the others. And Featherstone … well, twenty-one-year-old Mickey Featherstone had the kind of criminal record that would make a parole officer blanch. Not one but two homicides, numerous arrests for assault, and one outstanding charge for possession of an unregistered weapon—all in the last eighteen months.
Not only that, but right this moment, as he sat in this bar with the music blaring and the cigarette smoke billowing and intimations of violence beginning to swirl in his head, Mickey Featherstone was an escapee from the psychiatric ward of a veteran’s hospital. “A passiveaggressive personality with an acute impulse disorder,” is how doctors had described him just days before he snuck away from their fine upstate New York facility.
Before Featherstone and his friends even had a chance to assess the situation, one of the guys who’d been talking to Milton the bouncer started to move towards them. He was a big, lumbering white guy, about six-one and 190 pounds, with blond hair and a thug’s face. They could see by the way he moved and the look in his eyes that he’d been drinking. They could also see he was spoiling for a fight. Later, they would learn his name was Linwood Willis.
“Why you lookin’ at me?” Willis demanded in a loud Southern accent. “Y’all tryin’ to be smarties or somethin’?”
Russell looked at Kerr; Kerr looked at Russell; they both looked at Featherstone. What had they done to deserve this shit!?
“Buy me a drink,” insisted Willis. “Buy me a drink or I’ll cut all three of you.”
Mickey Featherstone was beginning to get annoyed. Russell and Kerr tried to calm him down, but Mickey glared at Milton the bouncer, who had listened to the whole thing and was laughing. Then he glared at this Southern hick, Willis, who was still cursing them for no good reason. Something sinister was going on here, he thought, and he didn’t like it one bit. At five-nine and 138 pounds, Mickey was a little guy, and his friends weren’t much bigger. Willis was over six feet and Milton the bouncer maybe six-two and 260 pounds.
Featherstone could see right away that what he and his friends needed was an equalizer—a .38, maybe, or anything else that would stop these two fat fucks in their tracks. He told Russell and Kerr to sit tight.
It was now about 3 A.M. The streets were quiet and there was an early autumn chill in the air as Featherstone went looking for a gun. Ever since his discharge from the army over a year ago, Mickey had been certain that people were out to fuck him over. Tonight, he felt, was another one of those nights. When he went into that bar with his friends, all he wanted was a peaceful drink, and a complete stranger had harassed him. Why did it always have to end like this?
Sometimes he was sure it was a conspiracy of some kind, people he knew from ’Nam trying to get back at him. Sometimes he thought it was the Communists.
The doctors said he was crazy, and a lot of other people did too. Mickey could live with that. He knew that for the last few years of his life he had been on some wild self-destructive course. There had been violent nightmares, shootings, and dozens of rumbles. Of course something was wrong. But every time he got away from the hospital, whether it was on a furlough, or, like this time, an escape, he would go into a bar and somebody would show him disrespect, somebody he’d never even messed with. Then there would be trouble. Sometimes people would even get killed; and Mickey would wind up back in the hospital, and he’d say, “See, you people always tell me I’m paranoid, but I was right. Always, there’s somebody out to get me.”
Jimmy Coonan didn’t usually spend his nights drinking late in neighborhood saloons, so Mickey was surprised when he spotted him sitting in a booth near the back of Sonny’s Cafe, at 47th Street and 9th Avenue. Coonan was with a few people Featherstone didn’t know, so he motioned for him to come into the men’s
Not only that, but right this moment, as he sat in this bar with the music blaring and the cigarette smoke billowing and intimations of violence beginning to swirl in his head, Mickey Featherstone was an escapee from the psychiatric ward of a veteran’s hospital. “A passiveaggressive personality with an acute impulse disorder,” is how doctors had described him just days before he snuck away from their fine upstate New York facility.
Before Featherstone and his friends even had a chance to assess the situation, one of the guys who’d been talking to Milton the bouncer started to move towards them. He was a big, lumbering white guy, about six-one and 190 pounds, with blond hair and a thug’s face. They could see by the way he moved and the look in his eyes that he’d been drinking. They could also see he was spoiling for a fight. Later, they would learn his name was Linwood Willis.
“Why you lookin’ at me?” Willis demanded in a loud Southern accent. “Y’all tryin’ to be smarties or somethin’?”
Russell looked at Kerr; Kerr looked at Russell; they both looked at Featherstone. What had they done to deserve this shit!?
“Buy me a drink,” insisted Willis. “Buy me a drink or I’ll cut all three of you.”
Mickey Featherstone was beginning to get annoyed. Russell and Kerr tried to calm him down, but Mickey glared at Milton the bouncer, who had listened to the whole thing and was laughing. Then he glared at this Southern hick, Willis, who was still cursing them for no good reason. Something sinister was going on here, he thought, and he didn’t like it one bit. At five-nine and 138 pounds, Mickey was a little guy, and his friends weren’t much bigger. Willis was over six feet and Milton the bouncer maybe six-two and 260 pounds.
Featherstone could see right away that what he and his friends needed was an equalizer—a .38, maybe, or anything else that would stop these two fat fucks in their tracks. He told Russell and Kerr to sit tight.
It was now about 3 A.M. The streets were quiet and there was an early autumn chill in the air as Featherstone went looking for a gun. Ever since his discharge from the army over a year ago, Mickey had been certain that people were out to fuck him over. Tonight, he felt, was another one of those nights. When he went into that bar with his friends, all he wanted was a peaceful drink, and a complete stranger had harassed him. Why did it always have to end like this?
Sometimes he was sure it was a conspiracy of some kind, people he knew from ’Nam trying to get back at him. Sometimes he thought it was the Communists.
The doctors said he was crazy, and a lot of other people did too. Mickey could live with that. He knew that for the last few years of his life he had been on some wild self-destructive course. There had been violent nightmares, shootings, and dozens of rumbles. Of course something was wrong. But every time he got away from the hospital, whether it was on a furlough, or, like this time, an escape, he would go into a bar and somebody would show him disrespect, somebody he’d never even messed with. Then there would be trouble. Sometimes people would even get killed; and Mickey would wind up back in the hospital, and he’d say, “See, you people always tell me I’m paranoid, but I was right. Always, there’s somebody out to get me.”
Jimmy Coonan didn’t usually spend his nights drinking late in neighborhood saloons, so Mickey was surprised when he spotted him sitting in a booth near the back of Sonny’s Cafe, at 47th Street and 9th Avenue. Coonan was with a few people Featherstone didn’t know, so he motioned for him to come into the men’s
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