THE ROBBERY

The Inwood Tavern seemed its friendly self last July 27th. Usual crowd of thirsty regulars, drinking beer and playing pool, familiar faces glad to see each other again.

Phillip Looney sat at his piano, belting out an old Beatles tune. Both he and the beer encouraged the crowd to sing along. This was a safe place to make a fool of yourself, to get rowdy and dance on the bar top if you wanted.

Just after midnight, Phillip finished his set and walked outside to get some fresh air. He was leaning against a pillar, staring at the clear evening sky when suddenly he heard footsteps, sensed a presence. Looking down, he was shocked to see a young man leveling a pistol at his head-point-blank range. “He never said a word,” recalls Phillip. “He just came right up and pulled the trigger.” The gun went off, sounding more like a blank, but the force spun Phillip backwards into the bar.

Phillip only realized he’d been shot when he removed his hand from his forehead, and the blood spurted out six inches in front of him. “Oh, my God. Somebody call an ambulance,” he yelled.

In came the robbers, five of them, firing guns, a storm of bullets ricocheting off the ceiling and walls. Each of the robbers stepped over Phillip, one reaching down, trying to pull off his watch, searching his pockets for a billfold. “I just laid there,” says Phillip. “And played dead.”

The blood in his eyes blinded Phillip, though his keen musician’s ears took in the sounds of the crime. “Get down, you mother f .. .You better not look at me . . .I’ll blow your f head off”.

So Phillip didn’t see Jerry Poag, a bar regular, remain standing-unable to get down because the floor was cluttered with people or unwilling to agree with the robbers’ demands. Poag grabbed one of the gunmen from behind, yelling, “The gun’s a fake. Somebody help me.” But die only person to move was a second gunman who raised his .38 revolver and pumped three bullets into Jerry’s back and abdomen.

The other intruders went about their business, gathering up purses, jewelry, credit cards, and raiding the cash register, tossing money among themselves. Within minutes Phillip heard police sirens, and the robbers ran out the back door, escaping into the night.

Phillip had lost a lot of blood and was finding it difficult to remain conscious. A customer knelt by his side, practically yelling at him to stay awake, afraid he might go into shock. Others offered words of encouragement, telling him he was going to make it, to hang in there.

After two hours of surgery at Parkland, the doctors told Phillip the bullet had grazed his forehead and the deep gash would heal into a thin scar. Jerry Poag wasn’t nearly so lucky. He died in the early morning hours.

Phillip was among the 400 mourners who attended the funeral. Jerry’s Either delivered the eulogy, speaking proudly of his son, torn by the thought that his son would fight back, knowing him to be more sensible. Although Phillip felt a deep sadness for Jerry and his family, he couldn’t help thinking that this could have been his own funeral.

The night after the shooting, Phillip returned to the Inwood Tavern, hoping to sing a few songs, to let people know that he was all right. He didn’t expect anyone to be there-shootings put most bars out of business. But he was surprised to find the bar crawling with people, some there out of curiosity, others to express a kind of moral outrage, to reclaim the bar as their own.

Although Phillip’s wounds healed, recurring nightmares haunted him for the next several months. He would be sleeping soundly, dreaming a normal dream, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, he would be shot. In time, even the nightmares stopped, perhaps because Phillip exorcised his demons in the only way he knew how-by writing a song: “Murder with a .38 gun./ There is nothing new under the sun./But if you murder with a. 38 gun. /Remember everybody’s somebody’s son.”