up there with all
For Featherstone, they were days of random violence and self-hatred.
4
MICKEY
W hen Mickey Featherstone walked into the Leprechaun Bar with two friends early on the morning of September 30, 1970, he had every reason to believe there might be trouble. Just forty-eight hours earlier, across the street from the bar on the northwest corner of 9th Avenue and 44th Street, there had been an altercation. A bunch of female impersonators were beating up a neighborhood kid and Mickey had done his bit.
A fight between someone from the neighborhood and a group of “fags in drag” was not an altogether uncommon sight in Hell’s Kitchen. Especially on 9th Avenue, just a few blocks from the heart of Times Square, prostitutes, transvestites, and other creatures of the night often made the rounds looking for business, drugs, or just plain companionship. It was Frank McCarthy, a neighborhood kid in his early twenties, who had been walking home with his girlfriend when he came across three men dressed as women cruising along West 42nd Street. Various insults were hurled back and forth; then McCarthy and his girlfriend headed north. The drag queens followed. A scuffle broke out across the street from the Leprechaun Bar, located at 608 9th Avenue. When Featherstone arrived, he did what any self-respecting West Sider would have done. He dove right in, no questions asked.
Before Mickey even had a chance to land a punch, a huge black guy who identified himself as a police officer intervened. The guy moved and spoke with a certain authority, so his claim seemed plausible enough. He was also carrying a police billyclub, which he used to force Featherstone and McCarthy up against the wall.
When a squad car from the Midtown North Precinct pulled up, much to Mickey’s surprise the black dude and the drag queens scattered.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” asked one of the patrolmen as he stepped out of the car and approached.
By this time Mickey realized the guy who had said he was a cop wasn’t really a cop at all. He and McCarthy told the patrolmen what had happened—that the three transvestites had jumped McCarthy and his girlfriend, and that a big black guy with a billyclub had pretended he was a cop and tried to shake them down. The patrolmen didn’t seem too concerned; and since no one was willing to press charges, McCarthy, his girlfriend, and the cops went on about their business.
Mickey would have let it slide, too, if he hadn’t walked into the Leprechaun Bar two nights later to find the asshole who had pretended to be a cop, billyclub and all.
The Leprechaun Bar was another typical Hell’s Kitchen bistro. To the right, as you entered, were four booths against the wall. In the middle of the room there was enough space for three or four tables. To the left, running nearly the length of the wall, was a counter flanked by a half-dozen stools. There was a cigarette machine near the front door and a jukebox in the back. The rest of the room was cluttered with empty beer kegs, cases of booze, and cardboard boxes that lined the walls leading down a hallway to the restrooms.
Mickey was with two neighborhood acquaintances, Jimmy Russell and Kevin Kerr. They ordered a few drinks; then Featherstone asked the old Greek bartender, “Who’s the dude with the billyclub?”
The Greek looked to see who Mickey was talking about, then answered: “That’s Milton. Security.”
Oh shit, thought Mickey, this fucking guy’s a bouncer!?
The last thing he and his companions needed was trouble. Jimmy Russell was a small-time criminal with an assault charge pending. He was also a heroin addict. Kevin Kerr had no criminal record, but he had been seen hanging out with neighborhood crooks so often that the cops had his name right up there with all
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