room.
“What’s wrong?” asked Coonan, as they crowded into the small lavatory at Sonny’s.
Mickey had known Jimmy on a casual basis almost all his life. He knew his older brother Jackie a lot better, but, like everyone else in the neighborhood, he was familiar with Jimmy’s story. Ever since his return from the service, Mickey had been hearing about Coonan’s feud with Spillane. He’d always sort of admired Coonan, and figured one day, if things worked out, he and Jimmy might even be able to make some money together.
But all that meant nothing at the moment; what he needed right now was a gun, no questions asked, and that’s exactly how he put it to Coonan.
With no hesitation at all, Coonan produced a handgun—a .25-caliber semiautomatic—which he kept in his belt in the small of his back, covered by his jacket.
“Mickey, you need any help?” asked Jimmy.
“No,” replied Featherstone. “This is somethin’ I gotta take care of myself.”
With that, Featherstone split the scene. As he headed south on 9th Avenue towards the Leprechaun, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Jimmy Coonan. Here was a guy who would be there when you needed him; a guy who could be trusted to do the right thing. Some people would have given a bullshit answer, tried to pretend they didn’t know anything about guns. Some might even have been scared. But Jimmy didn’t bat an eye; just turned over his piece like Mickey was his own brother.
To Featherstone, it was the ultimate act of friendship, and he would remember Coonan having come through in the pinch long after the other events of September 30, 1970, had become a hazy, troublesome memory.
Back at the Leprechaun, Linwood Willis was still holding court, drunkenly oblivious to the fate that awaited him. When Featherstone walked in, Willis immediately started shouting insults at him; words that were heard clearly by the bartender, the barmaid, and everyone else in the bar. Finally, Willis stepped out the front door, telling Featherstone and his friends he was going to wait for them outside. Mickey said to his buddies, “You guys stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
The barmaid at the Leprechaun sidled over to the window to watch the show. What she saw, and heard, was this:
When Featherstone and Willis got outside, the big Southerner pushed the Irish kid from behind. Mickey circled around so he was now standing opposite Willis, facing north.
“So you’re a tough guy?” Featherstone asked as Willis stumbled towards him. “You got your gun?”
“Yeah,” snarled Willis, reaching inside his jacket.
Mickey pulled the Beretta from his right coat pocket and fired twice, hitting his target once directly in the heart and again a quarter of an inch below. The body immediately dropped to the pavement.
Mickey froze for a moment, the sound of gunfire still echoing in his ears. Then he went over to look at what he’d done. Blood had already begun to run from Willis’s chest towards the curb.
Featherstone got a nasty surprise when he flipped open Willis’s jacket. There was no gun. The corpse was totally unarmed. His heart pounding and his temples beginning to throb, Mickey quickly headed west on 43rd Street.
A few minutes later, on 10th Avenue at 45th Street, he was confronted by a patrol car from Midtown North. Using the car as a shield, Sergeant John Hanno and Patrolman Robert Erben drew their revolvers and directed Featherstone to drop the gun which he’d been holding in his hand for all the world to see. Standing in the car’s headlights, looking dazed and disoriented, Mickey did what they asked. Then he put his hands out, waiting for the cops to slap on the cuffs.
At the precinct house on West 54th Street, three or four detectives interrogated the suspect. His hands and legs trembling uncontrollably, Mickey first claimed that Willis had pulled a gun on him and that he’d used his military expertise to disarm him. But nobody believed that. Eventually,
“What’s wrong?” asked Coonan, as they crowded into the small lavatory at Sonny’s.
Mickey had known Jimmy on a casual basis almost all his life. He knew his older brother Jackie a lot better, but, like everyone else in the neighborhood, he was familiar with Jimmy’s story. Ever since his return from the service, Mickey had been hearing about Coonan’s feud with Spillane. He’d always sort of admired Coonan, and figured one day, if things worked out, he and Jimmy might even be able to make some money together.
But all that meant nothing at the moment; what he needed right now was a gun, no questions asked, and that’s exactly how he put it to Coonan.
With no hesitation at all, Coonan produced a handgun—a .25-caliber semiautomatic—which he kept in his belt in the small of his back, covered by his jacket.
“Mickey, you need any help?” asked Jimmy.
“No,” replied Featherstone. “This is somethin’ I gotta take care of myself.”
With that, Featherstone split the scene. As he headed south on 9th Avenue towards the Leprechaun, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Jimmy Coonan. Here was a guy who would be there when you needed him; a guy who could be trusted to do the right thing. Some people would have given a bullshit answer, tried to pretend they didn’t know anything about guns. Some might even have been scared. But Jimmy didn’t bat an eye; just turned over his piece like Mickey was his own brother.
To Featherstone, it was the ultimate act of friendship, and he would remember Coonan having come through in the pinch long after the other events of September 30, 1970, had become a hazy, troublesome memory.
Back at the Leprechaun, Linwood Willis was still holding court, drunkenly oblivious to the fate that awaited him. When Featherstone walked in, Willis immediately started shouting insults at him; words that were heard clearly by the bartender, the barmaid, and everyone else in the bar. Finally, Willis stepped out the front door, telling Featherstone and his friends he was going to wait for them outside. Mickey said to his buddies, “You guys stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
The barmaid at the Leprechaun sidled over to the window to watch the show. What she saw, and heard, was this:
When Featherstone and Willis got outside, the big Southerner pushed the Irish kid from behind. Mickey circled around so he was now standing opposite Willis, facing north.
“So you’re a tough guy?” Featherstone asked as Willis stumbled towards him. “You got your gun?”
“Yeah,” snarled Willis, reaching inside his jacket.
Mickey pulled the Beretta from his right coat pocket and fired twice, hitting his target once directly in the heart and again a quarter of an inch below. The body immediately dropped to the pavement.
Mickey froze for a moment, the sound of gunfire still echoing in his ears. Then he went over to look at what he’d done. Blood had already begun to run from Willis’s chest towards the curb.
Featherstone got a nasty surprise when he flipped open Willis’s jacket. There was no gun. The corpse was totally unarmed. His heart pounding and his temples beginning to throb, Mickey quickly headed west on 43rd Street.
A few minutes later, on 10th Avenue at 45th Street, he was confronted by a patrol car from Midtown North. Using the car as a shield, Sergeant John Hanno and Patrolman Robert Erben drew their revolvers and directed Featherstone to drop the gun which he’d been holding in his hand for all the world to see. Standing in the car’s headlights, looking dazed and disoriented, Mickey did what they asked. Then he put his hands out, waiting for the cops to slap on the cuffs.
At the precinct house on West 54th Street, three or four detectives interrogated the suspect. His hands and legs trembling uncontrollably, Mickey first claimed that Willis had pulled a gun on him and that he’d used his military expertise to disarm him. But nobody believed that. Eventually,
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