A tavernkeeper stares down organized crime

I was driving by Cunneen’s bar one morning and most of the front of it was no longer there. 

I made a u-turn and found a place to park out of the way of the detective cars that were littering the curb at 1424 Devon Ave.

I stuck my head in where the door used to be.

“You can’t come in. We're not open,” Steve Cunneen said in a surprisingly friendly tone, considering. “They’re looking at evidence.”

I didn’t want to come in. “This is too early for me, and there are far too many sharp objects hanging about, anyway,” I said. “I just want to know is everybody okay?”

Steve replied cheerfully that there was nobody around at the time the bar was firebombed, and he didn’t know what the southerly portion of his bar had done to offend anybody. He remarked that he was insured for the damage, which was the answer to a question I would never have asked.

You don’t chat about insurance in front of investigators after a mysterious retail building explosion. 

“Where were you at 3 a.m.?” one of the suits pointedly asked me, inferring that I might be returning to the scene of the crime. Before I could reply, Steve told the guy, “Nah, he didn’t do it.” 

The suit looked a little cross-eyed at Steve. Well, Mr. Cunneen, how do you know that, both eyes said.

That was typical 1980s Steve Cunneen. He exposed his own innocent hide to cover mine, and I wasn't even in trouble yet.

Actually, it might have been a problem. This was the third time in weeks that I had stumbled onto the scene of a neighborhood arson, and after three times, cops tend to discard coincidence.

Steve never told me what might have precipitated the firebombing at his tavern. I wasn't surprised by it, however, because of a story I had heard years before, which he would never confirm, either.

For all I know, it could be apocryphal. But it's a good story.

Steve died last month at the age of 86. I'm going to tell the story now because if it’s true, it shouldn't die with him. If it isn't true, it should be.

A little background about how Steve ran the tavern is necessary. Since 1972, there’s never been a jukebox. The bartender on duty plays the music he or she wants. You can sometimes tell who’s working by the sound.

It’s never too loud. You can talk in Cunneen’s. Even read, if you have decent concentration.

A full-size pool table would have meant the cue sticks might have poked innocent passersby too often. That would have meant the pool players were more important than the other patrons’ quiet enjoyment. So there’s always been a little table, about the length of a cue. Still fun. Tom Greer and I held that table for five hours one night. 

The atmosphere appeals to Loyola students and neighborhood people of various ages and shades. Steve’s widow, Belinda, promises to carry it forward. 

Back in the day, Steve pitched 16’’ softball, and sponsored multiple teams. There was one bad enough for me to play on. 

One afternoon, a stranger came in to visit Steve. “That wall is a good place for one of our cigarette machines,” he might have said. “You get it for free.”

Steve demurred. “That’s okay,” he said. “I like the wall the way it is. We’ll do without.”

The cigarette guy said doing without was something that just wasn’t done. 

“You won’t have to worry about it,” he said. “We’ll maintain it and keep it filled, and you’ll get a cut of every pack. We’ve got a brand new machine picked out just for you. It's got twinkling lights and everything.

“You’ll love it. Good for business.  Nobody has to stop drinking to go down the street to get some more Parliaments.”

At that time, Steve probably didn’t have anything serious against smoking. He just disliked associating with the kind of people who were in the cigarette machine business. He told the dude he was free to install the wonderful new machine wherever he wanted as long as it wasn’t in his tavern. 

A couple of days later, the guy came back with another, bigger guy. This guy was of a similar size to a cigarette machine.

He didn’t talk much. That wasn’t his job.

He just rolled his shoulders and looked at Steve. Steve reminded the original, regular-size guy that he wasn’t going to join him in the automated cigarette sales trade.

“Absolutely do not bring one of those cancer dispensers in here,” he said.

“Cigarettes are healthy for you,” the guy replied. “That’s on account of that unavailability of cigarettes is unhealthy.”

Steve said his health should not be a concern of the guy’s outfit. “I have plenty of health insurance. I got all kinds of insurance.”

“Make sure it’s paid up,” the gentleman kindly advised. “You never know when you need it.”

Steve came into the tavern the next afternoon and immediately noticed the boys had left a free gift, already plugged in. All the little lights were happily winking on and off. 

“It’s nice,” one of the day-drunks said. “The Luckies are actually kind of fresh.”

Steve just looked at him. “Hey, can you and your buddy do me a favor?” He looked down the bar. “You, too. Got a minute?”

Ten minutes later, Devon Avenue traffic was weaving around a cigarette machine straddling the centerline.

Steve called the guy. He had to raise his voice because of all the honking.

“You might want to pick up your machine. People say it’s in the way.’’

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