9.

Getting Away with Murder (inc.).

"Men who have lived by the gun do not throw off the habit overnight."-Florabel Muir.

DISTRICT ATTORNEY Buron Fitts was in a tricky position. Angelenos were in a reforming mood-and Buron Fitts was the ant.i.thesis of reform. In 1936, Fitts had won reelection after essentially purchasing 12,000 votes along Central Avenue. (The Hollywood Citizen-News Hollywood Citizen-News later reported that the underworld had spent $2 million-more than $30 million in today's dollars-to fund Fitts's campaign.) Knowing of his vulnerability on issues of corruption, when the Raymond bombing scandal broke, Fitts had acted with uncharacteristic vigor, ultimately convicting Joe Shaw on sixty-three counts of selling city jobs and promotions. Still, with a tough reelection campaign approaching, Fitts needed to do more. So in 1939, Fitts sent his chief investigator, Johnny Klein, to Manhattan. New York City district attorney Tom Dewey had made a name for himself by prosecuting gangsters. Klein's brief was to learn what he could about eastern gangsters who might be trying to infiltrate the City of Angels. later reported that the underworld had spent $2 million-more than $30 million in today's dollars-to fund Fitts's campaign.) Knowing of his vulnerability on issues of corruption, when the Raymond bombing scandal broke, Fitts had acted with uncharacteristic vigor, ultimately convicting Joe Shaw on sixty-three counts of selling city jobs and promotions. Still, with a tough reelection campaign approaching, Fitts needed to do more. So in 1939, Fitts sent his chief investigator, Johnny Klein, to Manhattan. New York City district attorney Tom Dewey had made a name for himself by prosecuting gangsters. Klein's brief was to learn what he could about eastern gangsters who might be trying to infiltrate the City of Angels.

A former Hollywood fur salesman, Klein was not known as the savviest of investigators. When he arrived at NYPD headquarters on Centre Street to examine the department's gangster files, one of the detectives decided to have a little fun with him. He pulled forth a mug shot of Benjamin Siegel-taken in Dade County, Florida, where Siegel had been arrested for speeding.

"Now there's an outstanding citizen named Bugsy Siegel," the detective told the DA's investigator.

"Never heard of him," Klein replied.

"You never heard of him? Why, Johnny, this guy is one of the worst killers in America, and he's living right in your backyard." The detective continued, "Dewey wants this guy and would give anything to lay hands on him."

Bugsy Siegel was was one of the worst killers in America-the FBI would later credit him with carrying out or partic.i.p.ating in some thirty murders-but his whereabouts were hardly a secret. Every crime reporter in New York knew that Siegel was actually in New York at that very moment, staying at the Waldorf-Astoria (where he had lived for much of the 1920s, two floors below "Lucky" Luciano). And it had been a long time since Bugsy Siegel was running around indiscriminately knocking people off. Nonetheless, Klein promptly telegrammed the news of this discovery back to Los Angeles. The DA's office immediately sent a raiding party to Siegel's Beverly Hills residence-along with a reporter from the one of the worst killers in America-the FBI would later credit him with carrying out or partic.i.p.ating in some thirty murders-but his whereabouts were hardly a secret. Every crime reporter in New York knew that Siegel was actually in New York at that very moment, staying at the Waldorf-Astoria (where he had lived for much of the 1920s, two floors below "Lucky" Luciano). And it had been a long time since Bugsy Siegel was running around indiscriminately knocking people off. Nonetheless, Klein promptly telegrammed the news of this discovery back to Los Angeles. The DA's office immediately sent a raiding party to Siegel's Beverly Hills residence-along with a reporter from the Los Angeles Examiner Los Angeles Examiner, which was delighted to have another gangster to crusade against.

The next day the Examiner Examiner broke the story in typical Hearst style, portraying Siegel as a Dillinger-esque outlaw on the run. To those familiar with the Syndicate's operations, the broke the story in typical Hearst style, portraying Siegel as a Dillinger-esque outlaw on the run. To those familiar with the Syndicate's operations, the Examiner Examiner's portrayal was laughable. Still, Siegel's cover was blown. The timing couldn't have been worse. Siegel had just launched an effort to sign up L.A.'s bookies for a new racing wire, the Trans-American news service. His unmasking threatened to complicate these efforts, as well as the broader effort to organize Los Angeles along eastern lines. Furious, Siegel called the Los Angeles papers. If he was really an outlaw wanted by DA Dewey, then why was he visiting New York City, unmolested, at that very moment? Siegel's consort, the Countess di Fra.s.so, was also upset, so much so that she drove to San Simeon to make a personal appeal to William Randolph Hearst to stop the Examiner Examiner from further besmirching Siegel's name. These efforts floundered, for Siegel was, of course, a notorious gangster. With uncharacteristic delicacy of feeling, a despairing Siegel decided to resign from his beloved Hillcrest Country Club (though no one dared ask him to). He also decided to leave town for a bit. So he set off for Rome with the Countess di Fra.s.so, leaving Mickey Cohen as his surrogate. from further besmirching Siegel's name. These efforts floundered, for Siegel was, of course, a notorious gangster. With uncharacteristic delicacy of feeling, a despairing Siegel decided to resign from his beloved Hillcrest Country Club (though no one dared ask him to). He also decided to leave town for a bit. So he set off for Rome with the Countess di Fra.s.so, leaving Mickey Cohen as his surrogate.

MICKEY AND BUGSY had grown close. Cohen was still raw-not to mention sullen, closemouthed, temperamental, and dangerous-but Siegel thought he had potential. As a result, he began to try, in Mickey's words, "to put some cla.s.s into me... trying to evolve me." It wasn't easy. As a stickup-man, Mickey steered clear of flashy dressing (too memorable). White shirt, dark sungla.s.ses, that was it. Off the job, however, Mickey continued to pay his sartorial respects to Al Capone. Siegel tried to spiff him up. He introduced Mickey to cashmere. (Mickey thought it tickled.) He also introduced Mickey to a higher cla.s.s of people. For the first time in his life, Cohen "got invited to different dinner parties and... met people with much elegance and manners." It slowly dawned on Mickey that he'd been "living like an animal." He grew ashamed. Earnestly, he set out to improve himself. He hired a tutor to help him learn to speak grammatically. He purchased a leather-bound set of the world's great literature, which he proudly showed off to visitors (who noted the spines were never cracked).

When a source at the Treasury Department's Bureau of Internal Revenue (precursor agency to the Internal Revenue Service) informed Siegel that the government was starting to get interested in his young sidekick, Siegel told Mickey he had to start paying taxes. It was a tough sell. ("I had a firm belief that if the government, or anybody else, wanted any part of my money they should at least be on hand to help me steal it," he said later, only half-jokingly.) The fact that Siegel prevailed on Cohen to get an accountant shows the authority that Bugsy exercised over his young protege. Although he would later (much later) boast of thumbing his nose at Bugsy during his early days in L.A., Mickey was actually quite awed by the suave older gangster.

"I found Benny a person with brilliant intelligence," Cohen told the writer Ben Hecht in the mid-1950s. "He commanded a 1,000 percent respect and got it. Also he was tough. He come out the hard way-been through it all-muscle work, heists, killings." For someone who had dreamed of an a.s.sociation with "the people," working with Siegel must have seemed like a dream come true. They were not formally superior and subordinate-Mickey continued to run his own rackets and related to Bugsy more like a subcontractor on retainer than an employee-but when Siegel gave an order, Cohen jumped to. In return, Bugsy took care of Mickey, kicking him anywhere from $2,000 to $20,000 on a regular (albeit unpredictable) basis.

It was an arrangement Mickey liked. "I didn't have no wish to be a ruler," said Cohen in describing his mind-set upon first arriving in Los Angeles. "In fact that was actually contrary to my nature at the time. I just wanted to be myself-Mickey." But fate-in the form of Bugsy Siegel's itchy trigger finger-had other plans.

BUGSY AND THE COUNTESS di Fra.s.so's trip to Rome wasn't intended just to get away from the press. Both Siegel and the multimillionaire countess had a weakness for get-rich schemes. One year earlier, they had chartered a boat to look for buried treasure off the coast of Ecuador.* Now the gangster and the countess had another idea. Siegel had recently come across two chemists who claimed to have invented a new type of explosive-Atomite. Bugsy was convinced this new substance would replace dynamite and make him fabulously wealthy. With the countess's help, he hoped to sell it to the Italian military. The countess, always ready for adventure, talked to her husband, who arranged a demonstration. Now the gangster and the countess had another idea. Siegel had recently come across two chemists who claimed to have invented a new type of explosive-Atomite. Bugsy was convinced this new substance would replace dynamite and make him fabulously wealthy. With the countess's help, he hoped to sell it to the Italian military. The countess, always ready for adventure, talked to her husband, who arranged a demonstration.

For purposes of a trip to fascist Italy, di Fra.s.so decided to recast Bugsy as "Bart"-Sir Bart, an English baronet. This was a good idea, for when the countess arrived at her husband's villa outside of Rome, she found that they had houseguests-Joseph Goebbels, n.a.z.i Germany's propaganda minister, and Hermann Goring, Luftwaffe commander and Hitler's second in command. Although Siegel evidently had no qualms about doing business with Mussolini's military, the n.a.z.i houseguests rubbed him the wrong way. One night he confronted the countess.

"Look, Dottie," he said, "I saw you talking to that fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d Goring. Why do you let him come into our building?"

The countess murmured something about social niceties, to which Siegel responded, "I'm going to kill him, and that dirty Goebbels, too.... It's an easy setup the way they're walking around here."

Only after the countess elaborated on the problems posed by the carabiniere-and the likely consequences for her husband-did Siegel give up on the idea. The Atomite demonstration fizzled, and "Sir Bart" and Countess di Fra.s.so left for the French Riviera. There Siegel b.u.mped into his old friend the actor George Raft, who was pursuing the actress Norma Shearer. Despite Atomite's inexplicable failure, Siegel seemed to be in good spirits. Raft said he was looking forward to lingering on the Riviera. Then Siegel received a cablegram from New York and his mood suddenly changed. The next day Raft noticed he was gone. The Syndicate had a problem that required Bugsy's unique talents.

The problem was Harry "Big Greenie" Greenberg. Greenberg was a former a.s.sociate of Siegel and Louis "Lepke" Buchalter, the Brooklyn-based crime lord and labor racketeer. Greenberg had been arrested and deported to his native Poland, but "Big Greenie" had no intention of going back to the old country. He jumped ship in France and made it back to Montreal. From there he sent a letter to a friend in New York, implying that if his old friends in Brooklyn didn't send him a big bundle of cash, he might go talk to the authorities. Instead of sending cash, Buchalter a.s.sociate Mendy Weiss sent two hitmen. "Big Greenie" checked out of his hotel just hours before the two a.s.sa.s.sins checked in. For a time, the trail went cold. Then, in the fall of 1939, "Big Greenie" was spotted in Hollywood. He had a new name (George Schachter), a new wife, and, given his lack of further communications, he'd evidently learned that blackmailing the Syndicate was a foolish thing to do. Nonetheless, at a meeting in New York, Siegel, Buchalter, New Jersey rackets boss Longy Zwillman, and Brooklyn crime overlord Albert Anastasia decided that "Big Greenie" had to go. Zwillman once again sent two gunmen to California. But the gunmen didn't like the setup and returned to New York. Bugsy being Bugsy, he decided to take care of the problem himself.

The evening before Thanksgiving, on November 22, 1939, "Big Greenie" got a call to run down to the corner drugstore to pick up a package. As he eased his old Ford convertible into a parking s.p.a.ce outside his modest house in Hollywood, triggerman Frank Carbo walked quickly out of the shadows toward the vehicle. Bugsy Siegel was waiting in a black Mercury sedan parked down the street. Al Tannenbaum was behind him, in a stolen "crash car," ready to stop any car that pursued them. Champ Segal was parked five blocks away, ready to drive Carbo north to San Francisco where he would take a flight back to New York. From inside the Green-berg house, Ida Greenberg heard a rapid series of shots-a backfiring car, she thought, then the sound of two cars speeding down the street. When "Big Greenie" didn't reappear, she went outside to look for him. She found him in his blood-spattered car, dead from five bullets fired at point-blank range into his head.

So much for "Big Greenie"-or so it seemed. Unfortunately for Bugsy, one of his old a.s.sociates back in Brooklyn was about to start talking to the DA.

Abe "Kid Twist" Reles had a reputation as one of East Brooklyn's nastiest thugs. "He had a round face, thick lips, a flat nose and small ears," noted Brooklyn a.s.sistant DA Burton Turkus. "His arms had not waited for the rest of him. They dangled to his knees, completing a generally gorilla-like figure." He also had the nasty habit of killing victims with an ice pick, which made him one of Louis Buchalter's most feared executioners.

In January 1940, two months after Greenberg's a.s.sa.s.sination, "Kid Twist" was picked up by the police on charges of robbery, a.s.sault, possession of narcotics, burglary, disorderly contact, and six charges related to various murders. For a guy like Reles, this should have been no big deal. After all, he'd been arrested forty-two times over the preceding sixteen years and had never done serious jail time. But as he languished in prison, Reles grew worried that several a.s.sociates who'd also been picked up were ratting him out. So Reles informed his wife that he was willing to talk. One day, Mrs. Reles walked into the Brooklyn DA's office and announced, "My husband wants an interview with the Law."

It took twelve days and twenty-five stenographer notebooks to complete and record his confession. Reles's testimony was stunning. In two weeks' time, he clarified forty-nine unsolved murders. That wasn't even the most startling part of his story. Previously, most police officials had a.s.sumed that Reles and his a.s.sociates were basically just a nasty crew of criminals who operated in and around Brownsville and East New York. Not so, Reles told the prosecutors. He revealed that Buchalter had actually a.s.sembled a group that functioned as a killing squad for a nationwide crime syndicate. For the first time, authorities realized, in Turkus's words, "that there actually existed in America an organized underworld, and that it controlled lawlessness across the United States," from Brooklyn to California. Turkus would later dub it "Murder, Inc." According to Reles, hundreds of people nationwide had been killed at its bequest. "Big Greenie" was one of them.

There was more. Reles told prosecutors that Bugsy Siegel and Buchalter lieutenant Mendy Weiss had organized the hit on "Big Greenie"-and that New York fight promoter Frank Carbo had pulled the trigger. Mickey Cohen pal Champ Segal had also been involved in the hit, Reles told authorities. He'd heard so firsthand. Reles testified that after the hit, he had overheard Siegel, Weiss, Louis Capone, and one of the original gunmen sent west to do the hit, Sholom Bernstein, discussing the rub-out. According to Reles, Bernstein had criticized the execution of the hit as something more befitting "a Wild West cowboy" than a professional a.s.sa.s.sin. In response, Siegel had allegedly replied, "I was there myself on that job. Do I look like a cowboy? I did that job myself." After Bernstein left, Reles added, Siegel had proposed whacking him him-for fouling up ("d.o.g.g.i.ng") the first hit.

Reles wasn't prosecutors' only important witness. They'd also flipped Al Tannenbaum, the other gunman Murder, Inc. had originally sent to Montreal to kill "Big Greenie." Tannenbaum was now prepared to testify that New Jersey mob boss Longy Zwillman had sent him to California with pistols for the Greenberg hit and that on the night of the murder he'd been the driver of the crash car.

A stronger case against Siegel would have been hard to imagine. With two witnesses who could link Siegel to the murder, prosecutors on both coasts went to work. Brooklyn a.s.sistant DA Burton Turkus flew to Los Angeles to brief Los Angeles district attorney Buron Fitts on the evidence. Fitts immediately a.s.sembled a raiding party. His plan was to nab Bugsy at his newly built dream mansion in Holmby Hills, one of L.A.'s most prestigious neighborhoods.

The raiding party-three cars strong, its members specially chosen for their marksmanship skills-set out for the Siegel mansion at 250 Delfern Street on the morning of August 17, 1940. They were greeted at the front door by Siegel's butler. The men informed him that they were there to see Benjamin Siegel. The butler nodded and asked them to wait. Several minutes later, he returned and opened the door of the mansion onto a lifestyle they could scarcely conceive of. At a time when the country was mired in the seemingly unending misery of the Depression, Bugsy Siegel was living like... a baronet. In the bar and lounge room, eighteen-foot carved divans flanked a deeply recessed fireplace, and a choice selection of whiskeys, cognacs, and cordials was available for guests. There were six "vanity rooms" for the ladies. The dining room table was made of exotic inlaid woods and sat thirty-without extensions.

Bugsy's bed was still warm, but there was no sign of him. A member of the raiding party noticed a linen closet door ajar. Atop a pile of fresh sheets, investigators found footprints. The ceiling of the closet had a secret trapdoor that opened into the attic. There the raiding party found Bugsy Siegel in his pajamas, giggling. The gangster coolly informed his captors that he had fled because "I thought it was someone else." The police were not amused. They hauled Siegel downtown and placed him under arrest for murder. Reles and Tannenbaum were flown to Los Angeles, and on the basis of their testimony, Siegel was indicted. His request for bail was denied. Siegel would await trial at the L.A. County Jail.

MAYOR BOWRON and DA Fitts had run the remnants of the Combination out of town. Siegel's trial gave them a chance to sweep out the Syndicate as well. But almost immediately the prosecution began to experience problems-strange problems. Reporters discovered that Siegel had access to a telephone, slept in the county jail doctor's quarters, and employed another prisoner as his valet. Worst of all, he was leaving the jail virtually at will-more than eighteen times in a month and a half. The Examiner Examiner even spotted Siegel having lunch with the actress Wendy Barrie. In truth, he was not completely unattended. A deputy sheriff was on hand-as Siegel's driver. even spotted Siegel having lunch with the actress Wendy Barrie. In truth, he was not completely unattended. A deputy sheriff was on hand-as Siegel's driver.

Then dissension broke out between prosecutors in New York and Los Angeles. Brooklyn district attorney William O'Dwyer abruptly declined to allow Reles to return to Los Angeles to testify, saying that his prized witness, who was being guarded by a crew of eighteen policemen at an undisclosed location, had come down with a serious illness. Suspicions immediately arose that O'Dwyer, who was eyeing a run for mayor of New York, had struck a deal with the Syndicate. Prosecutors in L.A. had problems too. In 1940, Angelenos finally voted Buron Fitts out of office. His successor, former congressman John Dockweiler, was promptly embarra.s.sed when Siegel wrote to him to request that the prosecutor-elect refund him the $30,000 he had contributed to his campaign. The DA complied. (Mickey Cohen would later claim that Siegel had actually given Dock-weiler $100,000.) Siegel then used the funds to hire attorney Jerry Giesler to defend him.

Dockweiler was in a bind. Reles's testimony was essential to establishing Siegel as the mastermind of the murder plot. Without it, the new DA saw no way to secure a conviction. But O'Dwyer wouldn't give up his prized witness. As a result, on December 11, 1940, Deputy DA Vernon Ferguson, who was prosecuting the case for Dockweiler's office, went to court and requested that the murder charges against Bugsy Siegel be dismissed. That afternoon Siegel walked out of jail, a free man.

Back in New York, though, Bugsy's release proved such an embarra.s.sment for O'Dwyer that he reversed course and agreed to let his witnesses go to Los Angeles. Dockweiler convened another jury; Al Tannenbaum flew west to testify ("under heavy guard"); and Siegel was reindicted and again arrested. The key witness, however, was Reles. Although Tannenbaum had taken part in the actual a.s.sa.s.sination itself, it was Reles who had the power to send Bugsy Siegel to the gas chamber. And it was Reles who, just before breakfast on the morning of November 12, 1941, was found dead on the roof of the building next door to the Half Moon Hotel on Coney Island, where the NYPD had him in protective custody.

What had happened to "Kid Twist"? No one knows for certain. A torn rope made from a bedsheet suggested that Reles had plunged to his death four stories below while trying to escape, though why someone facing a death sentence from the Syndicate would want to escape into Brooklyn was unclear. Perhaps Reles had simply intended to play a joke on his police protectors by demonstrating how easily he could flee. But the physical evidence suggested another explanation. Reles's body was found more than twenty feet from the wall, suggesting that Reles had been hurled out the window-defenestrated-by a policeman on the take.

Without Reles, the case against Siegel was weak. On January 19, 1942, the trial against Siegel began. While Tannenbaum was there as a witness, California law required that charges against Siegel be corroborated by independent evidence that tied the defendant to the crime-evidence the prosecution no longer had. As a result, on February 5, 1942, Judge A. A. Scott granted Siegel attorney Jerry Giesler's request to dismiss the case on grounds that no case had been made against his client. Bugsy Siegel was once again a free man.

Siegel's lengthy entanglements with the court system meant that Mickey Cohen had to take on a large organizational task. He proved to be a surprisingly talented understudy. Mickey soon took over as Siegel's liaison to the county sheriff's office. He also took responsibility for cultivating the LAPD.

"For weeks before each Thanksgiving and Christmas, I would receive calls from captains in different precincts and would be told about and given the names and addresses of some persons in their respective districts that they considered in dire straits," Mickey later related. "I would then have individual baskets made up by a good friend of mine who was in the chain market business (and who would make them up for me at wholesale prices), each basket always including a large turkey, a ham and chicken, and most other necessities for a decent Thanksgiving and Christmas." At his peak, he was sending out about three hundred baskets a year. Mickey was learning the craft of organized crime. It wasn't always turkeys and chicken.

One of Mickey's businesses was pinball and slot machines. His partner was Curly Robinson, former Clover Club owner Eddy Neales's onetime a.s.sociate. Mayor Bowron had more or less succeeded in expelling slots from the city of Los Angeles, but they were still a thriving business in the county. Cohen and Robinson were determined to profit from them. Their racket was an a.s.sociation that every distributor in the region had to join.

But Robinson was having problems. Some of its members had gotten a bit independent minded. Expecting trouble at the next meeting, Robinson asked Cohen to come to the a.s.sociation's next gathering. Mickey arrived early with three of his toughest henchmen, Hooky Rothman (Cohen's right-hand man, a killing savant), "Little Jimmy" ("quiet-perfectionist-carried out instructions-tough with pistol-two time loser on heists and attempted murder"), and "Big Jimmy" ("six-foot, three-inch-ex-heavyweight pug-easygoing horse bettor-done some time in Maine for a killing"). By the time the meeting got under way, there were roughly six hundred people present.

A speaker took the stage and began to talk about the need for independence. Mickey leapt onto the platform and "busted his head open."

"n.o.body come near me," he later noted. The meeting hall was silent. With Mickey and his men glowering on stage, the slot machine a.s.sociation fell in line. There was no more talk of autonomy. Still, on the way out, Mickey and his goons pistol-whipped "two or three other dissenters."

Slots were just a minor sideline. Cohen's real focus was on gambling.

While Siegel concentrated on signing up bookies for the Trans-American news service (an enterprise that by 1945 would be paying Benny an estimated $25,000 a month), Cohen worked on opening his own gambling joints. Initially, he steered clear of the city proper, preferring more hospitable county terrain. His first major base of operations was in Bur bank, just a few blocks away from the Warner Bros. lot. Thanks to a pliable local police chief, Mickey was able to open a basic $2-a-bet bookie joint. It thrived. Back in Los Angeles, Mickey soon added a commission office that handled the kinds of big "lay-off" bets-typically anything over $5,000-that were often spread out to bookies across the country.

Commission offices thrived on a peculiarity of horse betting. Because sanctioned tracks used a pari-mutuel betting system (whereby the odds were set by the bets placed), a big bet (say $50,000) could significantly reduce the payout. Commission offices offered high rollers an alternative, where they could place big bets without lowering their payoff. Because the people placing these bets often had inside information, they also presented bookies with information that could be highly lucrative.

With this information came new friends, including a number of local politicians. One judge was so horse-crazed that he insisted that Mickey come down to his chambers and run operations from there, so that he would have access to all of Mickey's tips.

"The poor bookmakers," Mickey reflected, "were really in a quandary, as they couldn't figure out where he was getting his information and were in no position to turn down his wagers for fear of invoking the wrath of the Judge."

One afternoon as Mickey was waiting in the judge's office, he learned that the case of a small-time bookmaker was about to be heard. Mickey knew the man well; in fact, he'd robbed his establishment before. Mickey decided to peek into the courtroom and watch the proceedings. He could scarcely believe his ears when the judge handed down the sentence-thirty days in the county jail. Furious, Mickey caught the eye of the bailiff and told him that he needed to talk to the judge at once.

"The judge, thinking that I must have received word on a horse, couldn't get off the bench quick enough," Mickey later recalled. Back in his chambers, Mickey exploded, speaking "without my usual respect for him, although I did manage to keep myself somewhat under control."

"What kind of man are you, to sentence a man to jail for thirty days when you yourself are a freak for betting on the horses?"

The answer, of course, was a politician.

For a gangster, Mickey Cohen had an inadequate understanding of treachery. Not only did this make it hard to deal with politicians, it blinded him to what was happening before his very eyes with Jack Dragna.

Dragna, a short, heavyset man who favored horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, was an old-school Sicilian who liked to surround himself with Sicilians (or, barring that, at least other Italians). He had the air of someone used to dealing with money. His demeanor was more banker than muscle. Mickey didn't think much of him. Nor did he seem aware of the fact that Dragna might hold a grudge about Cohen's earlier heist. Instead, Mickey interpreted the order imposed by Siegel as the natural order of things. He saw Dragna and himself "on an even status as his two lieutenants"-with himself rising and Dragna on the way out.

"Dragna was inactive at the time, and for years had no organization at all," Mickey later recalled. "[A]nything he wanted done he came to me for." As far as Mickey was concerned, organized crime in Los Angeles was "a happy family." As for the possibility that robbing Morris Orloff and being an all-around punk might have rubbed Dragna and the Italian gangsters surrounding him the wrong way, Cohen dismissed it out of hand: "I was the guest of honor at his daughter's wedding!"

Mickey was mistaken-dangerously so. Bugsy represented New York. But Dragna had closer ties to Chicago. Although the twin capitals of the underworld generally cooperated on matters of importance, there were areas of friction. Siegel's 1942 decision to force Los Angeles bookmakers to subscribe to his wire service was one of them. At the time, most big bookies in Los Angeles were using James Ragan's Chicago-based Continental wire services-and paying a cut to Jack Dragna and Johnny Roselli, the Chicago Outfit's man in Los Angeles, for protection. Siegel didn't care. Instead, he sent Mickey Cohen to wreak havoc on the office of the Chicago wire's L.A. manager, Ragan son-in-law Russell Brophy. Even Mickey felt a little leery about this a.s.signment. When he arrived at Brophy's main office downtown and was told Johnny Roselli was on the phone-and that he wanted to speak to Mickey-Cohen was less enthusiastic still. He knew firsthand what kind of tactics the Chicago Outfit employed. So he ducked the request. Instead, he gave the phone to his partner Joe Sica. ("I figured Italian to Italian, you know.") "Lookit, Johnny says that whatever we've done is done, but he don't want this office busted up," Sica reported.

Which, of course, was precisely what Cohen and Sica had been sent to do.

"Tell him that I'm sorry, but this office is going up for grabs completely," Mickey replied. "Just tell him that, and hang the phone up."

Sica did. Then he and Mickey "tore that f.u.c.king office apart." Mickey beat up Brophy, hurting him so badly that Mickey decided to go on the lam. He fled to Phoenix. There he was greeted like a conquering hero by Siegel.

"You little son of a b.i.t.c.h," Siegel said. "You remind me of my younger days."

Mickey hid out in Phoenix for six months. Somehow (Mickey was never clear exactly how) Siegel managed to square the Brophy a.s.sault with the authorities, clearing the way for Cohen's eventual return to Los Angeles. Smoothing matters over with Jack Dragna and Johnny Roselli was a more difficult matter. After a period of dormancy, Dragna was gearing up his operations. Worse, he had opted to do so by partnering with a Los Angeles underworld figure, Jimmy Utley, whom Cohen viewed as "an out-and-out stool pigeon for the DA and attorney general's office." It aggravated Mickey, and an aggravated Mickey Cohen was a dangerous man, as Utley was about to discover.

One day soon after his return from Phoenix, Mickey sauntered out of Champ Segal's barbershop on Vine and saw Utley talking with one of the LAPD's toughest police officers, E. D. "Roughhouse" Brown, in front of Lucey's Restaurant. Mickey had long suspected that Utley was a "stool pigeon" for Brown-an informer. But if Utley was concerned about this, he didn't show it. After "Roughhouse" left, Utley waved to Mickey and Joe Sica. So Cohen and Sica walked over-and laid into Utley, pistol-whipping him "pretty badly"-in front of an estimated one hundred people.

Utley took it bravely. Despite being badly hurt, when police arrived on the scene, he insisted that he wasn't able to identify his a.s.sailants.

Jack Dragna was less understanding. He immediately got hold of Siegel and demanded a meeting with Cohen. Siegel summoned his protege to a meeting that very night, and this time, Mickey came.

"I didn't break his a.s.s, just with my hands," Mickey claimed, by way of self-defense. "He was talking to a f.u.c.king copper!"

Even Siegel was exasperated by this.

"What the f.u.c.k's wrong with ya?" Siegel exploded. "Don't ya know ya got to do business with these coppers? Ya wanna be a G.o.dd.a.m.n gunman all your life?"

* Surely, this was the strangest yachting party in the history of Hollywood. The group included barber/boxing manager Champ Segal; the nephew of British foreign secretary (later prime minister) Anthony Eden; Jean Harlow's father-in-law; and a German-American captain who was also an informant for the FBI. The captain suspected the treasure expedition was actually a resupply operation for Brooklyn mob boss Louis "Lepke" Buchalter, who was on the lam. The expedition ended with Champ Segal being formally indicted on charges of mutiny. (He was later acquitted.) Neither treasure nor Louis Buchalter was found. (Muir, Surely, this was the strangest yachting party in the history of Hollywood. The group included barber/boxing manager Champ Segal; the nephew of British foreign secretary (later prime minister) Anthony Eden; Jean Harlow's father-in-law; and a German-American captain who was also an informant for the FBI. The captain suspected the treasure expedition was actually a resupply operation for Brooklyn mob boss Louis "Lepke" Buchalter, who was on the lam. The expedition ended with Champ Segal being formally indicted on charges of mutiny. (He was later acquitted.) Neither treasure nor Louis Buchalter was found. (Muir, Headline Happy Headline Happy, 169-72.)

10.

L.A. Noir.

"If you're going to gamble that kind of money own the casa."-20th Century Fox chairman Joseph Schenck to Hollywood Reporter Hollywood Reporter owner Billy Wilkerson owner Billy Wilkerson BUGSY SIEGEL wasn't the only person flexing his muscles. So was Mayor Bowron. Bowron disliked the fact that he had such limited formal control over the police department. The 1934 and 1937 charter amendments, which broadened police officers' job protections and extended them to the chief of police, were a particular sore point, which Bowron repeatedly sought to circ.u.mvent. He continued to secretly wiretap the telephone lines of senior police department officials-an activity that arguably const.i.tuted a federal felony offense-in order to ensure that the underworld did not reestablish ties with the department. Soon, the mayor was routinely demanding that Chief Hohmann fire officers caught in the wiretaps' surveillance dragnet. But Bowron, not wanting to acknowledge his illegal wiretapping, refused to explain the basis of these demands, and Hohmann refused to act without evidence. The result was a standoff-and growing tension between the city's top elected official and its top law enforcement officer.

Hohmann had been an exemplary police chief-honest and intelligent, enlightened on racial issues, and uninterested in currying favor with others. He curtailed special privileges (such as police cars and drivers for city councilmen) and ended the department's tradition of strikebreaking. Committed to professionalism, he urged his subordinates to do their duty without fear or favor because, he told them, "the days of 'Big Shot' political influence in the police department are over." He was wrong. After winning reelection in 1941, Bowron turned up the pressure on the chief. An embarra.s.sing corruption trial involving the head of the robbery squad finally persuaded Hohmann to step aside and accept a demotion to deputy chief, clearing the way for a new, more deferential chief, C. B. Horrall.

As chief, Hohmann had appointed Horrall to a plum position, giving him responsibility for the Central, Hollenbeck, and Newton Street divisions as well as command of the elite Metropolitan Division. Now that he was chief, however, Horrall demoted Hohmann to lieutenant. Under a.s.sault from the new chief and distraught about the sudden, tragic death of his son, Hohmann agreed to accept this second, more humiliating position-only to then turn around and sue the department to have his rank restored. Their feud further demoralized the department.

Bill Parker was demoralized too. In June 1941, he graduated from Northwestern's Traffic Inst.i.tute and returned to Los Angeles. As the number two person on the inspector list, Parker had every reason to expect that he would soon receive a promotion. Instead, he found himself trapped in his position as director of the traffic bureau's accident investigation unit. Chief Horrall routinely pa.s.sed him over for promotion, blandly noting that "scholastic achievements do not necessarily make the best policemen." In 1930, Parker had been trapped in the police department by the Great Depression. Now he seemed stuck again, until December 7, 1941, when history provided a way out.

The news. .h.i.t official Los Angeles like a thunderclap, as the a.s.sociated Press blared j.a.pS OPEN WAR ON U.S. WITH BOMBING OF HAWAIIFleet Speeds Out to Battle InvaderTokyo Claims Battleship Sunk and Another Set Afire with Hundreds Killed on Island; Singapore Attacked and Thailand Force Landed The situation was actually worse than that. The U.S. Pacific fleet was not "speeding out to battle the invader." The five battleships and three destroyers that made up the backbone of the U.S. Pacific fleet were in fact sinking to the bottom of Pearl Harbor. The California coast was virtually defenseless. No one knew where the j.a.panese attack fleet would strike next. The situation was so dire that the War Department deliberately withheld information about the strike, lest the news trigger panic. Meanwhile, law enforcement prepared to move against what many saw as a potential "fifth column"-the city's j.a.panese American population.

Los Angeles was home to roughly 38,000 residents born in j.a.pan. Another 70,000 second-generation j.a.panese Americans, the so-called Nisei, lived in other parts of California. The FBI had already compiled lists of politically "suspect" j.a.panese Americans. It turned to the LAPD to help round up the subversives.

Around noon that Sunday, police officer Harold Sullivan, who worked under Parker in the traffic division, was driving down Western Avenue on his way to work, when an acquaintance pulled up beside him at Santa Barbara Avenue (now Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard).

"Did you hear the news?" the man asked.

"What news?" Sullivan replied.

"Why, the j.a.panese bombed Pearl Harbor," the man replied. Sullivan was shocked. Nothing about the attack had been broadcast over the radio. He hurried into work. At about three o'clock, he was summoned into Parker's office. Parker told him to "get three or four other guys" and report to the local FBI offices. The roundup of Los Angeles's j.a.panese American residents was about to begin. That night, federal agents and local officers raided Nisei homes across the region, from San Pedro to Pomona. By morning, some three hundred "subversives" were in police custody; officers and soldiers from Fort MacArthur also secured the largely j.a.panese fishing fleet at Terminal Island off San Pedro and put the roughly two thousand Nisei who lived on the island under guard. None were permitted to leave without police permission. Ominous reports of weapons found filled the local press. Prominent local officials appealed to the citizenry for loyalty, which j.a.panese American groups rushed to give. It didn't help. By Monday, Little Tokyo was shut down. j.a.panese-language papers were shuttered; banks were padlocked; stores, closed. By midweek, the county jail and an immigration station at Terminal Island were filled with Nisei (as well as a handful of Germans and a smattering of Italians). In February 1942, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which sent all of Los Angeles's j.a.panese and j.a.panese American residents to concentration camps in the interior. In the meantime, the War Department rushed soldiers west, fortifying the beaches, placing anti-aircraft guns throughout the city, and anchoring huge balloons with steel cables over downtown, to entangle low-flying aircraft.

For once, Bill Parker was too busy to reflect on his grievances. There was a sense that Los Angeles might be attacked at any moment. On Christmas Eve 1941, a j.a.panese submarine torpedoed an American ship in the Catalina Channel, just south of Los Angeles. On February 23, 1942, another sub sh.e.l.led an oil storage facility in Ellwood, near Santa Barbara. Two nights later, at 2:25 a.m., the spotlights of L.A.'s civil defense forces roared to life, and anti-aircraft guns from Long Beach to Santa Monica opened fire. "The Battle of Los Angeles" had begun. It raged for two hours-until local authorities realized that jittery nerves, not j.a.panese bombers, had triggered the fusillade.

Parker's job at the traffic division was central to the region's preparations during this panicky period. Logistics was key to the war in the Pacific, and in Los Angeles, traffic was the key to logistics. Parker was responsible for selecting a network of roads that could function as military highways, developing plans to isolate approaches to the military targets "in the event of military action," and-should things go really wrong-for developing a master evacuation plan. He oversaw roughly two hundred other officers. Yet no matter how hard or efficiently he worked, as long as Chief Horrall was in command, there seemed to be no real prospect of advancement.

Parker's thoughts turned to the military. Perhaps the Army would recognize his skills. When he sounded out military recruitment officers, the feedback he got was encouraging. Officials at the Army's Los Angeles procurement office a.s.sured him that if he applied, he would undoubtedly receive a commission as a captain-perhaps even as a major. In February, he approached his superiors in the department about taking an unpaid leave to join the Army. At first, they resisted, but Parker was persistent, and eventually he prevailed. On April 13, 1942, he applied for a commission. Remarkably, one of his letters of recommendation was provided by former chief Arthur Hohmann, the man who had sent Parker to the traffic department. The letter represented an interesting turnaround in Hohmann's att.i.tude toward Parker and provides rare insight into Parker's character from a close contemporary.

"Gentlemen," the letter began. "I have known Capt. William H. Parker of this department for the past thirteen years, and I am glad to commend him ... for the following reasons: 1.I have such a high regard for his knowledge of right and wrong and his sense of public justice that, if I were innocent of an accusation but was thought to be guilty by an entire community of people, I would choose Capt. Parker as my counsel knowing all the while that he would rather see justice done than continue to remain popular with his contemporaries.2. If I were in command of an organization of which Capt. Parker was a member (and I have been) and I a.s.signed Capt. Parker to perform some minor and mediocre detail of non-essential work, I would be doing so with the full knowledge that insofar as Capt. Parker was concerned that task would be the most important in the world to him for the time being, and he would do it better than anyone else I know....

Hohmann concluded by obliquely alluding to Parker's p.r.i.c.kly personality: This unusual admixture of fine service quality when found in one personality is very likely to be misunderstood; and, I have observed that sometimes the expression of these qualities by Capt. Parker on occasion of public address, in staff meetings, and in private conversations, has in the past oftentimes caused his motives and objectives to be misinterpreted, misconstrued, and misquoted.

However, Hohmann continued, these faults have "improved to a marked degree, and I now feel that it would be greatly in the interest of the United States if Capt. Parker were a part of its military establishment in some governmental administrative capacity."

While waiting for a response from the Army, Parker made one last effort to advance by taking the examination for deputy chief. He placed first on the eligibility list but was not granted an interview before the Police Commission. Irate, Parker wrote to the Board of the Civil Service Commissioners to protest what he saw as a blatant violation of civil service principles. His protest was ignored. The following spring, almost one year after he had put in his application, Parker received his commission as an Army officer. The thrill he and Helen experienced as they opened the letter from the adjutant general quickly turned to disappointment. Despite a.s.surances that he would be commissioned as a high-ranking officer, Parker was offered a commission as a mere first lieutenant. After consulting with Helen and receiving a.s.surances that promotion would be prompt, Parker decided to accept the commission anyway. After sixteen years of service in the department, Parker was eager to be free.

His mood improved considerably when he learned that, after a month of basic training at Fort Custer, Michigan, he would be transferred to either Yale University or Harvard for three months of coursework in the Army's civil affairs training school. Parker moved east in late June, first to Michigan, and then to Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts. Helen came west from California to be with him. Parker's time at Harvard was blissful, but in early August, cla.s.ses were cut short. Lieutenant Parker was a.s.signed to the 2675th Regiment, Allied Control Commission, North African Theater of Operations. On August 27, 1943, he shipped off to Algiers. Helen returned to Los Angeles. Parker's old patron, former chief James Davis, now the head of security at Douglas Aircraft, had arranged a job for her as an auxiliary policewoman at a Douglas aircraft a.s.sembly plant in Santa Monica.

Bill Parker wasn't the only person who saw an "out" in the war. So did Mickey Cohen.

It didn't take a middle school education to recognize that Bugsy Siegel's efforts to monopolize the wire business were d.a.m.ned dangerous. According to the LAPD, nearly a dozen people had died in the first few years of what it dubbed "the wire wars." At some point after the onset of the war, it appears to have dawned on Mickey that he might too. So Cohen decided to enlist.

Mickey wasn't exactly a model candidate (though there was no denying his efficiency as a killer). So he decided to grease the skids. It just so happened that his old "Big Brother," fight referee Abe Roth, was a former Army officer with considerable pull in high places. Cohen asked the silver-tongued Siegel (who, somewhat surprisingly, supported Mickey's decision to enlist) to give Roth, as Mickey put it, "all that anti-n.a.z.i s.h.i.t and stuff." Roth was amenable to Mickey's request. Even better, he had a connection who could ensure that Mickey's criminal background didn't raise any alarms. Mickey was delighted. a.s.sured that "the fix was in," he headed to Boyle Heights to report to the neighborhood draft board.

"Lookit," he told the ladies manning the draft desk. "I want to get into the Army."

"What's your draft status?" he was asked in reply.

"I ain't been home for some time," Mickey replied evasively. (In fact, he had recently been on the lam.) "What's the big fuss about?" he continued, still confident in his fix. "I want to get in the Army. I'm ready to get in right now. What do I gotta do?"

The woman behind the desk asked for his name and then vanished into a back office. She emerged with a file-"kind of laughing and smiling."

"You can't get into the Army." The woman was holding his file. She showed it to him and then explained what it contained. The draft board had designated him a 4-F-not qualified for service in the armed forces-on grounds of mental instability.* This was embarra.s.sing, to say the least. Rather than confess, he called his wife and informed her that he'd been made a general. Then he rushed out and purchased a $150 raincoat ("beautiful ... tailored real good")-with epaulettes. He arrived home to find his spouse on the phone, calling everyone she knew and telling everyone, "He's in the Army! He's going away again." This was embarra.s.sing, to say the least. Rather than confess, he called his wife and informed her that he'd been made a general. Then he rushed out and purchased a $150 raincoat ("beautiful ... tailored real good")-with epaulettes. He arrived home to find his spouse on the phone, calling everyone she knew and telling everyone, "He's in the Army! He's going away again."

It was, Mickey thought, a h.e.l.luva good joke.