by John Buntin
L.A. Noir: The Struggle for the Soul of America's Most Seductive City
John Buntin
Buntin, a crime writer for Governing magazine, chronicles the complex, interlocking lives of brutal gangster Mickey Cohen and durable police chief William Parker, telling their stories against the backdrop of Tinseltown from the 1930s to the '60s. The author adds to the mix the colorful cultural and political saga of the star-struck metropolis, a city ripe for a bitter power play between the crooks and cops, rampant with drug dens, pleasure palaces, illegal gambling and other assorted vices. The ruthlessness of Cohen, an heir to "Bugsy" Siegel, and the deadpan determination of Parker are placed in proper context with the seminal events of Prohibition, the Red scare, the federal crackdown on mobsters, and the Watts riots. Packed with Hollywood personalities, Beltway types and felons, Buntin's riveting tale of two ambitious souls hell-bent on opposing missions in the land of sun and make-believe is an entertaining and surprising diversion-as well as a sobering look at the role of the LAPD in fomenting racial tensions in L.A.
L.A. Noir
The Struggle for the Soul of America's Most Seductive City
To Melinda
—and the boys
“This is the city—Los Angeles, California. I work here. I’m a cop.”
—Sgt. Joe Friday, Dragnet
“A cop-syndicate rules this city with an iron hand.”
—Mickey Cohen, gangster
“The only time to worry is when they tell the truth about you.”
—William H. Parker, chief, Los Angeles Police Department
Prologue
OTHER CITIES have histories. Los Angeles has legends. Advertised to the world as the Eden at the end of the western frontier, the settlement the Spaniards named El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles turned out to be something very different—not the beatific Our Lady the Queen of the Angels advertised by its name but rather a dark, dangerous blonde.
She got up slowly and swayed towards me in a tight black dress that didn’t reflect any light. She had long thighs and she walked with a certain something I hadn’t often seen in bookstores. She was an ash blonde…
Her smile was tentative, but could be persuaded to be nice.
—Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep
For more than sixty years, writers and directors from Raymond Chandler and Billy Wilder to Roman Polanski and James Ellroy have explored L.A.’s origins, its underbelly, and (yes) its blondes in fiction and films like The Big Sleep, Double Indemnity, Chinatown, and L.A. Confidential. In the process, they created the distinctive worldview known as noir, where honor is in short supply and where Los Angeles invariably proves to be a femme fatale. Yet this preoccupation with a mythic past has obscured something important—the true history of noir Los Angeles.
For more than forty years, from Prohibition through the Watts riots, politicians, gangsters, businessmen, and policemen engaged in an often-violent contest for control of the city. Their struggle shaped the history of Los Angeles, the future of policing, and the course of American politics. In time, two primary antagonists emerged. The first was William H. Parker, Los Angeles’s greatest and most controversial chief of police. His nemesis was Los Angeles’s most colorful criminal, featherweight boxer-turned-gangster Mickey Cohen.
IN 1920 Los Angeles surpassed San Francisco as California’s largest city. It was a moment of triumph for Los Angeles Times publisher Harry Chandler, who had arrived four decades earlier when the city of angels was a dusty, water-starved pueblo of ten thousand souls. Chandler and his associates worked tirelessly to build a metropolis, relentlessly promoting the fledgling city and ruthlessly securing the water needed to support it (a campaign made famous by the film Chinatown). Yet 1920 was also the year that witnessed the emergence of a major threat to their authority. The threat came from Prohibition. For years, Harry Chandler and the so-called business barons had supplied local politicians with the advertising, the publicity, and the money they needed to reach the city’s new residents. In exchange, they gained power over the city government. But with the imposition of Prohibition, a new force appeared with the money and the desire to purchase L.A.’s politicians: the criminal underworld. To suppress it, the business community turned to the Los Angeles Police Department. The underworld also looked to the LAPD—for protection.
In 1922, Bill Parker and Mickey Cohen entered this drama as bit players in the struggle for control of Los Angeles. In 1937, Parker emerged as a protégé of Los Angeles’s top policeman while Mickey became the enforcer for L.A.’s top gangster. In 1950, they became direct rivals, each dedicated to the other’s destruction. Two characters more different from each other would be hard to imagine. Parker arrived in Los Angeles in 1922 from Deadwood, South Dakota, a proud, ambitious seventeen-year-old, one of the tens of thousands of migrants who were moving west to Southern California in what the journalist Carey McWilliams described as “the largest internal migration in the history of the American people.” He hoped to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather, a pioneering prosecutor on the western frontier, and make a career for himself in the law. But instead of opportunity, Parker found in Los Angeles temptation. Instead of becoming a prominent attorney, he became a cop, a patrolman in the Los Angeles Police Department. Coldly cerebral (Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry, a onetime LAPD officer and Parker speechwriter, reputedly based the character Mr. Spock on his former boss), intolerant of fools, and famously incorruptible (in a department that was famously corrupt), Parker persevered. Gradually he rose. Between 1934 and 1937, he masterminded a campaign to free the police department from the control of gangsters and politicians, only to see his efforts undone by a blast of dynamite and a sensational scandal. Then, in 1950, another scandal (this one involving 114 Hollywood “pleasure girls”) made Parker chief of the Los Angeles Police Department, a position he would hold for sixteen controversial years.
In contrast, Mickey Cohen wasn’t troubled by self-examination until much later in life (when he would grapple with the question of going “straight”). Born Meyer Harris Cohen in 1913 in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, Mickey arrived in Los Angeles with his mother and sister at the age of three. By the age of six, he was hustling newspapers on the streets of Boyle Heights. At the age of nine, he began his career in armed robbery with an attempt to “heist” a movie theater in downtown L.A. using a baseball bat. His talent with his fists took the diminutive brawler to New York City to train as a featherweight boxer. His skill with a .38 took him into the rackets, first in Cleveland, then in Al Capone’s Chicago. In 1937, Mickey returned to Los Angeles to serve as gangster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel’s right-hand man. It was a job that put him on a collision course with Bill Parker.
For three decades, from the Great Depression to the Watts riots, Parker and Cohen—the policeman and the gangster—would engage in a struggle for power, first as lieutenants to older, more powerful men, then directly with each other, and finally with their own instincts and desires. In 1956, Chief Parker’s war against Mickey Cohen and organized crime in L.A. attracted the attention of a young Senate investigator with political ambitions named Robert Kennedy. It also antagonized FBI director J. Edgar Hoover and created an extralegal, wiretap-driven style of policing that eerily prefigures the tactics being used in today’s war on terror. In the 1960s, it would incite the Watts riots and help propel Ronald Reagan into the governor’s mansion in Sacramento. Their contest would involve some of the most powerful—and colorful—figures of the twentieth century: press magnates Harry Chandler and his nemesis, William Randolph Hearst
; studio head Harry Cohn of Columbia; entertainers Jack Webb, Frank Sinatra, Lana Turner, and Sammy Davis Jr.; and civil rights leaders Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. The outcome of their struggle would change the history of Los Angeles, set race relations in America on a dangerous new path, and chart a problematic course for American policing.
Parker and Cohen’s struggle for control of the city also changed them. Ultimately, like any good noir tale, the story of the rivalry between the young hoodlum with a second-grade education who became the king of the L.A. underworld and the obstinate young patrolman from Deadwood who created the modern LAPD brings us back to the question that Los Angeles always seems to pose: Is Our Lady the Queen of the Angels the dark angel, or do we simply bring our own darkness to her?
PART ONE
The Fallen City
1
The Mickey Mouse Mafia
“[A] dead-rotten law enforcement setup rules in this county and city with an iron hand.”
—LAPD Sgt. Charlie Stoker, 1950
MICKEY COHEN was not a man used to being shaken down. Threatened with handguns, blasted with shotguns, strafed on occasion by a machine gun, yes. Firebombed and dynamited, sure. But threatened, extorted—hit up for $20,000—no. Anyone who read the tabloids in post-World War II Los Angeles knew that extortion was Mickey’s racket, along with book-making, gambling, loan-sharking, slot machines, narcotics, union agitation, and a substantial portion of the city’s other illicit pastimes. In the years following Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel’s ill-fated move to Las Vegas, Mickey Cohen had become the top mobster on the West Coast. And the tart-tongued, sharp-dressed, pint-sized gangster, whom the more circumspect newspapers described tactfully as “a prominent figure in the sporting life world,” hadn’t gotten there by being easily intimidated—certainly not by midlevel police functionaries. Yet in October 1948 that is precisely what the head of the Los Angeles Police Department vice squad set out to do.
Cohen was no stranger to the heat. During his first days in Los Angeles as Bugsy Siegel’s enforcer, he had been instructed to squeeze Eddy Neales, the proprietor of the Clover Club. Located on the Sunset Strip, an unincorporated county area just outside of Los Angeles city limits, the Clover Club was Southern California’s poshest gaming joint. It reputedly paid the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department a small fortune for protection. The squad that provided it, led by Det. George “Iron Man” Contreras, had a formidable reputation. People who crossed it died. According to Cohen, one member of the unit had been the triggerman on eleven killings. So when Neales sicced Contreras’s men on Cohen, he undoubtedly expected that the sheriff’s men would scare Mickey stiff.
Contreras tried. Cohen was picked up and brought in to receive a warning: If he didn’t lay off Neales, the next warning would come in the form of a bullet to the head.
Mickey wasn’t impressed. A few nights later, he sought out Contreras’s top gunman.
“I looked him up and said to him, ‘Let me tell you something: to me you’re no cop. Being no cop I gotta right to kill you—so come prepared. The next time I see you coming to me I’m going to hit you between the eyes.’”
It was an effective warning. “He felt I was sincere,” Mickey later reported. The cops backed down. Until now.
THE FACT OF THE MATTER was, Mickey Cohen was in an uncharacteristically vulnerable position that fall. Two months earlier, on Wednesday, August 18, as Cohen was putting the final touches on his newest venture, a swank men’s clothing shop on Sunset Boulevard named Michael’s Haberdashery, three gunmen had charged into the store and opened fire, wounding two Cohen henchmen and killing his top gunman, Hooky Rothman. Mickey himself was in the back bathroom washing his hands, something the obsessive-compulsive gangster did fifty or sixty times a day. Trapped, he hid in a stall, atop a toilet, awaiting his death. But instead of checking to see that they’d gotten their man—item number one on the professional hitman’s checklist—the gunmen fled. A few minutes later the incredulous driver of the gunmen’s crash car saw Mickey scurry to safety out the front door.
Cohen had survived, but great damage had been done. As Siegel shifted his attention to Las Vegas, Mickey had taken over his old boss’s Los Angeles operations—as well as Siegel’s organized crime connections back East. The attempted hit on Cohen not only showed that Mickey was vulnerable, it suggested that Bugsy’s powerful friends had no particular commitment to his protégé’s survival. In short, Mickey looked weak, and in the underworld, weakness attracts predators. So when the head of the LAPD administrative vice squad called just weeks after the attempted rub-out to inform Cohen that they “had him down for a ten to twenty thousand dollar contribution” for the upcoming reelection campaign of incumbent mayor Fletcher Bowron, Mickey knew what was happening. This was not an opportunity for good, old-fashioned graft: Bowron had devoted his career to eradicating the underworld. Rather, this was a sign that the vice squad now viewed him as prey rather than predator.
“Power’s a funny thing,” Cohen would later muse. “Somebody calls your hole card, and [if you can’t show you aren’t bluffing] it’s like a dike—one little hole can blow the whole thing.”
Paying would only confirm his weakness. Cohen refused.
Administrative vice’s response was not long in coming. Just after midnight on the evening of January 15, 1949, five officers watched two Cadillacs depart from Michael’s Haberdashery. They set off in pursuit. At the corner of Santa Monica and Ogden Drive, two miles west of Los Angeles city limits, the police pulled over the Cadillac containing Cohen, his driver, and Harold “Happy” Meltzer, a sometime Cohen gunman who also had a jewelry shop in the same building as Cohen’s haberdashery. A firearm was conveniently found on Meltzer, who was arrested. (It later disappeared, making it impossible to determine whether or not the gun had been planted.) Several days later, Mickey received a phone call offering to settle matters for $5,000. The vice squad was sending Cohen one last message: Hand over the cash or the gloves come off.
Mickey was furious. For years he had helped cops who got injured on the job and dispensed Thanksgiving turkeys to families in need at division captains’ request. He’d given municipal judges valuable horse tips. He’d wined and dined the administrative vice squad’s commanding officers, Lt. Rudy Wellpot and Sgt. Elmer Jackson, at the Brown Derby and Dave’s Blue Room, presented their girlfriends with expensive gifts, and treated them as VIPs at his nightclub-hangout on Beverly Boulevard, Slapsie Maxie’s. The police had responded by breaking into his new house in Brentwood, stealing his address books, and swaggering around town with almost unbearable arrogance, routinely telling waiters who arrived with the check at the end of evening to “send it to Mickey Cohen.” It was time to teach the LAPD a lesson it would never forget about who was running this town. The vice squad had called his hole card; now Mickey would show them he was holding the equivalent of a pair of bullets (two aces)—in the form of a recording that tied the vice squad to a thirty-six-year-old redheaded ex-prostitute named Brenda Allen.
BRENDA ALLEN was Hollywood’s most prosperous madam, in part because she was so cautious. Rather than take on the risks that came with running a “bawdy house,” Allen relied on a telephone exchange service to communicate with her clients, clients who were vetted with the utmost care. While Allen would occasionally insert chaste ads in actors’ directories or distribute her phone number to select cabbies, bartenders, and bellhops, she prided herself on serving the creme de la creme of Los Angeles. It was rumored that she even ran a Dun & Bradstreet check on prospective customers to ensure their suitability. Those who were accepted were rewarded with Allen’s full and carefully considered attention. All of her girls were analyzed as to their more intimate characteristics, which were then carefully noted on file cards for cross-tabulation with her clients’ preferences. The selection Allen offered was considerable. By 1948, she had 114 “pleasure girls” in her harem. She also had a most unusual partner and lover: Sergeant Jackson of the LAPD administrative vice squad, the same po
liceman who was trying to shake down Mickey Cohen.
Needless to say, Sergeant Jackson’s connection to Brenda Allen was not common knowledge. Even someone as well informed as Mickey Cohen might never have learned of it—but for the fact that another member of the police department had recently blackmailed Mickey with a transcription of certain sensitive conversations that Mickey had conducted at home. The shakedown tipped Mickey off to the fact that the LAPD had gotten a bug into his house. So he asked his friend Barney Ruditsky for help. Ruditsky, a former NYPD officer, was now Hollywood’s foremost private eye. He specialized in documenting the infidelities of the stars (then as now, a business that relied heavily on illegal electronic surveillance). Cohen asked Ruditsky if he could recommend someone to sweep his house in Brentwood for eavesdropping devices. Ruditsky could: an electronics whiz named Jimmy Vaus. Vaus found the bug, and Mickey hired him on the spot. Soon thereafter, Vaus let Mickey in on a little secret: He was also a wiretapper for a sergeant on the Hollywood vice squad. Vaus told Cohen he had recordings linking Sergeant Jackson to Brenda Allen. That information was Cohen’s ace in the hole. He decided to play it at henchman “Happy” Meltzer’s trial.
The trial began on May 5, 1949. In his opening statement, attorney Sam Rummel laid out Meltzer’s defense. “We will prove through testimony that the two men first sought $20,000, then $10,000, then $5,000 from Cohen in return for their promise to quit harassing him,” Rummel declared. As a defense, this was ho-hum stuff: Gangsters were always insisting they’d been framed. But when Cohen appeared with “sound expert” Jimmy Vaus and a mysterious sound-recording machine, the press took notice, especially after Cohen confidentially informed them that he had recordings that would “blow this case right out of court.”
