The Day Owen O’Leary Blew into Town

Owen O’Leary arrived at Murphy’s Twin Shamrocks an hour early for his meeting with Joe “The Knife” Nowicki. It was a Tuesday afternoon in August 1982, the hottest August in decades. Until, that is, the wind changed direction that morning, bringing cooler air from the north along with a cleansing rain. O’Leary’s flight from Belfast to Boston, by way of a connection in London, had been bumpy, but the drive from the airport to our fair little city had been smooth and quick.

Joe Nowicki was flying from his home in Chicago, along with a young woman named Windy VanderSlooth. Windy had a unique ability that Owen planned to use for his own protection if she was willing to work for him, and he planned to pay her a significant amount of money to persuade her. He’d also agreed to pay Nowicki to release her to him, exactly like when the Yankees bought Babe Ruth’s contract from the Red Sox back in 1918, beginning the greatest curse in the history of American professional sports.

Dennis Bauer, the only other patron in Murphy’s that afternoon, was seated near the middle of the bar. It was 2:30 p.m., in the lull between lunch and dinner, which is always a quiet time in any tavern. Owen walked along the length of the bar, passed Dennis, and took a seat just beyond where the counter turned a corner. This left one empty stool between the two men and gave Owen a view of the entire restaurant, including the full length of the space behind the bar.

A space occupied by the bartender, Sophie.

“Good afternoon,” Sophie greeted Owen with her customary smile and placed a coaster on the bar in front of him. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Jameson’s, neat, please and thank you,” the Irishman replied, removing his damp fedora and placing it beside the coaster.

“Very good,” Sophie said, still smiling despite the rainwater dripping off O’Leary’s hat onto her clean, shiny bar. “Will you be having any food this afternoon?”

“Not just yet. I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Excellent. Take a look at this while you wait.” She slid two menus down in front of O’Leary and began to turn away.

“You’ve a lovely smile, Sophie,” Owen said, allowing his gaze to linger on her chest long after reading the name stitched in her shirt.

“Thank you, sir,” Sophie replied, politely but not invitingly.

Dennis lifted one corner of his mouth in a wry grin. To him, it was clear Sophie was irritated at Owen’s blatant ogling. Owen didn’t know her well enough to realize this, and wouldn’t have cared in any event.

With just enough sarcasm to further amuse Dennis, Sophie replied, “I see you have the Irish charm to match your accent.”

As she turned away to pour his drink, Owen’s gaze followed her. “And you’ve the famously slender American waist to match your own.”

Sophie let this pass and delivered Owen’s drink in uncharacteristic silence.

Dennis found himself thinking about the things Sophie and Owen had in common. They both had dark hair, fair skin, and light-colored eyes. Both were parents—Owen had a daughter, and Sophie one of each. And they both worked in the alcohol distribution business, if you counted bartending as “alcohol distribution” and Owen’s brand of extortion and racketeering as business.

Of course, there were significant differences as well. Sophie was happily married; Owen was a widower who’d never been in love with his wife, even when she was alive. Sophie was a brutally honest, law-abiding citizen, while Owen was a savagely ruthless criminal. She was witty, funny, and instantly likable, the sort of woman whom other women wanted to be friends with and men fell in love with. He was a bully who carried himself with an air of intimidation. She was pretty—some would say beautiful—with bright and expressive eyes. He was anything but handsome, with a boxer’s broken nose and a heavy brow under which his eyes hid behind drooping lids.

Despite his sleepy appearance, Owen was ever alert and aware of his surroundings, ready to take advantage of any perceived weakness and seize any opportunity. Sophie was also constantly aware of her surroundings, but always with an eye toward helping someone.

Dennis, a lifelong bachelor, had little in common with either of them. He worked for a semisecret government agency, which, among other things, was interested in the affairs of America’s leading criminals. Sophie didn’t know the details of Dennis’s work, but she knew a bit. And he knew he could trust her.

Dennis was here because his agency knew about the meeting between Nowicki and O’Leary. They knew the time and the location. They also knew Nowicki was bringing Windy VanderSlooth with him, along with a couple of his thugs. They knew almost nothing about Windy, however. The information they did have had come to them from a member of Nowicki’s organization, an undercover agent who was working for Dennis.

What they didn’t know—and wanted to find out—was the purpose of the meeting.

Dennis was a man of routines and schedules. He ate just one meal a day, at a different local establishment each day of the week, repeated week after week. This single meal was always at 2:30 in the afternoon. Each day, he ordered a specific meal, depending on the establishment. On Thursdays, for instance, it was always a burger and a stout at Murphy’s Twin Shamrocks; on Fridays, the fisherman’s platter at Geno’s Bar and Grill; on Saturdays, pizza at Antonio’s; and so on. The exception to the one-meal-a-day rule was Sundays, when he had brunch from the all-you-can-eat buffet at Lou-Lou’s Café on Central Street at 11:00 a.m., and then a steak and a baked potato at Murphy’s Twin Shamrocks in the evening, making Murphy’s the only place he visited twice a week.

With today being Tuesday, anyone who knew Dennis would have been surprised not to find him at The New Town Café on the east side of town, enjoying their famous steak tips. Sophie wasn’t surprised, though. Dennis had told her in advance he’d be here at Murphy’s to keep an eye on two persons of interest.

As Dennis sat at the bar, eating his burger and sipping his stout two seats away from Owen O’Leary, he ran through a mental inventory of what he knew about the Irish mobster. Owen had built an organization that controlled nearly all the alcohol distribution in and around Belfast, and much of the rest of Northern Ireland. If you owned a pub or a restaurant in the area, you bought your whiskey and stout from the O’Learys, or you didn’t buy it at all. And if you owned a distillery or a brewery, O’Leary Trucking was the only way you could get your product to market. It was a monopoly Owen had built through strong-arm tactics and disregard for the law, rather than business expertise. And lately, it was becoming increasingly clear that the O’Leary organization was looking to expand, perhaps even beyond Ireland.

Dennis picked up a paperback book that was lying on the bar in front of him. The day before, Dennis and Sophie (along with the Twin Shamrocks’ owner, Kenny Auerbach, CPA) had attended the funeral of a mutual friend, Terry Anderson, who’d been a regular customer at the bar since the days when it had been called The Brat-haus. Terry had earned one of Sophie’s famous nicknames, “The Librarian,” because he was always reading. In his will, he had left all five hundred seventy-five of his battered paperbacks to Sophie, who wasn’t sure yet what she was going to do with them all. She had brought a few of them to the bar that morning, and it was one of them Dennis was inspecting now: a paperback edition of The Arabian Nights.

“Imagine how many people have referenced these stories without ever having read the original,” Dennis said. “Everyone’s heard of Sinbad and Aladdin. Everyone knows about genies and ‘open sesame’ and flying carpets. But hardly anyone realizes how much sex and violence there is in here. The whole premise is that the king sleeps with a different virgin every night and has her killed in the morning.”

“What is it with you men and virgins?” Sophie asked as she removed some newly steam-cleaned glasses from the dishwasher below the bar. “Wouldn’t you rather be with a woman who knows what she’s doing?”

“Ha! Very wise, Miss Sophie,” Owen cut in. “I’ve always preferred a woman with some experience. And if she’s as smart and attractive as you, all the better. It’s a bit like any other endeavor: if you’re bringing a companion, best to make sure it’s someone who knows a thing or two about whatever it is you might be likely to encounter.”

“Then again, sometimes your best bet is to go it alone,” Sophie replied with a hint of venom.

Owen laughed loudly. “Wisdom again, Miss Sophie!”

Dennis set the book back down and took another swallow of stout. “You know, the name Sophie is a variation of Sophia, which is the Greek word for wisdom.” 

“Dennis here knows a little bit about almost everything,” Sophie said, with her trademark affectionate sarcasm. “He’s our resident Alex Trebek.”

“Don’t give me too much credit, Sophie. I’m not so smart.” Dennis blushed a bit, knowing that although she was poking fun, Sophie truly did admire his intelligence and knowledge. “For instance, while I know that Sophie was the name of King James of Scotland’s first daughter, I don’t know much at all about Ireland.”

“Perhaps our new friend can fill you in,” said Sophie, heading to the other end of the bar, where she pretended to polish the already sparkling counter.

“What was your name, sir?” Dennis asked Owen.

“It’s O’Leary, Owen O’Leary, from Belfast.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Leary. I’m Dennis Bauer, from right around the corner.”

The two men clasped hands briefly.

“How long have you been on this side of the Atlantic, Mr. O’Leary?” Dennis asked.

“My plane landed earlier today,” Owen replied, between sips of whiskey.

“Ah, so you’ve just arrived. And what brings you here? Murphy’s isn’t exactly a tourist spot.”

“Lucky chance, I suppose. I’ve some business to conduct, and this seemed a convenient location for a meeting.”

“Well, if you’re planning on eating while you conduct your business, I recommend the burgers.” Dennis indicated his own plate, which contained only a few crumbs as evidence of the burger he’d just finished. “They’re the best in town.”

“I’ll take your recommendation under consideration.”

The street door opened, and Joe Nowicki was swept in by the gusting wind. He shook out his umbrella, then made his way to Owen. The two mobsters shook hands, and Joe suggested they take a table.

“Sophie, m’dear!” Owen called out as he stood up from his stool. “My associate and I will be over in the corner here. Could you bring me another whiskey and a cold mug of lager for my friend?”

As she pulled the beer from the tap, Sophie spoke quietly to Dennis: “I assume these are the gentlemen you’re here to observe?”

“They are, indeed,” Dennis murmured into his glass of stout.

After Sophie delivered the drinks to Owen and Joe’s table in the corner, she returned behind the bar and quietly rearranged some bottles to give Dennis an unobstructed view of the gangsters in the mirror. Dennis switched on the radio receiver in the inside pocket of his blazer and adjusted his nearly invisible earpiece. Sophie had stuck the microphone he’d given her to the bottom of the table Owen and Joe had chosen when she delivered their drinks. For neither the first nor last time in his life, Dennis wished he had two or three people in his agency as competent as Sophie. He was sure he’d be able to end crime in the entire country within a week.

The two mobsters spent the next few minutes comparing complaints about their flights before O’Leary called out, “We’d like two burgers here, Miss Sophie. And two mugs of lager, if you please.”

Sophie walked to their corner table and asked the necessary questions about how they each liked their burgers, then went through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Through his earpiece, Dennis heard Owen say, “That’s a fine-looking woman, Joe. I’m almost tempted to stay an extra day in this shithole.”

“I suppose she’s alright, if you like ‘em skinny,” Joe responded. “Not enough to be changing your plans for, though, if you ask me.”

“To each his own,” Owen said casually. Then, in a more business-like tone, “Speaking of women, where’s Windy?”

“She’s in my car, around the corner.” Joe paused to swallow the last of his beer. “I thought it’d be best if we talked things over first. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to bring her in here. Better to make the transaction outside. You can’t really trust her, you know. I’ve explained to you the way she is.”

“You told me. I’ll take my chances. You’re not trying to back out of our deal, are you?” Owen’s voice was dangerously calm.

“Oh, no. I just don’t want you accusing me later of not being open and honest.”

“Fair enough. You’ve warned me, I’ve heard you, and I’m taking the risk. You’re getting plenty of compensation in any case.”

“I ain’t complaining. Speaking of that, you have the cash with you?”

“It’s where I can get it.”

By now, Sophie was back behind the bar. Julie, the evening shift waitress, had just arrived in anticipation of the dinner crowd. Julie was Sophie’s best friend and the person who’d been working there the second longest amount of time after her. Kenny arrived then as well, entering through the door from the kitchen. He’d always spent a lot of time here, since both his apartment and his office were upstairs in the same building. So, when the previous owner had run into trouble with the IRS, Kenny had purchased the restaurant, changed the name, and made Sophie the manager.

“Kenny, the usual?” Sophie called, already filling a glass with dark beer.

“Yes, Sophie, please and thank you.” Kenny settled himself next to Dennis, oblivious to his reason for being there, or of it being contrary to his daily meal schedule.

Several other people had also entered, including an elderly couple who had taken the table next to Owen and Joe’s, eager for the early-bird special. It took Dennis a moment before he realized he was no longer hearing any conversation between the two gangsters. He looked into the mirror and saw they were still there, appearing to be speaking between bites of their burgers. But the speaker in his ear was silent.

Damned budget cuts, Dennis thought, can’t get decent equipment any more. 

He considered asking Sophie to check on the hidden microphone, but he didn’t want to put her in any more danger than she might already be in. Instead, he decided to check the neighborhood to see if he could spot Joe’s car. He stood, pulled on his pea coat and his cap with the embroidered anchor, and told Sophie he was going to step out for a cigarette.

“Ok, Dennis. Should I pull you another stout?”

“Yes, please. Won’t be a moment.”

---

The rain had eased up considerably as Dennis lit his cigarette and began to circle the block. He spotted two nearly identical black limousines parked at opposite ends of the street running parallel to the one Murphy’s was on. He assumed one must have been Nowicki’s and the other O’Leary’s. He strolled past them both, like any citizen out for a walk and a smoke would do, noting the license plates as only a cop would. Both had dark-tinted windows, hiding whoever might still be inside.

Once he was out of sight of the two limos, Dennis pulled out a pencil and pocket-sized notepad and wrote down the license plate numbers. Most likely, they were both rented for the day, but it couldn’t hurt to find out who had made those arrangements.

Returning to Murphy’s, Dennis found the situation had changed significantly. Owen and Joe were gone. The table they’d been sitting at was lying on its side, and Sophie was sitting on the floor beside it, holding a towel to her head. Julie crouched beside her, supporting her. Kenny was standing nearby, feeling useless, not doing anything of practical value. Kenny was a good guy and a great accountant, but not really equipped for situations like this.

“What happened?” Dennis asked, rushing to kneel beside Sophie, as near to panic as the normally stoic lawman ever got.

“They were on to you from the start, Dennis,” Sophie answered, removing the cloth she’d been holding to her temple to reveal a red mark already beginning to swell. “As soon as you left, the Irishman hit me, grabbed your microphone from under the table, and they both went out through the kitchen.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Go.”

Dennis ran through the kitchen, down a couple of twisting hallways, and eventually out to an alleyway leading to the street where he’d seen the parked limos. Of course, they were both gone. It had taken less than five minutes for the whole thing to go sideways.

Dennis returned to the restaurant the way he’d gone out. Julie and Kenny had straightened up the table by then, and everything was seemingly back to normal—except almost all the customers had left. Only the elderly couple remained, shaken but still anticipating their bargain-priced early dinner. Sophie was back behind the bar, the red mark on the side of her head visibly larger. Kenny was on his stool, sipping my beer. Julie was serving the elderly couple.

“You ought to see a doctor,” Dennis said, inspecting Sophie’s injury.

“You ought to call your office and tell them what happened,” she replied. “You can use the phone in the back.”

“Thanks. Then I’m taking you to the hospital. Kenny, Julie can cover the bar, right? It’s Tuesday, it’s not going to be busy. And don’t argue with me, Sophie.”

“He’s right, Soph,” Julie cut in, “I got it.”

Kenny nodded. “Of course. We’ve got it covered.”

Sophie didn’t have a chance to argue, though, as the front windows shattered and bullets started whizzing through the room, peppering the back wall.

Everyone hit the ground, including the surprisingly agile elderly couple. Dennis covered both Sophie and Julie as best as he could. Once the barrage of bullets had ended, he pulled his gun from its holster and ran to the door.

But again, he was too late. There were no signs of the limos or anyone else with guns.

Running back into the pub, Dennis headed straight for the little office behind the bar. He dialed 911 to report the shooting, but heard sirens approaching before the dispatcher even answered. Someone else in the neighborhood had already called it in.

Dennis hung up and dialed his boss to give a quick report. He was just finishing as the cops arrived.

“Everyone ok in here?” the first officer called out through the shattered window.

“No one’s been shot,” Dennis answered, showing his government ID. “Sophie here took a fist to the face, though. I imagine they were shooting at me. I was doing surveillance on two out-of-town mobsters, each with his own black limousine. Here are the license plates.” He handed the officer a page from his notepad.

“Well, only one of them is still on the road,” the officer told Dennis. “The other crashed a block from here, looks like the driver lost control.”

“Which direction?” Dennis asked. “I need to see it. Was there anyone in it?”

“I’ll walk there with you, Mr. Bauer. I understand the driver is dead, and there were no other occupants.”

“And no sign of the other car?”

“No, sir.”

“OK, let’s go.”

After they left, Kenny looked at the shattered windows and said, “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about whether you can handle the place alone, Julie. Looks like we’ll be shutting down for a few days. I’ll stay and clean up. You can go with Sophie to the hospital.”

By then, an ambulance had arrived. One of the EMTs attended to the elderly couple, who were uninjured but understandably upset. The other checked out Sophie’s face, flashing his pen light in her eyes. “I don’t think it’s serious,” he said, “but you should probably let us take you to the ER.”

“Can I ride along?” asked Julie.

“Sure.”

Down the block, Dennis was looking over the crashed limo. Judging by the minimal damage, it appeared the limo hadn’t been traveling very fast. The deceased driver was slumped over the wheel with no visible injury. The back doors were open, and there was no one else inside. Dennis found the driver’s wallet and pulled out an Illinois driver’s license. So, this was Nowicki’s car, but where was Nowicki? And what about O’Leary? And the mysterious Windy?

Opening the trunk, Dennis found his informant—the one who’d been working undercover as part of Nowicki’s organization—with a bullet hole in his forehead.

What a disaster, Dennis thought. He’d lost a man, gotten Sophie injured, and put the rest of the people at Murphy’s in danger, and he had learned nothing at all of value.

---

As all of that was unfolding in town, Owen O’Leary and Windy VanderSlooth were halfway to the airport, where they’d be boarding a plane under false names. They’d be in Belfast in time for breakfast.

Meanwhile, Nowicki and what was left of his entourage were headed back to Chicago in another rented car, without the money O’Leary had promised. As soon as they got home, he’d be setting up a contract to take care of that cheating Irishman.

---

It would be years before Dennis discovered what had happened, or why O’Leary wanted Windy in his organization. For now, suffice to say that Windy had killed the driver, causing the car to crash.

---

After Dennis left the crash scene, he came back to Murphy’s and helped Kenny nail plywood across the gaping holes where the windows used to be. When they had everything as neat and secure as they could get it, Kenny poured them each a stout, and they sat together at the bar in silence until Julie returned to tell them Sophie was back home in bed.

“The doctor said there’s no concussion and no broken bones.” Julie continued. “She’ll have a headache in the morning and a black eye for a few days.”

Kenny poured Julie a shot of tequila. “The glass company will be here in the morning to replace the windows. We should be able to reopen by Friday.” He took a sip and pointed to the bullet-riddled back wall. “I’m thinking about leaving the bullet holes back there. Maybe change the name of the place, too. Redecorate with a 1920s speakeasy theme?”

“Don’t do that, Kenny. Murphy’s Twin Shamrocks is a fine name, and those retro themes never work.” Julie walked to the back wall to inspect the bullet holes. “I can patch these up, add some fresh paint, it’ll be as good as new. Frankly, the place needed a new coat of paint, anyway.”

“She’s right, Ken,” Dennis added. “It’s not gonna cost you anything, you might as well take advantage, give the place a little facelift.”

“What do you mean it’s not gonna cost me anything?” Kenny asked, turning back to look at Dennis. “How do you figure?”

“I’ve got it covered, Kenny,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s my fault this happened. Don’t tell your insurance company you got any money from me, though. Let them pay whenever they get around to it.”              

“Maybe you can use their money to finally update the records in the jukebox,” Julie added.

Kenny stood up and went to the old jukebox, the same one that had been there since the 1960s. “What’s wrong with the records in here? I’ll tell you right now, I’m not adding any new wave crap.”

She laughed. “Kenny, nobody wants to hear Sinatra and Bing Crosby. At least get some rock and roll. I mean, we all love Louis Prima and Ray Charles, but it’s 1982. We ought to at least get the jukebox up to the ‘70s.”

“All right, all right. I’ll think about it.” But even as he spoke, Kenny was punching D-62, Jo Stafford’s “You Belong to Me.” “Now this is a song. How could people not want to hear this?” He shook his head, fully aware of his age and lack of cultural awareness. “Anyway, it’s been a hell of a day, my friends. Let’s get out of here.”

“Ok, Kenny,” said Julie.

“You know, I was thinking,” said Dennis as the three of them stepped onto the sidewalk and Kenny locked the door behind them. “Maybe you could nail up some shelves, put Terry’s books on them for folks to help themselves. He was The Librarian, after all. You can have a little library in his memory.”

And that’s just what they did.