Mickey's first target was a "half-a.s.s gambling joint... way out the west end of Cleveland in the produce area." An informer had tipped them off to a high-stakes grocers' c.r.a.ps game. That night, Mickey and a few a.s.sociates stormed the joint and grabbed $5,000. They struck again the following week, then two or three times a week. Mickey soon had a troupe of seven and was routinely hitting gambling joints, cafes, and wh.o.r.ehouses across Cleveland. It seemed a highly satisfactory life. Days were spent sleeping and playing cards. Nights were exciting and frequently rewarding, both financially and psychologically. Armed robbery, Mickey found, did wonders for his self-esteem.

"It made me equal to everybody," Mickey later recalled. "Even as small as I was, when I whipped out that big .38 it made me as big as a guy six foot ten."

Great Depression or no Great Depression, business was good. At the end of a successful heist, Mickey's little crew worked around his inability to add or subtract by stacking all the bills up separately-Lincolns here, Hamiltons there, Jacksons here (Grants were rare; Franklins, alas, were virtually unknown)-and then dividing each pile among the partic.i.p.ants ("one for you, one for me ...").

The Cleveland mob was remarkably calm about Mickey's behavior-until he hit a bookie parlor under its protection. Fortunately for Mickey, one member of his crew had an uncle in Buffalo who was in "the highest echelons of 'the people.'" This uncle made some phone calls to "the people" in Cleveland, and Cleveland reacted magnanimously. Instead of punishing the upstart heister, the Cleveland mob made Mickey an offer. Mickey could operate as before (as long as he stayed clear of mob-protected operations). In addition, the Cleveland outfit (as it was sometimes called) would offer him a $125-a-week retainer. In exchange, Mickey would perform certain tasks for the local mob and, on occasion, for friends elsewhere.

Cohen was delighted. He accepted at once. And, almost as quickly, he f.u.c.ked up.

Among the tasks that Mickey was occasionally called on to perform was killing people. Hits followed a strict protocol. There was a pointer-someone who knew the victim and could make the target-and a triggerman. Mickey was the triggerman. One day Mickey was sent out with a pointer to take out a man who was trying to set himself up without permission from "the people" (much as Mickey himself had done). The pointer identified the victim, who was out walking with a young woman. Mickey stepped out, pulled out his revolver, and fired. The gun roared, the man went down, and the woman-clearly a lady with remarkable self-possession-started screaming, "You shot the wrong guy! You shot the wrong guy!"

That night Mickey found out the woman was right. p.i.s.sed, he turned on his pointer.

"What's the matter with you, you rotten son of a b.i.t.c.h?" he shouted. He then proceeded to pistol-whip the man, breaking his jaw. Unfortunately, the man Mickey beat up was the brother of one of Cleveland's top mob leaders. Cohen, unfailingly lucky, received only a serious talking to. Unfortunately, Mickey then decided to heist a popular cafeteria that happened to be directly across the street from the 105th Street police precinct station. Cohen and an accomplice were apprehended. Although they managed to avoid conviction-the cashier obligingly agreed to confess that the robbery had been staged and was thus not really armed robbery-Cohen's criminal career in Cleveland was over. Mickey left town-for Al Capone's Chicago.

IN 1931, A1 Capone was at the height of his power. Two years earlier, on Valentine's Day, members of the Capone gang dressed as police officers had lured members of the rival Bugs Moran gang to an isolated warehouse-supposedly to receive a shipment of premium whiskey at a bargain price. Moran's men thought they'd been pinched and expected nothing worse than a quick trip to the lockup. Instead, they were lined up against a wall and machine-gunned. The so-called St. Valentine's Day Ma.s.sacre sealed Capone's standing as Chicago's top gangster and scandalized the nation, making Capone an international celebrity. It did not, however, make him safer. The primary target of the ma.s.sacre-Bugs Moran himself-ran late to the meeting, thus missing his own execution. He was now intent on revenge. Rumors that Moran had dispatched two, four, ten gunmen followed Capone everywhere. Al Capone might be the King of Chicago, but he was a monarch who lived under the constant threat of a violent death. As a result, Capone took an interest in newly arrived gunmen, even ones as junior as Mickey Cohen.

Cohen's job in Chicago was simple: lay low at a large, Jewish-controlled gambling joint on the North Sh.o.r.e and scare off some neighborhood toughs who were trying to squeeze its owners. After years of a.s.sociating almost entirely with Italians, Mickey "sort of had to relearn Jewish ways." He rediscovered "real good food on a Jewish style." He tried not to react violently to perceived slights ("not like [I did] with the Italians"). Then one day three "notorious tough guys"-the people Mickey was supposed to protect the casino against-came calling. Mickey opened fire before they even got through the plate-gla.s.s door. By the time the police arrived, two of the men were dead. Despite his insistence that he didn't start shooting until he saw the man pull his "rod," Cohen was arrested for murder. Fortunately for Mickey, Chicago was most definitely a city where "the fix" was "in." To his delight and astonishment, he was released the next morning after a mob representative stopped by the jail and ordered the turnkey to open up. When the jailer protested that he couldn't let a murder suspect out "just like that," Mickey's visitor called for the captain-who let Cohen out "just like that." The case never went to trial.

Soon thereafter, Mickey was summoned downtown to the Lexington Hotel to meet Al Capone himself. When Mickey walked into Capone's office, the most powerful man in Chicago (known to his friends as "Big-Hearted Al") quietly gripped the pint-sized brawler's head in his hands and kissed him on both cheeks.

"After that meeting, it was kind of like a whole new world for me," Mickey would later claim. "I wasn't just a punk kid anymore. I was someone who had done something to justify the favor of Al Capone."

In truth, Mickey probably amused Capone as much as he impressed him. Mickey had already befriended Al's little brother Mattie, an avid boxing fan. Cohen had also attracted a measure of attention because, with his broken nose and a nasty, twisting scar under his left eye, he actually looked a lot like a miniature Al Capone. He also dressed like Capone ("admiring the guy as much as I did, I may have tried to copy his ways," Mickey admitted later), heightening the "Mini-Me" effect. Court jester or respected junior gunman, it hardly mattered. Mickey had Capone's blessing and that was enough to open the doors of the Chicago underworld. He began to learn how professional criminals really worked.

"I soon found there were lots of older guys willing to teach me about how to grow up and be good at a particular piece of work I wanted to get to know about," Mickey would say later, with discreet imprecision.

Chicago was also a revelation in another way. As his friend the writer Ben Hecht would later put it, "Before coming to Chicago, Mickey knew there were numerous crooks like himself on the outskirts of society. He did not know, however, that there were ten times as many crooks in the respectable seats of government." Chicago, a city where everything seemed part of the fix, would be Mickey Cohen's model-and dream-for L.A.

6.

Comrade Bill.

"With few exceptions, no protection is afforded to the police chiefs in this country. And to this neglect, more than to any other cause, may be attributed the alliance of politics, police and crime."-Berkeley police chief August Vollmer, 1931 WHILE MICKEY COHEN was befriending members of the Capone family, patrolman Bill Parker was struggling to advance in the Los Angeles Police Department in his own unyielding fashion. He would not pay a bribe for a cheat sheet to the civil service exam; he would not curry favor with the politicians; he would not turn a blind eye to infractions that many other officers in the department saw as routine. It was a hard way to get ahead. But Parker was also surprisingly hard to get rid of.

After his early heroics, Parker was transferred into a dead-end job at the property division. It didn't work. Parker was too nosy.

"There were some irregularities in the handling of confiscated autos," Parker later recalled (adding, with characteristic self-confidence, "I was too intelligent to conceal things from").

He was soon transferred to Hollenbeck Division, which was responsible for patrolling Mickey Cohen's old neighborhood of Boyle Heights, perhaps the "wettest" part of Los Angeles. By 1931, many police officers had lost their enthusiasm for enforcing Prohibition, which was clearly on the way out. (Its formal repeal would come two years later, in 1933.) Not Bill Parker. He immediately set out to make as many arrests as possible. Puzzled, local bootleggers were soon approaching him to ask what he wanted.

"I don't want anything," Parker angrily replied. "You're on one side of the fence, and I'm on the other." Soon thereafter, Parker was summoned to the office of the division inspector.

"Parker," he said, "what division would you like to work in?"

"What do you mean?" he replied, even though he knew full well what was happening. The liquor mob was moving him out.

"I mean," the inspector continued, "if you happened to want a transfer, where would you like to go?"

"Hollywood Division," Parker replied. Soon thereafter, he was transferred there.

Hollywood was Los Angeles's fast growing vice hot spot. But vice arrests were not exactly encouraged in his new division. Parker soon chafed at other patrolmen's "do nothing" att.i.tude. So one night he decided to protest the policy of nonenforcement by parking directly across the street from a Hollywood house of ill repute in an effort to scare the johns away. The madam was irate, as well she might be. By one estimate, some 500 brothels were employing an estimated 2,200 prost.i.tutes-and paying for police protection on a regular basis. Why should she, a dues-paying madam, be singled out by law enforcement? So out she stormed.

"Listen, you stupid f.u.c.k," the madam yelled at Parker. "You're ruining my business by hanging around here."

"That's the general idea," he replied.

"What's the next move?" she asked.

"The next move is to put you in jail," he said.

By the end of the week, Parker had been transferred again.

Despite such obstinacy, in the summer of 1931, Parker was made acting sergeant. His grades on the civil service exam were simply too good to ignore. Of the 505 officers who'd taken the civil service exam for sergeant, Parker received the fourth highest score. And so on July 1, he was made a sergeant and returned to Hollenbeck Division. For the first time, Parker was in a position to force other officers to adhere to a standard of conduct close to his own. Word quickly got around that when Bill Parker was at the booking desk, there would be no rough stuff.

"Take him someplace and book him if you want to start that stuff," Parker told his fellow officers; "you're not going to hit him here."

Such att.i.tudes did not go over well with all of his fellow officers. One night in 1932, matters came to a head when a drunken member of the vice squad announced that he was going to kill Parker-and started fumbling for his gun.

"I could have killed him, but I knew I could make the doorway," Parker later recounted. So he ran. His fellow officers laughingly dismissed the entire affair as a joke and "tried to convince me the man's gun was unloaded," but Parker would have none of it.

"I got out," he said simply. He would later describe it as a night when he almost got killed.

For Mickey Cohen, boxing and armed robbery had been the path to "the people." Bill Parker found a very different-but equally unorthodox-path to prominence in the LAPD: He became a union man.

BY 1929, Los Angeles mayor George Cryer's claims to be a reformer had worn thin. One year earlier a grand jury investigation had forced the resignation of Kent Parrot's chosen district attorney and made a hero of the jury foreman, John Porter. With ties to both the Ku Klux Klan and to powerful Protestant clergymen like the Rev. Bob Shuler, Porter was an attractive figure to many Angelenos fed up with the underworld. A thriving used-auto-parts and wrecking business also gave him ample means to fund a political campaign. When Cryer announced that he would not run for a fourth term, Porter threw his hat into the race.

To block the Klansman auto wrecker, Kent Parrot turned to an auto dealer whose only other high-profile supporter was, oddly, New York Yankees slugger Babe Ruth. Reformers backed the "absolutely incorruptible" city council president William Bonelli (who would later flee to Mexico to avoid an indictment on corruption charges). After a period of uncharacteristic indecision, Harry Chandler and the Times Times. .h.i.t upon the local American Legion commander, who frankly (if unhelpfully) acknowledged that he was unprepared to govern the city. With the dominant factions badly divided and the hit upon the local American Legion commander, who frankly (if unhelpfully) acknowledged that he was unprepared to govern the city. With the dominant factions badly divided and the Times Times, by choosing such an oddball candidate, effectively on the sidelines, Porter won the election. Boss Parrot was no more.

With Parrot gone, the Combination began to crumble. In the summer of 1930, Charlie Crawford was gunned down in his office by a deranged young a.s.sistant district attorney. The Combination was no longer able to keep compet.i.tors out, and the price of bootleg booze plummeted. Scotch, which had once commanded $50 a case, now cost only $15, virtually wholesale prices. Gunmen robbed slot machine king Robert Gans; bookmaker Zeke Caress was kidnapped and ransomed for $50,000. Along with Gans, Guy McAfee, the vice squad officer turned vice lord, gradually consolidated his authority over the city's organized prost.i.tution rings and downtown slot machines. But he was never able to regain the clout that Crawford had wielded.

For reformers, the weakening of the Combination should have been welcome news-and it was. But Cryer's demise and Porter's election presented Parker with a new problem. The new mayor and his most prominent supporters were viciously anti-Catholic, blaming Rome for everything from the a.s.sa.s.sinations (or attempted a.s.sa.s.sinations) of Presidents Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Roosevelt to the 1910 Mexican Revolution. It is not surprising that Parker soon took an interest in strengthening rank-and-file officers' job protection. By doing so, Parker would catch the attention of the most colorful police chief in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department, Chief James "Two Gun" Davis.

THAT THE LAPD, the scourge of union organizers in America's most vociferously open-shop city, should have had a union movement is ironic. It must be said that officially it did not. Technically, Los Angeles had only the Fire and Police Protective League, officially a fraternal organization. But by the early 1930s it was well along the path to becoming a union.*

The issue that drew in Parker was job security. Simply put, officers didn't have it. There was no safe way to make a career in the LAPD. Officers like Parker who insisted on following the letter of the law risked their careers (if not their lives) during periods of corruption. Corrupt cops risked their careers during the brief but regular periods of reform that followed revelations of scandal. While policemen were theoretically under civil service protection, in practice the chief of police was still able to dismiss officers virtually at will, and officers who were dismissed lost everything everything-their pensions, benefits, everything-no matter how close to retirement they might be.

In 1934, Parker got himself elected as a sergeant representative to the Fire and Police Protective League. He quickly became a forceful advocate for patrolmen's interests, arguing effectively for a reversal of the pay cuts that had been forced on the department during the early years of the Depression. He also came to the attention of another lawyer-policeman in the department, Earle Cooke. Together, the two men began to lay the groundwork for a change to the city charter that would offer fire and police officers greater protection from political pressure.

In the summer of 1934, the Fire and Police Protective League pet.i.tioned the city council to place a charter amendment on the ballot that would "clarify procedure in disciplinary and removal actions" for firemen and police officers. This modest description was highly misleading. Parker and Cooke weren't seeking to clarify some minority ambiguity; rather, they were proposing to radically expand the protections police (and fire) officers enjoyed. Under their amendment, charges against policemen would be constrained by a one-year statute of limitations. Policemen would be ent.i.tled to counsel, and all hearings would take place before a three-person board of rights whose members consisted of officers of the rank of captain or higher. Six names would be drawn out of a box; the accused policeman would then select the three officers who would sit on the panel. Moreover, the board's recommendations would be binding. The chief of police would only be able to reduce penalties, not increase them.

The city council seems to have taken this request calmly. On August 14, 1934, its members agreed to present the Fire and Police Protective League proposal to voters as Amendment No. 12-A.

The public was not highly attuned to the issue of police discipline. Surveys conducted during the mid-1930s show that the public wanted the police to be disciplined, effective, and nonpolitical. They should be "neat and military" in their appearance; they should take "a professional interest" in their work and be of at least average intelligence; and they should treat "normal" citizens with courtesy. When it came to less "normal" citizens, it was no holds barred. A majority of voters consistently endorsed harsher harsher treatment for "ex-convicts, Negroes, aliens, radicals, and gangsters." treatment for "ex-convicts, Negroes, aliens, radicals, and gangsters."

Some observers did pick up on what Parker and Cooke were trying to do. The liberal Los Angeles Daily News Los Angeles Daily News was one, correctly noting that in claiming the right to police itself the LAPD was effectively removing that right from the city's politicians. Notwithstanding the record of corruption that Los Angeles politicians had compiled, a significant number of Angelenos were hesitant to grant the department such sweeping protections. When Amendment No. 12-A went before voters on September 27, 1934, it pa.s.sed by a mere 676 votes, with 84,143 in favor and 83,467 opposed. However, a narrow victory is still a victory. It was the beginning of Bill Parker's wider reputation in the department. Years later, an article in the newsletter of the LAPD's American Legion chapter would describe the (amended) Section 202 of the city charter as "our most priceless possession," and credit "Comrade Bill" as the measure's "co-author." was one, correctly noting that in claiming the right to police itself the LAPD was effectively removing that right from the city's politicians. Notwithstanding the record of corruption that Los Angeles politicians had compiled, a significant number of Angelenos were hesitant to grant the department such sweeping protections. When Amendment No. 12-A went before voters on September 27, 1934, it pa.s.sed by a mere 676 votes, with 84,143 in favor and 83,467 opposed. However, a narrow victory is still a victory. It was the beginning of Bill Parker's wider reputation in the department. Years later, an article in the newsletter of the LAPD's American Legion chapter would describe the (amended) Section 202 of the city charter as "our most priceless possession," and credit "Comrade Bill" as the measure's "co-author."

UNION ACTIVISM is not always the swiftest path to a police executive's affection, but Parker's legal work seems to have impressed Chief James Davis. Two more different personalities are hard to imagine. Parker was cerebral and wry. Davis was a peac.o.c.k. Handsome (in a slightly puffy, heavily pomaded way), the chief loved uniforms, hats (particularly sombreros), braiding, and decorations. The Rev. Bob Shuler, a frequent critic, described him as "a man with pink complexion who looks like he had a ma.s.sage every morning and his fingernails manicured." However, few voiced such criticisms directly. Manicured or not, the 240-pound Texan looked as if he could snap most of his critics in half. A close observer of the Los Angeles political scene would later describe him as "a burly, dictatorial, somewhat s.a.d.i.s.tic, bitterly anti-labor man who saw communist influence behind every telephone poll." He was also, arguably, insane. One of Davis's favorite ways to entertain dignitaries visiting the department was to have a member of his beloved pistol-shooting team shoot a cigarette out of his mouth, a la William Tell.

Davis's tactics were rough. One of his favorites was "rousting," described thusly in an admiring 1926 Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times profile by police reporter (and Chandler hatchet man) Albert Nathan: profile by police reporter (and Chandler hatchet man) Albert Nathan: First the word goes out of the chief's office that the "rousting" is to begin and is to be kept up for a week.Then all of the liquor squads take to the street, armed with pictures of the best known rum runners and the various members of their "mobs," and begin looking for them.As fast as any of the wanted men are located they are seized, handcuffed, loaded into a patrol wagon and escorted to jail. They are then locked up on charges of vagrancy or any other charge which may come to the mind of the arresting officer. In a few hours attorneys appear, writs are secured through the local courts and the prisoners are released.... One by one they are released and then arrested again and again. During a "rousting" a man may be arrested as many as six times, and each time has to stay in jail for one hour to two days before he gets out. After awhile the wanted men learn that every time they saunter up Spring Street they will be arrested and that they are not even safe in their homes.

Even at the time, this struck many as unlawful. "The rousting system may, as many contend, be unlawful," the Times Times conceded, but no matter: "[T]his is known and records provide it: The system works." conceded, but no matter: "[T]his is known and records provide it: The system works."

Nor were regular citizens exempt from his scrutiny. In 1936, Chief Davis dispatched 126 officers to sixteen highway and rail entry points on the California border to prevent "Okies" fleeing the dustbowl-he called them "the refuse of other states"-from entering California. The Los Angeles papers dubbed it (approvingly) the b.u.m Blockade. Inspectors from the State Relief Administration reported that officers were "exercising extra-const.i.tutional powers of exclusion, detention, and preemptive arrest" that "seemed more like the border checkpoints of fascist Europe than those of an American state." Davis responded that 48 percent of the people turned back had criminal records.

"It is an axiom with Davis that const.i.tutional rights are of benefit to n.o.body but crooks and criminals, and that no perfectly law-abiding citizen ever has any cause to insist on 'const.i.tutional rights,'" reported the Los Angeles Record Los Angeles Record sarcastically. "Chief Davis honestly and sincerely believes that the whole country would be better off if the whole question of const.i.tutional rights was forgotten and left to the discretion of the police." sarcastically. "Chief Davis honestly and sincerely believes that the whole country would be better off if the whole question of const.i.tutional rights was forgotten and left to the discretion of the police."

But as implausible as it may seem, Chief Davis was also something of a reformer.* One of Davis's first steps was to reinst.i.tute rules against accepting gratuities and soliciting rewards that had lapsed under his predecessor. During his first forty-five months in office, Davis discharged 245 officers for misconduct. However, the strongest evidence for the proposition that Chief Davis was a reformer comes from his treatment of Bill Parker. One of Davis's first steps was to reinst.i.tute rules against accepting gratuities and soliciting rewards that had lapsed under his predecessor. During his first forty-five months in office, Davis discharged 245 officers for misconduct. However, the strongest evidence for the proposition that Chief Davis was a reformer comes from his treatment of Bill Parker.

In 1934, Chief Davis turned to Parker to draft the bylaws for his beloved training facility in the hills of Elysian Park, today's Los Angeles Police Academy. Yet despite this interaction with Chief Davis, Parker's promotional path continued to be a rocky one. On June 5, 1935, Parker took the examination for lieutenant. He scored sixth on the written test, lower on the more subjective oral test, and ended up in the number ten position on the promotional eligibility list. Not until January 18, 1937, was he promoted to the position of lieutenant-and then only after two officers with lower scores had been promoted before him.

Then, suddenly, his career took off. In early 1937, Parker became Chief Davis's executive officer. In this position, he served as Chief Davis's scheduler, advisor, and gatekeeper, granting and withholding access to the chief and maintaining relationships with politicians from the mayor to city council members. He also headed the small bureau of public affairs. Work relations between the two men were formal: Parker was always "Lieutenant," never "Bill." Davis was simply "Chief." In private, however, the two men became friends. Parker (and sometimes Helen) frequently joined Davis for hunting and fishing trips with Davis's sons. Observers of departmental politics soon noted young Bill Parker's all-too-obvious ambitions. The reluctant police officer, the young man who had barely bothered with his entrance exam, now clearly aspired to one day become chief.

Soon after Parker joined the chief's staff, Davis made him an acting captain-a move that no doubt raised hackles in the department. Davis probably didn't care. He needed Parker for something big.

IN 1933, voters had replaced Mayor Porter with county supervisor Frank Shaw. Shaw was not Harry Chandler's kind of candidate. For one thing, although he was ostensibly a Republican, Shaw embraced the agenda of the newly elected Franklin Delano Roosevelt. For another, Shaw had gotten his start in politics as a city council member backed by Kent Parrot, with whom he maintained close (if vague) ties. Chandler's suspicions proved to be well founded. After taking office, Frank Shaw turned to his brother Joe, recently discharged from the U.S. Navy, to help him oversee munic.i.p.al affairs. Joe's t.i.tle was personal secretary; however, he soon took control of every potential patronage and profit center in the city. Not surprisingly, "The Sailor" (as Joe was known) took a particular interest in the LAPD and in the Los Angeles underworld.

During the 1920s, Kent Parrot and Charlie Crawford had controlled Los Angeles. Joe was determined to revive the old police-underworld arrangements, but this time with himself on top. Where Parrot and Crawford had sought to impose a monopoly, Shaw was willing to tolerate a variety of players-as long as they all paid up and their operations didn't attract too much attention. Remnants of the Combination soon resurfaced. So did new players such as Jack Dragna, a Sicilian crime boss who focused primarily on traditional activities like extortion, prost.i.tution, and bootlegging. (He also had a legitimate sideline as a banana importer and often referred to himself as a banana merchant.) There was plenty of money to go around. The Hollywood Citizen-News Hollywood Citizen-News estimated that the L.A. underworld was generating roughly $2 million a month (20 percent of which went to selected policemen, politicians, and journalists). estimated that the L.A. underworld was generating roughly $2 million a month (20 percent of which went to selected policemen, politicians, and journalists). Daily News Daily News columnist Matt Weinstock put the figure even higher. His sources figured the Combination at its height was grossing about $50 million a year. columnist Matt Weinstock put the figure even higher. His sources figured the Combination at its height was grossing about $50 million a year.

The key to it all was control of the police department. Joe Shaw was determined to make sure he had it. In principle, Chief Davis answered to the Police Commission. In practice, Shaw placed the police department's most important operations under his close supervision by insisting on making Shaw campaign manager James "Sunny Jimmy" Bolger Chief Davis's secretary. The fact that the chief's office was located in City Hall, just around the corner from the mayor's office (an arrangement inst.i.tuted by Mayor Porter), further shortened Davis's leash. Bill Parker's job was to help him escape it.

IN EARLY 1937, working once more through the Fire and Police Protective League, Parker launched an effort to amend section 1999 of the city charter-this time, to extend civil service protections to the chief of police. The ballot initiative Parker drafted consisted of a single sentence: "Shall proposed charter amendment No. 14-A, amending section 1999 of the Charter clarifying the civil service status of the Chief of Police, providing that he shall not be removed except for cause and after hearing before the Board of Civil Service Commissioners, be ratified?" It seemed a modest change, but its potential consequences were immense. If it pa.s.sed, the position of chief of police would no longer serve at the pleasure of the Police Commission (and the mayor who appointed its members). Instead, once sworn in, the chief of police would have a "substantial property right" in his position. The chief of police could be suspended or fired only if found guilty of a specific set of publicly aired charges after a "full, fair and impartial hearing" before the city's Board of Civil Service Commissioners. Needless to say, in a city as corrupt as Los Angeles, a full hearing was something that Mayor Shaw would never be prepared to risk. In short, Proposition 14-A would dramatically strengthen Chief Davis's position vis-a-vis the Shaws. On Tuesday, April 6, 1937, the electorate of Los Angeles approved it by a vote of 79,336 to 69,380.

It was an amendment that would change the history of Los Angeles. The Los Angeles Police Department, long subordinate to some combination of the mayor, the underworld, or the business community (or sometimes all three), now had the legal protection it needed to emerge as a power in its own right.

It also had a potent new adversary. The same year Bill Parker was attempting to erect a ring of legal protections around the chief's office that neither corrupt politicians nor the remnants of the Combination could breach, one of the most formidable figures in the history of American organized crime arrived in Los Angeles. His name was Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel. Mickey Cohen was his muscle.

* It was also something of a racket. According to historian Gerald Woods, wealthy Angelenos purchased $1,000 memberships that brought with them preferential treatment for parking and speeding violations. (Woods, "The Progressives and the Police," 324.) It was also something of a racket. According to historian Gerald Woods, wealthy Angelenos purchased $1,000 memberships that brought with them preferential treatment for parking and speeding violations. (Woods, "The Progressives and the Police," 324.)* In truth, when viewed in the context of the time, the tactics championed by Chief Davis are not as outrageous as they first appear. Most police reformers believed that improving police officers' shooting skills was an effective deterrent to the gangsterism that plagued urban America. "Rousting" was a standard law enforcement tool. The b.u.m Blockade was less extreme than the transient forced labor camps proposed by the city's Committee on Indigent Alien Transients one year earlier. Advocates of wholesale fingerprinting were common too. August Vollmer, a Berkeley police chief and professor who became a hero to progressives in the 1920s, openly endorsed "a system of checking the movements of persons traveling from one state to another." (Vollmer, In truth, when viewed in the context of the time, the tactics championed by Chief Davis are not as outrageous as they first appear. Most police reformers believed that improving police officers' shooting skills was an effective deterrent to the gangsterism that plagued urban America. "Rousting" was a standard law enforcement tool. The b.u.m Blockade was less extreme than the transient forced labor camps proposed by the city's Committee on Indigent Alien Transients one year earlier. Advocates of wholesale fingerprinting were common too. August Vollmer, a Berkeley police chief and professor who became a hero to progressives in the 1920s, openly endorsed "a system of checking the movements of persons traveling from one state to another." (Vollmer, The Police and Modern Society The Police and Modern Society, 24.)

7.

Bugsy.

"Booze Barons of other climes are just bootleggers in Los Angeles. Gangsters can never build another Chicago here."-LAPD statement, 1931 BY 1937, Bugsy Siegel was one of the most important men in organized crime. During the 1920s, Siegel and his partner, Meyer Lansky, had made names for themselves in the New York City underworld as fearless stickup men, bootleggers, and muscle-for-hire. In 1927, Siegel partic.i.p.ated in one of the earliest efforts to coordinate bootlegging on the Atlantic seaboard. Two years later, Lansky helped organize a national crime "syndicate" at a meeting of the nation's top crime bosses in Atlantic City. In 1931, Siegel reputedly took part in the successful hit on Joe "the Boss" Ma.s.seria-the man young Mickey Cohen had seen in the bleachers at Stillman's-at a restaurant on Coney Island. The a.s.sa.s.sination made Charles "Lucky" Luciano (a longtime Lansky friend) the boss of New York and made the loose group organized by Lansky, which would soon come to be known as the Syndicate, the underworld's preeminent inst.i.tution.* In short, Siegel was a figure the likes of which the L.A. underworld had never seen before. Yet Siegel did not originally move west to play the heavy. Instead, like generations of migrants before and since, he came west with dreams of health, wealth, and leisure. In short, Siegel was a figure the likes of which the L.A. underworld had never seen before. Yet Siegel did not originally move west to play the heavy. Instead, like generations of migrants before and since, he came west with dreams of health, wealth, and leisure.

Siegel first visited Los Angeles in 1933 to check in on his childhood friend George Raft. Raft, a nightclub dancer in New York, had become a Hollywood star by playing gangsters like Bugsy in the movies. (His breakthrough role came in the 1932 movie Scarface Scarface as the coin-flipping sidekick to the Al Capone-esque Paul Muni.) It was not the most auspicious year for a first visit to Los Angeles. That spring, a ma.s.sive earthquake had leveled a wide swath of Long Beach, killing more than fifty people and badly shaking the confidence of the region. A quarter of the working-age population was unemployed. A vast hobo encampment (nicknamed "The Jungle") had spread along the Los Angeles River. Siegel was entranced. as the coin-flipping sidekick to the Al Capone-esque Paul Muni.) It was not the most auspicious year for a first visit to Los Angeles. That spring, a ma.s.sive earthquake had leveled a wide swath of Long Beach, killing more than fifty people and badly shaking the confidence of the region. A quarter of the working-age population was unemployed. A vast hobo encampment (nicknamed "The Jungle") had spread along the Los Angeles River. Siegel was entranced.

He was receptive to Los Angeles for another reason as well. The same year that Siegel made his first visit to the city, Congress repealed the Twentieth Amendment, ending national Prohibition. This was something the Syndicate had long feared. What happened next, though, caught Siegel and his a.s.sociates off guard. Almost overnight they became wealthy-and quasi-legitimate businessmen. Underground distribution networks could become legal liquor distributorships. The Syndicate steamers loaded with booze suddenly had a future as legal importers. Speakeasies like the 21 Club and the Stork that had once operated behind barred doors with lookout holes now hung out Welcome signs. Siegel and Lansky's car and truck rental company on Cannon Street, originally a front for bootlegging, was now a successful business in its own right. Siegel quickly became a partner in one of the biggest liquor distributorships in New York City.

Siegel's lifestyle reflected his success. In the midst of the Depression, Siegel had an apartment at Broadway and 85th and a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, as well as a house in Scarsdale for his wife and kids. Wealth and the possibility of legitimacy had a profound psychological effect on Siegel and his a.s.sociates. "Viewed from their luxurious apartments and ducal estates, jail houses became utterly repugnant," wrote newspaper columnist Florabel Muir, who'd observed Siegel's career as a hoodlum since the early 1920s.

"Caution, fathered by the urge to preserve and enjoy their vast fortunes, overtook them," she continued, adding, "There is nothing like a million dollars to bring about a conservative point of view."

Los Angeles offered the chance for a new start. If a Lower East Side tough-turned-speakeasy-"hoofer" like George Raft could transform himself into a movie star there, then perhaps a former gangster could transform himself into a gentleman of leisure. And so in 1934 Siegel moved his wife, his two daughters, and the family German shepherd to Beverly Hills and promptly set out to join the movie colony elite. He rented a luxurious house on McCarthy Drive in Beverly Hills that had once been the home of opera star Lawrence Tibbett. He enrolled his two daughters in an elite private school and an exclusive riding academy. He became a member of the Hill-crest Country Club, the social center of the film colony. He shed his New York City gangster attire (hard-sh.e.l.led derby hat, fur-trimmed coats, rakish lapels) in favor of two-hundred-dollar sports coats and cashmere slacks. He took as his mistress the most flamboyant hostess in Hollywood, Dorothy di Fra.s.so, a New York leather goods heiress married to an Italian count. Unfortunately, Siegel then ran into a problem-an embarra.s.sing one. He got taken-for a million dollars.

At the end of Prohibition, Siegel had about $2 million in cash. Unfortunately, he then invested much of it in the stock market. In short order, Siegel had cut his fortune in half.

"If I had kept that million," Siegel later mused to a friend, "I'd have been out of the rackets right then. But I took a big licking, and I couldn't go legitimate." Instead, he went back to what he knew best: organized crime. Los Angeles, which Siegel had once viewed as a playground, was now an opportunity.

BUGSY'S PALS back East were delighted by his decision to organize the West Coast. From Lansky and Luciano's perspective, California was a backwater-an embarra.s.sment, really. The Combination's power had dwindled. McAfee and Gans controlled little more than prost.i.tution and slots in the downtown core. Yet L.A.'s top Italian crime boss, Jack Dragna, had failed to step up, particularly when it came to a.s.serting authority over fast-growing areas like the Sunset Strip. Located in unincorporated territory outside of the city of Los Angeles (and the reach of the LAPD), the Strip was the perfect vice center. But Dragna hadn't established even a proper casino. "Jack wasn't pulling the counties or the political picture together," Cohen would say later. "There was no combination; everyone was acting independently." Siegel would change that. Top New York mob boss "Lucky" Luciano contacted Dragna personally with the news that Siegel was taking change "for the good of us all."

Dragna took the news poorly. It hardly mattered. Dragna had important connections back East himself (according to Cohen, he was related to Tommy "Three-Finger Brown" Lucchese), but Siegel was a peer of the realm, an equal to anyone in the Syndicate. Mickey Cohen would later describe him as "one of the six tops ... right up with Capone." Dragna stepped aside. Others were not so deferential.

One who declined to defer to an interloper from back East was Eddy Neales, the thirty-three-year-old owner of the Clover Club, a high-rolling Hollywood nightclub and casino just west of the Chateau Marmont above the Sunset Strip. The handsome half-Mexican, half-Caucasian Neales cut a dashing figure; the Clover Club was the the gambling spot in a city that loved to test fortune at the tables. Neales also had a booming bookmaking business, thanks to California's decision to legalize pari-mutuel betting at racetracks in 1933. gambling spot in a city that loved to test fortune at the tables. Neales also had a booming bookmaking business, thanks to California's decision to legalize pari-mutuel betting at racetracks in 1933.* By 1937, Neales was reputedly handling about $10 million a year in bets. By 1937, Neales was reputedly handling about $10 million a year in bets.

Neales didn't rely on his personal popularity to protect his operations. Milton "Farmer" Page, a major figure in the Combination, was a silent partner. Neales and partner Curly Robinson were also paying a small fortune in protection money to the Los Angeles sheriff's department, which had jurisdiction over the Sunset Strip. So it was perhaps understandable that when Siegel approached Neales and Robinson and informed them that he was looking to make a major investment in their club, they demurred. A confrontation appeared to be inevitable. Siegel recognized that he needed more muscle. So Siegel put out a call for talent. Cleveland and Chicago had just the person for the job, Mickey Cohen.

COHEN had outstayed his welcome in Chicago. At one point, he and his a.s.sociates got permission from the Capone gang to open a blackjack game in the Loop. When that wasn't lucrative enough, he decided to open a c.r.a.ps game, despite the fact that dice games were strictly off limits in downtown Chicago. Capone accountant Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik personally flew in from Miami to tell Cohen to wind up his c.r.a.ps game. Mickey declined. Several nights later, as Mickey was standing in front of his favorite haberdashery shop, a large black car turned the corner ... and opened fire. Mickey hesitated. He was wearing a beautiful new camelhair coat, and he hated the thought of ruining it by "flattening out" in the gutter. If the Capone gang had been serious, he figured he'd probably already be dead. Still, he didn't want to take any chances-or seem disrespectful. Into the slush he went.

Mickey was living like a man who didn't value life. Whenever he needed a buck, he'd heist a store-sometimes two or three in a day. He developed a mania for cream-colored Stetson hats, which he'd purchase for $50, wear for a few days, and then discard. When he wanted a new hat, out came the gun. When holdups alone failed to keep Mickey in new hats and flossy suits, he reopened his c.r.a.ps game in the Loop. He made enemies casually. In early 1937, Mickey got into a beef with a former slugger for Chicago's Yellow Cab company. One day Mickey ran into the man in a restaurant and pistol-whipped him. After getting drunk, the man tracked down Mickey and stuck a gun in his back. Cohen spun around, got his hand on the rod, but wasn't able to wrest the firearm away from his would-be a.s.sailant. So the two men decided to go to a coffee shop to talk matters over, each with a hand firmly on the gun. They sat down at the counter. An instant later, Mickey smashed a sugar dispenser over the man's head.

"His head split open like a melon and blood flew all over the joint," Mickey noted later, with evident satisfaction. As the coffee shop erupted in screams, Cohen dashed down to the cellar to dispose of the gun. But the cops found the weapon and arrested him for attempted murder.

There was, of course, an easy way out: Mickey could tell the police that the gun wasn't his and that he'd acted in self-defense. Fingering someone for the cops, however, was something Mickey just wouldn't do. He clammed up. But for the last-minute intervention of Pop Palazzi, the Capone gang's Chicago counselor, Cohen might well have gone to prison. Instead, he was told to leave town. He went to Detroit. There he learned that Bugsy Siegel was looking for muscle in Los Angeles. Detroit wanted Mickey to go there to help out-and to keep an eye on Bugsy. So did Cleveland. And so in 1937, Mickey returned to his old hometown.

MICKEY was supposed to get in touch with Siegel as soon as he arrived in Los Angeles. Instead, he decided that he'd first make a few scores and put a little money in his pocket. If Siegel wanted to get in touch with him, well, then Siegel could come and find him. Mickey quickly hooked up with two Italian brothers, Fred and Joe Sica, who were freelance holdup men. Together, the three men went "on the heavy." They found a city that was easy pickings. Tipsters were easy to recruit. Mickey and his crew were soon heisting two or three joints a week. Brothels, shops, drugstores-any place with cash on hand was a possible target. Soon Mickey was summoning old colleagues from Cleveland, Chicago, and New York to come join him in L.A. As their confidence increased, so did the size of their targets. Were these establishments perhaps under someone else's protection? Mickey didn't know, and truth be told, he "didn't even give a s.h.i.t."

"I was out with ten different broads every night," he later boasted, "and I was in every cabaret that they could possibly have in town." Bugsy Siegel was forgotten-until, that is, Mickey and his crew made a spectacularly foolish heist.

Their target was a commission bookmaking office on Franklin that handled high-roller bets and was owned by Morris Orloff, one of the biggest bookmakers in town. Mickey got in using one of his favorite ruses. At nine in the morning, he started banging on the door. The peephole opened and an ex-deputy sheriff eyed Mickey suspiciously. Mickey played it cool: I says to the doorman, "Is Morey in?""Don't get here till ten o'clock or later," he says."I got to give him this here," I says, "and pick something up.""Put it through the peephole," the ex-cop says."I can't," I says, "it's a package."

The ex-cop opened the door-and found himself staring into the barrel of Mickey's .38. Two of Mickey's a.s.sociates forced their way in.

The baby-faced kid messenger tone was gone. "Lookit you c.o.c.ksucker," Mickey told the lookout, "you just move and you're gone."

The man didn't move. Nor did the four other men in the room who were looking at Mickey. Mickey herded them into a corner and then announced that he was going to wait for Morey Orloff himself to arrive with the big money.

"Look kid, you got alla the money," said a big Italian man in the corner. "Whatta ya wanna stay around here. A copper could come in."

Mickey walked over to the man. He was wearing a large diamond stickpin. Mickey ripped it off.

"Listen you dago b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Mickey yelled at the man, "mind your own business or I'll put a phone through your head. I'm staying for Morey Orloff if I gotta stay till tomorrow."

Another man spoke up. "I'm Morey Orloff." To prove it, he showed Mickey his signet ring. That Orloff was joined at the hip with Jack Dragna, Los Angeles's top Italian crime boss, troubled Cohen not one bit. He took the signet ring too. Then, just as Mickey had hoped, an Orloff flunky arrived-with $22,000 in cash. Mickey and his crew took the money from the messenger and left.

Now Siegel was looking for Cohen. That afternoon, Mickey got a call from Champ Segal, who ran a popular barbershop next to the Brown Derby on Vine-and managed the featherweight boxing champion of the world. Segal was one of Bugsy's closest a.s.sociates. He was also one of the few people in Los Angeles who knew Mickey well enough to have a phone number where he could be reached.