IN ALGERIA, Parker was a.s.signed to the Allied Commission for Sardinia, an island off the coast of Italy that had been evacuated by the Germans in October in the face of the Anglo-American a.s.sault on Italy that had commenced earlier that year. Notwithstanding his continuing frustration about his lowly rank, Parker seemed to enjoy his experiences as a single military man. (In Sardinia, his commanding officer would comment favorably on his "wide experience, great energy and ..."-surprisingly-his "pleasing and happy personality.") In February 1943, Parker was transferred to England to prepare for Operation OVERLORD OVERLORD-the invasion of Europe. His job was to help draft a police and prison plan for France. Parker would then follow the first wave of the D-day landings as a member of the Army's civilian affairs division to help organize police operations in areas the Allies recaptured.

There was, however, one point on which Parker felt lingering unease: Helen. Relations with his wife had been strained. Despite letters that suggest a pa.s.sionate reunion in Cambridge, in the months leading up to his departure from L.A., Parker's relationship with Helen had been rocky. It is not entirely clear what the problem was; Helen had rebuffed Bill's efforts to talk openly about the state of their marriage, a.s.suring him that things were fine and that she remained committed to their marriage. Bill soon heard otherwise from friends back home. Helen, he was told, had an unusually close male friend.

FOR MICKEY COHEN, the desire to indulge-and bend the rules-meant more business. The first and most important part of it was gambling. Bookies were typically forced to pay $250 a week for the wire that provided racing results and a measure of protection. That added up. By one estimate, Bugsy Siegel's bookie take during this period amounted to roughly $500,000 a year. (He also reputedly had a multimillion-dollar salvage business that trafficked in rationed goods as well as a rumored heroin supply route.) Mickey got only a sliver of this cash. However, other Siegel-Cohen enterprises were more than enough to make Mickey a wealthy man. Cohen would later boast that the two men's loan-sharking operations "reached the proportions of a bank." They also exercised considerable sway over the city's cafes and nightclubs, lining up performers, arranging financing, and providing "dispute resolution services."

Mickey had his own operations as well, independent of Siegel. By far the most significant was the betting commission office he operated out of the back of a paint store on Beverly Boulevard. There Cohen handled big bets-$20,000, $30,000, even $40,000-from horse owners, agents, trainers, and jockeys who didn't want to diminish their payouts by betting at the racetracks. Cohen also routinely "laid off" large bets to five or six commission offices around the country. On a busy day, this amounted to anywhere from $30,000 to $150,000, of which Mickey took a 2V2 to 5 percent commission. He also routinely used his insider knowledge to place bets himself.

That was the serious money side of his business. Then there was the fun stuff, like the La Brea Club, at the corner of La Brea and West Third. Mickey's personal dinner club featured fancy meals (including rationed wartime delicacies) and a high-stakes c.r.a.ps game. Security was tight: Some evenings, there was as much as $200,000 in cash on the table. He also opened a private club in a mansion in the posh Coldwater Canyon neighborhood, which stretches north from Beverly Hills to Mulholland Drive. There his guests-mainly denizens of the movie colony-could enjoy a good steak, listen to an attractive chanteuse ("who, when the occasion called for it, could also sing a song with a few naughty verses"), and enjoy games of chance at all hours of the night. He likewise dabbled in boxing, managing the leading contender for the t.i.tle of the lightweight boxing champion of the world, William "Willie" Joyce.

Things were going so well that Cohen took a step that only the most well organized criminals could pull off: He turned his Burbank bookie joint into a casino. At first, it was a dingy place, with "an old broken-down" c.r.a.ps table in a room so small "that when someone wanted to go to the bathroom, the dealer had to leave the end of the table." However, it did have the advantage of a friendly police chief and a prime location-just a block or two from the Warner Bros. lot. In short order, cowboys, Indians, gra.s.s-skirted Polynesian maidens, and other extras were cramming into the former stockyard, which soon began a process of rapid expansion. Occasionally, Burbank police chief Elmer Adams (a sometime dinner guest at the Cohen household and the happy owner of a suspiciously large yacht) would bestir himself to shut down Cohen's operations, but never for long. Mickey also began to dream of opening a high-end haberdashery shop.

For Cohen, it was a golden period. But Bugsy Siegel was discontented. Despite his considerable successes, Bugsy found Los Angeles to be a frustrating place to do business. To the low-or midlevel hoodlum, the pell-mell of government jurisdictions and munic.i.p.alities in the Los Angeles basin-forty-six in Los Angeles County alone-was a G.o.dsend. But for Siegel, who wanted to organize the entire area, it was a frustrating inconvenience. Even organizing the city of Los Angeles presented nearly insurmountable hurdles. According to Cohen, Siegel never succeeded in establishing a numbers game in Los Angeles not because the police force was honest but rather because he had to negotiate deals on a division-by-division basis. Siegel wanted to find a better way. So did his old partner Meyer Lansky.

Meyer and Bugsy had grown up together on the streets of New York, but after Prohibition ended, the two men had gone in different directions. Siegel had tried to set himself up as a wealthy sportsman in the movie colony; Lansky had tried to establish himself as a businessman in the mola.s.ses business. Both failed in these endeavors-Siegel due to bad luck in the stock market, Lansky after federal agents connected his mola.s.ses business to illicit distilleries in Ohio and New Jersey that were trying to dodge excise taxes. As a result, both returned to the underworld. But where Siegel delighted in strongarm stuff (leaning on bookies, union extortion, etc.), Lansky concentrated on casinos. Still, the two men stayed in touch. In the early 1940s, Siegel and Lansky invested together in the Colonial Inn, a lavish casino in Hallandale, Florida. Although the Colonial Inn was a remarkable success, it still ran the risks that came with all illegal activities. As a result, both Lansky and Siegel began to explore alternatives. Lansky looked across the Florida Straits to Cuba. Siegel looked across the Nevada desert to Las Vegas.

In 1931, the state of Nevada, desperate to raise revenues, had legalized gambling. The most immediate beneficiary of this move was Reno, which was situated on the busy Union Pacific Line between Sacramento and Salt Lake City. However, gambling entrepreneurs also noticed the sleepy town of Las Vegas, some 250 miles east of Los Angeles. By the late 1930s, former Los Angeles crime bosses such as Tony Cornero and former Combination boss Guy McAfee had opened operations there in an attempt to capitalize on a minor boom brought about by the construction of the Hoover Dam southeast of the city. Siegel noticed it too after he started persuading Las Vegas bookmakers to sign up for a Syndicate-controlled racing wire. Siegel and his Phoenix-based a.s.sociate Moe Sedway could hardly miss the fact that Las Vegas users of the wire alone were soon providing Siegel with about $25,000 a month in revenue. No wonder he and Sedway dubbed their Vegas service "the Golden Nugget Wire service."

Still, Las Vegas was slow to establish itself as a gambling destination. It was hot. It was inaccessible. Compared to the cla.s.sy "carpet joints" of, say, Saratoga Springs, the casinos of downtown Las Vegas, with their sawdust floors and hokey western themes, weren't much to look at. That began to change in 1941, when hotelier Tommy Hull opened El Rancho Vegas. Instead of being located downtown, El Rancho Vegas was outside the city, on the highway to Los Angeles. With its flamboyant Mission styling, manicured sixty-acre spread, steakhouse, night-club-style entertainment, and comfortable accommodations, El Rancho Vegas wasn't just a casino, it was a destination. (Today, this once forlorn part of Clark County is the Las Vegas Strip.) Siegel saw the potential to do something even larger. Las Vegas was within driving distance of Los Angeles. As air-conditioning in automobiles improved, it would be an increasingly easy drive. And of course, gambling in Nevada was legal. But when Siegel made an offer on El Rancho Vegas, Hull turned him down. Instead, he decided to sell the property to an a.s.sociate of Conrad Hilton. So two years later Siegel, Meyer Lansky, and other Syndicate figures purchased another, more traditional property downtown, the El Cortez. It was an excellent investment, but Siegel wanted something more. By 1945, he was looking for another investment opportunity. It was Billy Wilkerson who would provide it.

Wilkerson was the publisher of the Hollywood Reporter Hollywood Reporter, the first movie-biz trade daily, and the man behind the Sunset Strip's choicest nightclubs. Wilkerson was also one of Hollywood's most ardent gamblers. His first nightclub, the Club Trocadero ("the Troc") was known for its backroom card game. Industry giants including Irving Thalberg, Darryl Zanuck, and Sam Goldwyn routinely played poker there with $20,000 chips. Wilkerson followed with Ciro's in 1939 and LaRue's in 1944. In the process, he shifted the locus of Los Angeles nightlife to an empty stretch of Sunset Boulevard just outside of the city limits that would soon become known as the Sunset Strip.

Wilkerson was a gambling addict. Often, he'd leave for a week or more for the nearest destination where gambling was legal-Las Vegas. During the first half of 1944, Wilkerson hit a particularly bad streak, losing almost a million dollars, a loss so large that it may have forced him to unload Ciro's. Finally, Joseph Schenck, then chairman of 20th Century Fox and a personal friend of Wilkerson's, gave him some advice.

"If you are going to gamble that kind of money," Schenck told Wilkerson, "own the casa." casa."

So Wilkerson decided to build a casino-a grand one, as stylish as Ciro's, as sw.a.n.k as Monte Carlo, an air-conditioned luxury resort surrounded by beautiful grounds and a golf course. He would call it the Flamingo Club. Las Vegas might well have come into existence as Billy Wilkerson's town, if not for a raid one evening on the sw.a.n.k Sunset Towers apartment of Siegel pal Allen Smiley. Siegel and his friend the actor George Raft were visiting. The police burst in to find Siegel placing a few bets on horse races. Siegel and Smiley (but not Raft) were promptly arrested on bookmaking charges. Bugsy was indignant. All he'd been doing, he claimed, was dialing in a $1,000 bet on a race at Churchill Downs. The notion that he, personally, would be making book on some two-bit horse race was insulting. The idea that some dumb cop could just burst in and arrest him on some trumped up charge was intolerable. It was time, he resolved, to turn his full attention to Las Vegas. In the interim, Mickey Cohen could run Los Angeles.

AS THE BEVERLY HILLS police were hara.s.sing Bugsy Siegel, Bill Parker was preparing for D-day.

The invasion of Normandy began on June 6. Parker landed five days later-and was promptly wounded in a German strafing attack, for which he was awarded the Purple Heart. The news was slow to reach Los Angeles. It is a measure of Parker's standing in Los Angeles that when it did, the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times carried the following item on page two of the paper: carried the following item on page two of the paper: Lt. Parker Wins Purple HeartLt. William H. Parker, on miltary leave from his duties as a captain in charge of the accident prevention bureau of the Los Angeles Police Department, has been awarded the Purple Heart for injuries received in action in France, it was learned here yesterday.He was wounded over the right eyebrow by a machine-gun bullet fired from one of two n.a.z.i planes strafing a column of American vehicles in Normandy, according to reports.He is serving with Army military government in France. Parker resides here at 2214 India St.

Mayor Bowron was among those who wrote Parker to wish him a speedy recovery. Chief Horrall was not.

For Parker, one brush with death seems to have been more than enough. On August 18, he wrote Helen to tell her that he'd drafted a letter "requesting that I be released from the army." Parker had what appeared to be a good case. The LAPD desperately needed experienced policemen. Throughout the war years, it had operated with only about two thousand officers, five hundred less than its authorized level. Felonies had increased by 50 percent from 1942 to 1943 alone. Juvenile delinquency was also rising quickly. But in his memo to the adjutant general, Parker chose not to emphasize Los Angeles's needs. Instead, he presented his own grievances.

"At the time I was interviewed for the commission by the Procurement Officer it was represented to me that I would receive a grade no lower than Captain as the requisition called for commissions in the grades of Captain and Major," Parker wrote, with obvious bitterness. "The Procurement Officer further stated that I would be recommended for the higher grade." He concluded with this legalistic (and hubristic) flourish: I respectfully submit that by reason of my grade there is no position in prospect in the U.S. Army commensurate with my qualifications and thereby I request relief from active duty under the provisions of Paragraph 3, War Department Letter A.G. 210.85 (30 December 1943) PO-A-A 12 January 1944, at the expiration of my acc.u.mulated leave.

The Army was not persuaded. Parker's request was denied.

In a letter to Helen, Parker reacted by comparing himself to Christ on the road to Golgotha. He was clearly lonely and afraid of losing Helen. Parker's other correspondents continued to speak of a particularly close relationship she had with a certain male "friend." It seems clear that the relationship was a romantic one (although it is not clear whether it was merely an extended flirtation or an adulterous fling). For Parker, it must have seemed like a nightmare. It was his first marriage all over again. Distressed, Parker wrote to his bank in September asking it to cut off Helen's access to his bank account.

This was hardly an action that would go unnoticed. In early October, Helen discovered that her financial lifeline had been sundered. Far from showing chagrin at being found out, Helen went on the offensive, penning her husband a furious letter. Addressed to "First Lt. Wm. H. Parker" from "Policewoman A. Parker" (Amelia being Helen's Christian name), subject line "Being a Good Soldier," the letter boldly castigated Parker for his his two-faced behavior: two-faced behavior: Last nite at about four-thirty I arrived at 2214 India Street, after a day at the plant and the usual long trek home, to find a letter written by you on the 28th of September. The salutation was "My Darling" and the closing line was "Goodnite my dear and may thy dreams be untroubled."A very strange missive to receive from you in view of the activity you have taken against me in the past couple of weeks.

At this point, her tone switched from sarcasm to anger. She castigated Parker for cutting off access to the family bank account-without notice-while he was continuing to whisper sweet nothings in his letters. She informed him that the week's vacation she'd taken off from work had been for purposes of locating a new residence after a dispute with her unreasonable landlord, not, as Parker presumably implied in some missing letter, for some tryst. She also made pa.s.sing references to her loneliness-a tacit justification for her "friendship" with the mysterious "H.J."

"So now I come to the end of a story about 'a good soldier,'" she concluded, "and the end of sixteen years ... sixteen long years when I had hoped you had built some faith in me as your wife plus being a pal thru those horrible 'political battles' and those many happy occasions when we hunted and fished together, not alone at Topaz but up north and also in the Black Hills." Her final line was pointed: "True, everything has an ending."

That Helen's initial response had been to march down to her local bank to open her own bank account she did not reveal. (The manager, a friend of Bill's, refused, prompting Helen to fume, "Were Bill's friends everywhere?") Parker's retreat was swift, his capitulation total-or nearly so. He was desperate to sh.o.r.e up relations with Helen; he simply couldn't stand the prospect of another marriage disintegrating. In his subsequent letters to her, Parker was both apologetic and a bit defensive about the "the direct and harsh tactics" he had used in an effort "to learn the truth." (At one point, he would later even go so far as to suggest that "when you pause in retrospection you will realize the justice involved.") Now Helen had the upper hand, and she used it. It was she who would decide whether the marriage would endure or end.

On February 24, 1945, she wrote the decisive letter. She had spoken with "a man of religion" who had persuaded her to persevere in the marriage. Bill responded by reiterating his unwavering love for her-and warning that "the element of INDECISION INDECISION must never be allowed to reenter our relationship": must never be allowed to reenter our relationship": If other circ.u.mstances should arise in the future that should again throw you into a sea of doubt as to whether or not you should continue in our marriage relationship,... while you make up your mind as to what you desire to do you cannot expect me to stand by knowing that my entire happiness hangs in the balance and compel me to accept such a situation with the only compensation that you might possibly decide in my favor. I never want to go through that mental agony again and I do not believe that you should expect me to.

Helen accepted these conditions. Never again would she risk breaking with Bill. Henceforth, his life-and his career-would be her central concern.

ALTHOUGH PARKER HAD NOT SUCCEEDED in winning early discharge, his complaints did result in a promising new a.s.signment-as executive officer for the G-5 section, HQ Seine Division. There he partic.i.p.ated in the liberation of Paris (accompanying one of the first food convoys into the city). He also achieved the long-sought goal of being promoted to the rank of captain. In the spring of 1945, Parker was a.s.signed to the U.S. Group Control Council for Germany where he renewed his acquaintance with one of the most influential figures in American policing, Col. O. W. Wilson. A star student of the pioneering police chief and criminologist August Vollmer at Berkeley in the 1920s, Wilson had gone on to be a trailblazing police chief in Wichita, Kansas. Among his innovations was the use of marked patrol cars for routine patrol duties. (Previously, departments including the LAPD had relied on officers walking the beat.) In time, the two men would radically reshape American policing, Parker by his work in Los Angeles and Wilson through his writings and, later, by his work as superintendent of the Chicago Police Department in the 1960s.

Parker's first a.s.signment in liberated Germany was to reorganize the Munich police force-in two months. At first, it seemed a daunting task. Organizationally, the German bureaucracy was unfamiliar. Moreover, the city was swarming with suspicious characters with opaque agendas who were trying to ingratiate themselves with the city's new occupying power. A conspiratorial milieu, tangled alliances, pervasive corruption, and extensive vice-it was all very Los Angeles.

"All my life I have been accused of being too suspicious of my fellow man," he confessed to Helen in one letter from Frankfurt. But in his efforts to reorganize the Munich and Frankfurt police departments, Parker found his skeptical approach to human nature fully borne out. "If I were permitted to relate the details of the situation that faces me," Parker boasted in another letter, "it would rival the wildest fiction."

Parker was clearly relieved to move away from the topic of his marriage to safer subjects, such as his grievances against his superiors at the LAPD. He was particularly concerned that Chief Horrall and his allies would attempt to thwart his return to the department.

"The present system of oral grading permits the superior officers to grade the candidates, as you know," he wrote in another letter to his spouse. "My position would not be too good if I had to be graded by the men who were appointed to their positions from behind me on the list. Furthermore I don't believe the Chief feels kindly toward me.... My present att.i.tude is 'to h.e.l.l with them.' I do not desire to be submitted to the ignominy of being pa.s.sed up again."

In fact, the LAPD seems to have been eager to get Parker back. That summer, Chief Horrall contacted the Army to request that Parker be discharged from the service so that he could return to duty with the LAPD. Horrall also wrote Parker directly, claiming "the Department never did recover from the losses sustained when you left" and stating "the sooner you get back, the better and more secure everyone will feel." This was enough to prompt Parker to renew his efforts to win his release from the Army. Though reluctant to lose such an efficient officer (and worried that Parker's superiors in the Los Angeles Police Department were less enthusiastic than they let on), Colonel Wilson reluctantly agreed, and in September 1945, Parker was discharged from the Public Safety Division. The following month he came home to California.

He returned to a city transformed. The bucolic Los Angeles of blue skies, sunshine, and orange groves had disappeared (or at least withdrawn to wealthy Westside enclaves like Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and Brentwood). In its place was a new Manchester, a dark, industrial city.

Los Angeles's transformation had occurred suddenly-so suddenly that it could almost be traced to a single day: July 26, 1943. The next morning, the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times published a bewildered article on the transformation: published a bewildered article on the transformation: CITY HUNTING FOR SOURCE OF "GAS ATTACK"Thousands Left with Sore Eyes and Throats by Irritating FumesWith the entire downtown area engulfed by a low-hanging cloud of acrid smoke yesterday morning, city health and police authorities began investigations to determine the source of the latest "gas attack" that left thousands of Angelenos with irritated eyes, noses and throats.Yesterday's annoyance was at least the fourth such "attack" of recent date, and by far the worst.Visibility was cut to less than three blocks in some sections of the business district. Office workers found the noxious fumes almost unbearable. One munic.i.p.al judge threatened to adjourn court this morning if the condition persists.Warning that Los Angeles would soon become a "Deserted Village" unless the nuisance were abated, Councilman Carl Rasmussen demanded that the Health Commission make a report on what could be done about it....

The culprit was smog. By late 1943, it had settled permanently over downtown Los Angeles. The noir atmosphere that the director Billy Wilder captured so brilliantly with Double Indemnity Double Indemnity in 1944 was not just a symbolically fraught artifact of black-and-white film technology, it was real. Not until 1946 would denizens of downtown Los Angeles see sunshine and blue skies again. Los Angeles had become a noir city. in 1944 was not just a symbolically fraught artifact of black-and-white film technology, it was real. Not until 1946 would denizens of downtown Los Angeles see sunshine and blue skies again. Los Angeles had become a noir city.

The Los Angeles power structure had changed as well. In the 1920s, Harry Chandler and his fellow growth barons had dreamed of transforming Los Angeles into an industrial powerhouse along the lines of Chicago. It was clear now that they had achieved their goal. By 1945, Southern California was responsible for 15 percent of the country's total industrial output. But in transforming Los Angeles into an industrial center, the business barons also brought about a change they had long feared. Aircraft companies Douglas, Northrop, and Grumman and outside companies RCA Victor, Firestone Tire, Dow Chemical, and Ford Motor Company simply didn't share the native Los Angeles business establishment's antiunion fervor. Widespread unionization, long resisted, was now a fact. The LAPD's "red squad" became a thing of the past, and with it, the business establishment's need to dominate the LAPD.

The Los Angeles business community had experienced another dramatic change as well. In 1944, Harry Chandler died. Leadership of the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times pa.s.sed to his son Norman (who had become publisher in 1941). Norman was a far more genial figure than his father. However, his father's trusted a.s.sociates continued to run the newspaper. Political editor Kyle Palmer was a major force in Sacramento and nationally. In Los Angeles proper, the gnomic Carlton Williams regularly attended city council meetings, routinely flashing a thumbs-up or thumbs-down to conservative members to tell them how they should vote. Under their guidance, the pa.s.sed to his son Norman (who had become publisher in 1941). Norman was a far more genial figure than his father. However, his father's trusted a.s.sociates continued to run the newspaper. Political editor Kyle Palmer was a major force in Sacramento and nationally. In Los Angeles proper, the gnomic Carlton Williams regularly attended city council meetings, routinely flashing a thumbs-up or thumbs-down to conservative members to tell them how they should vote. Under their guidance, the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times would continue to wield great power, as Fletcher Bowron would soon learn to his great sorrow. would continue to wield great power, as Fletcher Bowron would soon learn to his great sorrow.

The war had changed William Parker, too. Parker had left Los Angeles as a disgruntled midranking police officer with a stalled career. Despite his obvious talents, his p.r.i.c.kly personality (and his a.s.sociation with former chief Davis) impeded his efforts to advance. He returned to Los Angeles as a decorated war hero, the highest-ranked LAPD officer to have served in the military. In a city to which veterans were relocating by the thousands every month, that put Parker in a politically powerful position. The city council took note, going so far as to pa.s.s a resolution thanking Parker for his wartime service and welcoming him back to the city. Even Chief Horrall penned a note of grat.i.tude. Parker was determined to use that power. His first goal was to become a deputy chief.

Almost immediately, Parker ran into an obstacle-a departmental policy that required two years of service before returning officers were eligible to take promotional exams. As written, it would have prevented him from taking civil service examinations until 1947. Appeals to Chief Horrall to change the policy fell on deaf ears. So Parker went public.

One of Parker's power bases in the department was American Legion Post 381, which served LAPD veterans. At a post meeting in February 1946, Parker laid into the department for having a policy "that is out of line with the whole nation." The following day the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times played his comments on page two, in a sympathetic article t.i.tled "Policy on Police Veterans Flayed." The city attorney weighed in by issuing an opinion that the department's policy on promotions violated the state const.i.tution, clearing the way for veterans to partic.i.p.ate in the next round of civil service examinations. For the first time, Parker prevailed over the bra.s.s on a major policy dispute. played his comments on page two, in a sympathetic article t.i.tled "Policy on Police Veterans Flayed." The city attorney weighed in by issuing an opinion that the department's policy on promotions violated the state const.i.tution, clearing the way for veterans to partic.i.p.ate in the next round of civil service examinations. For the first time, Parker prevailed over the bra.s.s on a major policy dispute.

Parker also tended to other power bases, one of the most important of which was the Fire and Police Protective League. When Parker returned to the force, his former subordinate, the gregarious Harold Sullivan, was serving as the captain's representative to the Fire and Police Protective League. Parker wanted that position and made it clear that he expected Sullivan to step aside. Sullivan did. In early 1949, Parker became the head of the league's executive committee.

Popularity and a measure of power seemed to have boosted Parker's confidence-if not his c.o.c.kiness. Soon after taking over, Parker took Sullivan and John d.i.c.k, a fire department captain, along on a lobbying trip to Sacramento. When the state legislature adjourned for the weekend without taking action on the item they had come to lobby legislators about, Parker proposed that they stay on. The men readily agreed, and the group set off for the Fairmont Hotel. There Parker demanded-and received-a suite. The men then went down to the bar, where Parker boldly struck up a conversation with "two very attractive young ladies" and a fellow who seemed to be their chaperone. The bar closed down at midnight, but Parker wasn't ready to end the evening.

"So what are you doing next?" Parker asked.

The ladies' group mentioned that they were going to an after-hours joint in another part of town. Parker asked if his group could join them. The women and their male companion readily agreed to this, so off everyone went. At the end of the evening, Parker went home with one of the women, perhaps, said Sullivan dryly, "to give her a lecture on prost.i.tution."

This was the new Bill Parker, a.s.sertive, ent.i.tled, and worldly. And still only partially reconciled with his wife, Helen.

IN THE SPRING of 1947, Parker's newfound confidence was on display for all to see when he served as the toastmaster for the Protective League's annual civic dinner. It was the largest dinner in the league's history. Mayor Bowron was the guest of honor. By all accounts, Parker delivered a sparkling performance. That summer, Parker again garnered headlines when the French government awarded him the Croix de Guerre with Silver Star for his service during the war. At the end of the month, when the LAPD released its promotions-eligibility list, Parker topped the list of those eligible for promotion to inspector. He moved up in the legion, becoming, first, vice commander of Post 381 and then commander. Under Parker's direction, membership exploded, growing to 1,400 in 1947 (the largest annual increase of any post in the state). The next year, it topped the 2,000-person mark. In recognition, he was made membership chairman of the statewide legion.

There was just one thing that hadn't changed-the underworld. If anything, its tentacles were as tightly entwined around the city as they had been in the mid-1930s. And Parker was surprised to discover it had a new leader: Mickey Cohen.

* Mickey would later insist that this cla.s.sification reflected a simple misunderstanding. During an earlier court appearance, his attorney had gotten into "a beef" with a judge. The "beef" had escalated into "a big hurrah," which ended with Mickey being forced to submit to a psychological examination. Evidently, he failed. (Cohen, Mickey would later insist that this cla.s.sification reflected a simple misunderstanding. During an earlier court appearance, his attorney had gotten into "a beef" with a judge. The "beef" had escalated into "a big hurrah," which ended with Mickey being forced to submit to a psychological examination. Evidently, he failed. (Cohen, In My Own Words In My Own Words, 64-65.)

11.

The Sporting Life.

"[T]o be honest with you, his getting knocked in was not a bad break for me...."-Mickey Cohen.

MICKEY'S RISE wasn't always easy. There always seemed to be someone around who wanted to crash the party.

First, there were the uninvited guests, guys like Benny "the Meatball" Gamson from Chicago. Moody and arrogant, "the Meatball" inspired little personal affection among those who came to know him. But he had fast hands and a substantial reputation as a "mechanic," a crooked card dealer, which meant that he was much sought after by flat shops and juice joints across town. He'd frequently worked with Mickey during the days when Cohen had run wildcat casinos and card games in the Loop and on the North Sh.o.r.e. "The Meatball" added so much to the house advantage that Mickey had even given Gamson "a piece of the operation." In Gamson's mind, that made Mickey and him partners. So when Gamson suddenly appeared in Southern California as the war was winding down, he naturally looked Mickey up and proposed reestablishing their old relationship.

But Mickey had changed. Back in Chicago, Mickey had been little more than a punk kid with only a dim awareness of who "the people" were. Since returning to Los Angeles, he had become one of "the people" himself. In Mickey's mind, "the Meatball" simply didn't have "the get-up ... the cla.s.s, would be the only word that I could possibly find" to a.s.sociate with the likes of, well, himself. So when Gamson asked Cohen to "move him in closer" with Siegel, Dragna, and Roselli, Cohen had to tell him that he couldn't do it. None of those worthies would meet with a pisher like Gamson.

Mickey tried to be nice about it, but the nicer he acted, the angrier Gamson got. Finally, Gamson told his former partner that if Siegel and Dragna wouldn't deal with him, he, Gamson, would just bring in his own crew, starting with Georgie Levinson, a noted Chicago tough. Cohen "tried to reason with him and make him understand" that that wasn't a very good idea.

"I told him, 'Lookit Ben, if we can help in [some other] way-'," but such offers only made "the Meatball" madder. To put an exclamation point on his pique, Gamson roughed up one of Mickey's old friends from Boyle Heights. Then Gamson linked up with a rival bookie named Pauley Gibbons. This would not do. It was time to hit back.

First to go was Pauley Gibbons. At 2:30 a.m. on the morning of May 2, 1946, Gibbons was accosted outside his Gale Avenue apartment by two unidentified men. According to neighbors, as soon as he saw them, Gibbons fell down on the sidewalk, screaming, "Don't kill me! Please don't kill me!" Of course they did, with seven quick shots. Gibbons's diamond and sapphire ring and a gold watch were left behind, to make it clear that this was not some robbery gone awry. To underscore the killers' opinion of Gibbons, someone paid a drunken homeless man $2 to deliver a box of horse s.h.i.t (disguised as a box of flowers) to the funeral home during viewing hours. Five months later, on October 3, Gamson and Levinson met a similar fate outside Gamson's Beverly Boulevard apartment.

So much for "the Meatball."

Then there were the locals, foremost among them a family of thugs called the Shamans.

Maxie, Izzie, and Joey Shaman had enjoyed a reputation for toughness as kids growing up in Boyle Heights. They fancied they had this reputation still. Cohen henchman Hooky Rothman wasn't aware of it. When Joe Shaman started acting up one night at the La Brea Club, Hooky told little Joey, bluntly, to "behave yourself in here or get the f.u.c.k out." When Joey didn't, Hooky broke a chair over his head, worked him over a bit, and then threw him out.

When Mickey swung by that night around 4 a.m., he found out about the incident. It was a shame, he told Hooky; he'd always liked the family. Mickey later claimed that he'd thought no more about it. That seems doubtful. Word raced through Boyle Heights that six-foot, 230-pound Maxie Shaman intended to administer a beating Mickey would not soon forget. The next morning Maxie arrived at Cohen's commission office behind the paint store on Beverly Boulevard. Exactly what happened next is unclear. Mickey later claimed that Maxie and Izzie burst into his office, armed, and that he gunned down Maxie in self-defense. According to Izzie, his brother walked into Mickey's office, and Cohen blasted him, killing him in cold blood. The police preferred Izzie's story; they arrested Cohen for homicide on the spot. However, a young deputy district attorney named Frederick Napoleon Howser (who, as California attorney general, would later provide Cohen with a bodyguard) accepted Mickey's claim of self-defense, and the diminutive gangster walked.

Still, it was a setback for Mickey. The La Brea Club had become too high profile for its own good. At some point in 1945, Mickey decided to close it (though not before setting up a smaller, more intimate version of the club across the street for his closest friends). The c.r.a.ps game moved to a three-room suite at the Amba.s.sador Hotel. For "seven or eight months," Cohen organized high-rolling dice games that earned him another $15,000 to $70,000 a month.

In the summer of 1947, Mickey demonstrated his growing power in an impressive and unusual (for him) manner: He decided to hold a charity dinner. The beneficiary was the Jewish paramilitary organization the Irgun.

Mickey came late to ethnic pride, but by early 1947, the outbreak of the Israeli war for independence had touched even him. He particularly admired the s.p.u.n.k of the Irgun, which had earned international notoriety after an attack that previous summer on Jerusalem's King David Hotel, headquarters of the British administration for Palestine, that killed ninety-three people (most of them innocent civilians). Cohen had heard that the celebrated Chicago newspaperman-turned-Hollywood screenwriter Ben Hecht was raising money for the Irgun. The Hechts had a villa in Ocean-side. One day in early 1947, Mickey and a.s.sociate Mike Howard decided to pay Hecht a visit. They arrived unannounced. Hecht, a man of the world, recognized his visitors at once. Howard did the talking.

"Mr. Cohen would be obliged if you told him what's what with the Jews who are fighting in Palestine," Howard announced.

According to Hecht, who later described the encounter in his memoirs, A Child of the Century A Child of the Century, "Mickey looked coldly at the ocean outside my room and nodded." So Hecht told his visitors "what was what in Palestine." Cohen listened calmly as Hecht explained how David Ben-Gurion and the Haganah, the Jewish paramilitary organizat ion that would later form the core of the Israeli Defense Forces, were betraying Irgun agents to the British. The resistance needed guns and money, Hecht explained. Howard pressed him on how he could be having fund-raising problems in a city where "the movie studios are run by the richest Jews in the whole world."

With sarcastic indignation, Hecht explained that "all the rich Jews of Hollywood were indignantly opposed to Jews fighting."

"Knockin' their own proposition, huh?" said Cohen, speaking for the first time. Then Howard quietly asked Hecht, "What city were you you born in?" born in?"

"New York City," Hecht replied.

"What school did you go to?" persisted Howard.

"Broome Street Number Two"-on the Lower East Side, Hecht replied. That did the trick.

"I'd like to see you some more," Cohen said, gently this time. "Maybe we can fix something up." What he fixed up was a gala benefit dinner at his nightclub, Slapsie Maxie's Cafe. Hecht was the keynote speaker. When he arrived, he was stunned to find nearly a thousand people in attendance, including almost every player in the Los Angeles underworld.

"You don't have to worry," Howard whispered to Hecht. "Each and everybody here has been told exactly how much to give to the cause of the Jewish heroes. And you can rest a.s.sured there'll be no welchers." Hecht delivered an impa.s.sioned speech. Then "the bookies, toughies, and 'fancy Dans'" stood up and announced their pledges. Mickey wasn't satisfied. He turned to Howard.

"Tell 'em they're a lot o' cheap crumbs and they gotta give double." Howard obliged and then Mickey walked up on the stage and stood in the floodlights. According to Hecht, "he said nothing." He just stood and glowered.

"Man by man," continued Hecht, "the 'underworld' stood up and doubled the ante for Irgun." At the end of evening, Cohen had raised $200,000.

Cohen's clout was growing. Just a few days later, on June 20, 1947, Mickey got the break of a lifetime. It came at the expense of the man who'd made him what he was, Bugsy Siegel.

LAS VEGAS had sucked Bugsy Siegel in-and then spat him out. When Billy Wilkerson's Flamingo Casino broke ground in late 1945, he estimated that he'd need about $1.2 million to build the casino he envisioned. Lansky and Siegel had recently sold the El Cortez for a tidy profit, and in March 1946 the two men made a million-dollar investment in Wilkerson's project.

Wilkerson saw Bugsy Siegel as an investor, not a managing partner. After all, Bugsy Siegel didn't know anything about building a grand casino. He'd never even run a nightclub before. But Siegel had other ideas. By early 1947, Wilkerson had fled to Paris to escape from his former business partner.

Wilkerson was right. Siegel had never built a large establishment before, and it showed. The original budget for the new casino was $1.2 million. Siegel spent a million on plumbing alone. By the time the Flamingo opened on December 26, 1946, Siegel and his investors-who included the top leadership of the Syndicate-had plowed more than $5 million into the project. Rumors of outrageously expensive design changes started to spread. Some Syndicate chieftains became concerned that Bugsy's new girlfriend, Mob moll Virginia Hill (whom Outfit figures in Chicago had long used as a "mule" for transporting large amounts of cash) was stashing their money in Swiss bank accounts. Worse, when the Flamingo finally did open, it lost money. Siegel was forced to suspend operations to finish construction and figure out what had gone wrong. When it reopened in the spring, the Flamingo moved into the black, netting $250,000 in the three months that followed. But the hard feelings remained. There was also the matter of Siegel's att.i.tude. Was their old friend Bugsy contrite about all the Syndicate money he'd spent? Not at all. On the contrary, he wanted even more.

At issue was the business of supplying bookies with racing information. For more than a decade, Moses Annenberg's Nationwide News Service had dominated this lucrative business.* But in 1939, Annenberg disbanded his wire operations, and leadership pa.s.sed to James Ragan, who reconst.i.tuted the old monopoly as the Continental Press Service. Faced with pressure from the Outfit, Ragan went to the FBI for protection. But they weren't interested in his stories about how the old Capone mob had reemerged under new leadership. In Chicago on June 24, 1946, two shooters opened fire on Ragan while his car was stopped at the corner of State Street and Pershing Drive. Ragan was rushed to Michael Reese Hospital, where after ten blood transfusions he managed to swear out an affidavit identifying the gunman. In the weeks that followed, Ragan made a remarkable recovery-only to die suddenly on August 15. An autopsy suggested mercury poisoning. As for the gunman Ragan had identified, the affidavit identifying him was lost. But in 1939, Annenberg disbanded his wire operations, and leadership pa.s.sed to James Ragan, who reconst.i.tuted the old monopoly as the Continental Press Service. Faced with pressure from the Outfit, Ragan went to the FBI for protection. But they weren't interested in his stories about how the old Capone mob had reemerged under new leadership. In Chicago on June 24, 1946, two shooters opened fire on Ragan while his car was stopped at the corner of State Street and Pershing Drive. Ragan was rushed to Michael Reese Hospital, where after ten blood transfusions he managed to swear out an affidavit identifying the gunman. In the weeks that followed, Ragan made a remarkable recovery-only to die suddenly on August 15. An autopsy suggested mercury poisoning. As for the gunman Ragan had identified, the affidavit identifying him was lost.

Ragan's successors got the message. They immediately sold the wire service to front men controlled by the Outfit. Bugsy Siegel did not. With Continental now in Mob hands, Chicago informed Siegel that he could go ahead and shut down the Trans-American wire. Siegel refused. He'd built a viable and highly profitable business. He wanted something in exchange for giving it up-specifically, $2 million. This demand went over poorly.

Bugsy knew the boys could get tough. When he flew into Los Angeles early on the morning of June 20, 1947, violence was on his mind. After catching a few hours of sleep at the Beverly Hills mansion that Virginia Hill was renting (from Rudolph Valentino's former manager), Bugsy headed over to a.s.sociate Al Smiley's apartment, where he met with Mickey Cohen.* Siegel got right to the point. Siegel got right to the point.

"What kind of equipment you got?" Siegel asked him. Mickey ran down the list of weapons, hideouts, and gunmen available. Bugsy asked Mickey to send Hooky Rothman over the next day, presumably to provide extra protection. It was clear to Cohen that Bugsy "felt that there was some kind of come-off going to take place." But Bugsy hadn't seemed too worried about it. The two men had spoken out by the pool at Al Smiley's apartment. Siegel prided himself on his tan, and though Cohen noticed that he did look more tired and pallid than normal, he certainly hadn't gone into hiding.

After talking to Cohen, Siegel dropped by George Raft's Coldwater Canyon house and invited Raft to join him for dinner that night. Raft had other plans. Siegel spent the afternoon with his attorney and then went out for dinner with Al Smiley and Chick Hill, Virginia's little brother, at a new restaurant in Ocean Park. By 10:15 p.m., they were back home in Beverly Hills. Siegel and Smiley settled in on the sofa to read the early edition of the next morning's Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times. At 10:45 p.m., the first of nine bullets crashed through the living room window, hitting Siegel directly in the right eye. A second bullet slammed into Bugsy's neck as Smiley dove to the floor. Seven more bullets followed as Smiley screamed "kill the lights" at Chick Hill, who had run downstairs. Then silence. When Chick turned the lights on again, Al Smiley was hiding in the fireplace and Siegel was sprawled grotesquely across the sofa, tie red with blood, head barely attached. One of his striking blue eyes was on the dining room floor. His eyelashes were found plastered on a doorjamb. The police later concluded that the gunman had rested his high-caliber rifle on a latticed pergola just twenty feet away from where Siegel and Smiley were sitting.

It was, concluded Beverly Hills police chief Clinton Anderson, "a perfectly executed hit."

"Somebody knew that Siegel would be in Beverly Hills on this one day, and that he would be at Virginia Hill's home, and when, somehow, the heavy draperies over the living-room window had been left open to give the killer a view of the room," Anderson later wrote. "The shooting was timed exactly to occur when no police patrol car was near, and had to be done quickly since police cars were in the vicinity every 30 minutes." The only evidence the police were able to produce was a sketchy report of a black car "headed north on North Linden toward Sunset." But Chief Anderson had an idea about who might be responsible. His chief suspect was the person who would benefit most from Siegel's death-Mickey Cohen. The LAPD shared this suspicion.

MICKEY disliked Las Vegas and steered clear of Siegel's doings there. It wasn't the toll Las Vegas was taking on his mentor in crime that bothered him, it was the dust. "You have on a beautiful white-on-white shirt and a beautiful suit, and you'd come out and a G.o.dd.a.m.n sandstorm would blow up," he later groused. Still, while he tried to avoid going out to the Nevada desert, Cohen knew all about Siegel's Las Vegas troubles. He also knew that it might very well lead to violence.

"In things like this, you know, sometimes an order is given and you don't have any choice," Mickey said later. "There was no other way it could go for Benny."

Within the hour, the police were pounding at the door of Mickey's house.

"What do you want?" said Cohen when he opened the door.

But when the Beverly Hills police pinched him him on suspicion of being involved, Mickey was indignant. Everyone knew that he and Bugsy had been "real close." "Naturally, I missed [him]," Cohen would say later. But be that as it may, Siegel's death also presented Cohen with the opportunity of a lifetime-the chance to take over the rackets in L.A. on suspicion of being involved, Mickey was indignant. Everyone knew that he and Bugsy had been "real close." "Naturally, I missed [him]," Cohen would say later. But be that as it may, Siegel's death also presented Cohen with the opportunity of a lifetime-the chance to take over the rackets in L.A.

"The people in the East called on me on all propositions," Cohen later said, "some of which I wish they had not found me home for."

The LAPD had already been watching Cohen for some time. Mickey had caught the eye of Det. John (Jack) Donahoe, a legendary figure in both the homicide and robbery squads years earlier. Donahoe figured Mickey-correctly-for a string of armed robberies in the Wilshire corridor between 1937 and 1939. He was soon picking up Mickey for questioning on a regular basis-more than once a month, by Mickey's later calculations. As the spree continued and reports of unpleasant encounters with a five-foot, five-inch gunman came in, Donahoe grew increasingly confident that Mickey was his man. Yet despite repeatedly pinching Cohen, Donahoe never seemed able to come up with charges that would stick.

In those days, Cohen was far from a charmer. The tough, tight-lipped little hoodlum whom Donahoe first encountered bore little resemblance to the talkative, press-loving gangster whom a later generation of Angelenos would come to know. Yet when you arrest someone enough, it's hard not to form a relationship. Mickey soon found that he admired the big cop. During the 1930s, robbery/homicide had been the bagman squad-the unit that handled payoffs-for the LAPD. Even after the purge of Davis-era officers, in the late thirties, a whiff of corruption still clung to the unit. Donahoe, though, was different.

"One of the finest gentleman I ever met" was Cohen's verdict: "He would never take [a] dime-never let me go-[a] strictly on the level guy."

Donahoe didn't reciprocate these sentiments. When Donahoe learned that Mickey had started dating a cute Irish dance instructor/model, LaVonne Norma Weaver, he was concerned. Donahoe seems to have had something of a soft spot for a damsel in distress, and based on what he knew about Mickey Cohen, the pet.i.te redhead was definitely in danger. Mickey had presented himself to LaVonne as a prizefighter. Donahoe took it upon himself to enlighten her as to Cohen's true ident.i.ty as a stickup man.