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Authors: T. J. English
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as an entire generation embraced the politics of upheaval.
To the aspiring young gangsters of Hell’s Kitchen it was as good a reason as any to let off a little steam. In the spirit of the times, they danced to the beat of a different drummer. For them Mickey Spillane was an antique, and his adherence to old-world neighborhood values was all phony bullshit. Even Spillane’s reputation as a high-roller and a fancy dresser, as far as they were concerned, was crap. Everybody knew he bought his so-called thousand-dollar suits for almost nothing at Tassiello’s “swag” (stolen merchandise) shop on 9th Avenue.
What’s more, the word on the street was that Spillane “didn’t have the balls” anymore. He was always getting other people to pull the trigger for him, just so he could stay clean in the eyes of the legitimate folk. There was even a story making the rounds that Spillane had agreed to pay a neighborhood kid, Alfred Scott, $5,000 to do a shooting for him. When Scott did it, Spillane reneged on the deal and the kid had to go on the lam in Arizona without a cent to his name.
True or not, that didn’t wash anymore. There was a new breed now, more restless and violent than their immediate predecessors. If the working-class Irish of Hell’s Kitchen had become something of a lost tribe in the 1960s, then this younger generation were the children of that lost tribe. The most dominant symbol of their lives was not J.F.K. riding proudly along Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day, but J.F.K. slumped over in the back seat of a limousine in Dallas, his brains splattered all over his wife Jackie’s dress.
It was only a matter of time before one of these Young Turks stepped forward to lay claim to his generation’s inheritance. Since the earliest days of gangsterism in Hell’s Kitchen it had always happened that way, youth rising up to exert its physical authority. The only question was whether this person would have the cojones to take on someone as popular as Mickey Spillane, and once he’d done that, whether he’d be able to instill discipline into this increasingly wanton younger generation.
It was a daunting proposition. But before long a nineteen-year-old neighborhood kid with golden hair and a broad smile began to make his moves. Not since the days of the goofy and homicidal Mad Dog Coll would Hell’s Kitchen see someone make their presence felt with such youthful audacity, such ambition, such brutal panache. This kid had all the makings of a serious challenger: he was manipulative, physically impressive, and he had a personal vendetta against Spillane he’d been harboring for years.
The year was 1966. The kid’s name was James Michael Coonan.
3
JIMMY SOWS HIS OATS
I t’s this fuckin’ Mike Spillane,” said Eddie Sullivan. “We wanna take him out.”
Sullivan looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He was sporting a five-day stubble on his chin, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was chain-smoking cigarettes like they were the only thing keeping his lungs going. It was March 1966 and Sullivan was seated in a Naugahyde booth in the back of Tony’s Cafe, a nondescript little bar on West 72nd Street in upper Manhattan, speaking to his old friend and criminal partner, Bobby Huggard. Huggard was accompanied by Georgie Saflita, his criminal partner. Rounding out this ragged ensemble was young Jimmy Coonan and his older brother, Jackie.
Built like a bull, with bulging forearms and a vacant, steely look in his eyes, Bobby Huggard was a hard-core criminal. Though only twenty-one, he’d already been charged a half-dozen times with an assortment of violent crimes, including numerous counts of felonious assault, his specialty. Even in jail Huggard was known as a mean dude. In other words, not a bad guy to have at your side if you were planning to engage in an all-out gang war.
Huggard knew all about Mickey Spillane. Recently, he’d moved from Queens to the West Side of Manhattan, where he rented a small
To the aspiring young gangsters of Hell’s Kitchen it was as good a reason as any to let off a little steam. In the spirit of the times, they danced to the beat of a different drummer. For them Mickey Spillane was an antique, and his adherence to old-world neighborhood values was all phony bullshit. Even Spillane’s reputation as a high-roller and a fancy dresser, as far as they were concerned, was crap. Everybody knew he bought his so-called thousand-dollar suits for almost nothing at Tassiello’s “swag” (stolen merchandise) shop on 9th Avenue.
What’s more, the word on the street was that Spillane “didn’t have the balls” anymore. He was always getting other people to pull the trigger for him, just so he could stay clean in the eyes of the legitimate folk. There was even a story making the rounds that Spillane had agreed to pay a neighborhood kid, Alfred Scott, $5,000 to do a shooting for him. When Scott did it, Spillane reneged on the deal and the kid had to go on the lam in Arizona without a cent to his name.
True or not, that didn’t wash anymore. There was a new breed now, more restless and violent than their immediate predecessors. If the working-class Irish of Hell’s Kitchen had become something of a lost tribe in the 1960s, then this younger generation were the children of that lost tribe. The most dominant symbol of their lives was not J.F.K. riding proudly along Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day, but J.F.K. slumped over in the back seat of a limousine in Dallas, his brains splattered all over his wife Jackie’s dress.
It was only a matter of time before one of these Young Turks stepped forward to lay claim to his generation’s inheritance. Since the earliest days of gangsterism in Hell’s Kitchen it had always happened that way, youth rising up to exert its physical authority. The only question was whether this person would have the cojones to take on someone as popular as Mickey Spillane, and once he’d done that, whether he’d be able to instill discipline into this increasingly wanton younger generation.
It was a daunting proposition. But before long a nineteen-year-old neighborhood kid with golden hair and a broad smile began to make his moves. Not since the days of the goofy and homicidal Mad Dog Coll would Hell’s Kitchen see someone make their presence felt with such youthful audacity, such ambition, such brutal panache. This kid had all the makings of a serious challenger: he was manipulative, physically impressive, and he had a personal vendetta against Spillane he’d been harboring for years.
The year was 1966. The kid’s name was James Michael Coonan.
3
JIMMY SOWS HIS OATS
I t’s this fuckin’ Mike Spillane,” said Eddie Sullivan. “We wanna take him out.”
Sullivan looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He was sporting a five-day stubble on his chin, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was chain-smoking cigarettes like they were the only thing keeping his lungs going. It was March 1966 and Sullivan was seated in a Naugahyde booth in the back of Tony’s Cafe, a nondescript little bar on West 72nd Street in upper Manhattan, speaking to his old friend and criminal partner, Bobby Huggard. Huggard was accompanied by Georgie Saflita, his criminal partner. Rounding out this ragged ensemble was young Jimmy Coonan and his older brother, Jackie.
Built like a bull, with bulging forearms and a vacant, steely look in his eyes, Bobby Huggard was a hard-core criminal. Though only twenty-one, he’d already been charged a half-dozen times with an assortment of violent crimes, including numerous counts of felonious assault, his specialty. Even in jail Huggard was known as a mean dude. In other words, not a bad guy to have at your side if you were planning to engage in an all-out gang war.
Huggard knew all about Mickey Spillane. Recently, he’d moved from Queens to the West Side of Manhattan, where he rented a small
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