by John Buntin
Congressman Parker’s position should have ensured that his grandson would grow up as a member of one of Deadwood’s most respected families. Instead, as he was returning home by train from his first year in Washington, the new congressman was suddenly afflicted with terrible abdominal pain. He stopped in Chicago. There a surgeon cut into the freshman representative and discovered that Parker suffered from advanced cirrhosis of the liver—a condition often associated with heavy drinking. He died two months later at the age of sixty-one, leaving behind a family of five sons and two daughters. Bill Parker would not grow up with his grand father’s wealth or prestige. Instead, he would inherit his temperament and, in time, his fondness for whiskey.
As a child, Bill grew up in a house divided. His mother, Mary Kathryn Moore, was a spirited, independent woman who was both deeply religious and good humored. By all accounts, she was intensely proud of Bill, her oldest son, who was born on June 21, 1905. Bill’s father, William Henry Parker Jr., had a personality that can only be called dour. He also had a violent temper. At school, one of Parker’s sisters was once asked what her father did. She answered, “Oh, my father gets up in the morning to fix breakfast and throws pots and pans around in the kitchen.”
These troubles were not debilitating, at least not at first. As a young boy, Parker was diligent and bright, a dogged athlete and a gifted orator. (The Deadwood High School yearbook reported that Parker won the senior year first prize in rhetoric for his stirring recitation of William Jennings Bryan’s “Cross of Gold” speech—an interesting selection for a gold-mining town.) His final report card in 1922 reveals an excellent student, with an aptitude for math and rhetoric, who enjoyed the high opinion of his teachers.
“I consider William Parker to be an unusually bright young man, endowed with mental energy and capabilities which, if properly directed, will enable him to carve out for himself a name of which all concerned may be justly proud,” the principal of Deadwood High School wrote on Parker’s final report card.
As an obviously intelligent young man born into a distinguished family, Bill might have been expected to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and continue on to college. Instead, he stayed in Deadwood, working a series of odd jobs, delivering newspapers and selling frocks and undergarments knit by his mother to various ladies in town—and not just the ladies. By one account, Parker blushingly sold garments to the town’s madams as well. The teenager’s first real job, however, was at Deadwood’s most prestigious hotel—the Franklin—where he got a job as a bellhop and the house detective.
In later years, Parker would occasionally allude to his work in Deadwood, suggesting that his job involved rousting guests who misbehaved and patrolling the premises for ladies of the night. In truth, he was probably more occupied with his work as a bellboy than with acts of sleuthing. The Franklin was known for its ongoing high-stakes poker game; it is unlikely that a teenage employee would have interfered much with it. Nonetheless, it’s clear that the idea of being a lawman spoke to Parker’s imagination. Imagination was all he had. Bill Parker seemed stuck in Deadwood.
Then, suddenly, he wasn’t.
In 1922, his mother announced that she was separating from Bill’s father and moving to Los Angeles and that she was taking Bill’s three younger siblings with her. Bill went with her to help with the move—and to see the City of Angels for himself.
LOS ANGELES was Deadwood writ large—a boomtown on a scale never seen before or since in this country. The city was growing so quickly that residents and visitors couldn’t even agree on how to pronounce its name. To some it was “Loss An-jy-lese;” to others, “Loss An-jy-lus” or even “Lows An-y-klyese”—a pronunciation the Los Angeles Times suspected was a deliberate eastern slur. (The paper of record insisted that the proper pronunciation was the distinctly Spanish “Loce Ahng-hail-ais,” a pronunciation it printed under its masthead for several years.) Not until the 1930s did today’s “Los An-ju-less” gain the clear upper hand.
Whatever its pronunciation, it was clear that people couldn’t wait to get there. Model Ts crammed the old Santa Fe Trail—today’s Route 66—full of Midwesterners who were California-bound. By 1922, the city’s population had risen to more than 600,000. Fifteen-story skyscrapers (heights had been capped after the devastating San Francisco earthquake of 1906) lined Spring Street, the so-called Wall Street of the West. Dazzling electric signs proclaimed its next goal—2,000,000 POPULATION BY 1930!(It made it to 1,200,000.) At the corner of Wilshire and La Brea, newcomers were transfixed by something they had never seen before, neon signs, the first in the United States. Everywhere there were automobiles. On a typical workday, some 260,000 cars jammed downtown Los Angeles, making the intersection of Adams and Figueroa on the edge of downtown the busiest in the world, with more than double the traffic of its nearest rival, Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue in New York City. Los Angeles also had one of the most extensive streetcar networks in the country. Together, the intraurban Yellow and interurban Red lines provided service over more than a thousand miles of rail and transported an average of 520,000 people into the downtown area every day. Total number of passenger trips in 1924:
110,000,000.
“All of the talk was ‘boom,’ ‘dollars,’ ‘greatest in the world,’ ‘sure to double in price,’” marveled the author Hamlin Garland, who visited L.A. in 1923.
“I have never seen so many buildings going up all at one time.… There are thousands in process in every direction I looked.” The mingling of architectural styles was—to use a word coined in that same period—surreal. The city’s neighborhoods, reported Garland, consist of “hundreds of the gay little stucco bungalows in the Spanish-Mexican, Italian-Swiss, and many other styles, a conglomeration that cannot be equaled anywhere else on earth I am quite sure.” If others noticed this, they didn’t seem to mind.
“The whole Middle West,” Garland concluded, “wants to come here.”
And no wonder. The city (to say nothing of its underworld) was a carnival. In downtown Los Angeles, the theaters and movie palaces that lined Broadway attracted thronging crowds to motley performances that mixed vaudeville performers, singers, dancers, chorus girls, acrobats, even elephants with silent films by stars like Buster Keaton, Fatty Arbuckle, Douglas Fairbanks, and Mary Pickford. Then as now, starstruck tourists could sign up for “star tours” that took them past the homes of their favorite celebrities on the beach in Santa Monica and in Beverly Hills. Streetcars packed with bands and draped with advertisements crisscrossed the city, announcing new towns every month. Elephants, lions, and circus freaks lured people out to the newest developments (or, more commonly, to a free lunch under a tent on an empty lot followed by a pitch for a “marvelous investment opportunity”).
“If every conceivable trick in advertising was not resorted to, it was probably due to an oversight,” wrote one early philanthropist. Along Hollywood and Wilshire Boulevards, the city’s first apartment buildings were starting to rise. South of downtown was the beginning of a vast manufacturing district, home to tire fabrication and automotive assembly plants that would eventually transform bucolic Los Angeles into the country’s preeminent manufacturing center. High in the Hollywood Hills, a giant sign, each letter fifty feet tall and covered with four thousand lightbulbs, promoted one of Harry Chandler’s new developments, “Hollywoodland!” The “-land” later fell over, and the sign became the new city’s most distinctive symbol.
Then there was the oil. Beginning in 1920, a series of spectacular discoveries just south of the city suddenly made Los Angeles into one of the world’s great oil-production centers. At its acme, Southern California produced 5 percent of the world’s total oil supply. Shipping out of the port of San Pedro exploded. Ordinary Angelenos became obsessive investors in local oil syndicates such as the ones organized by oilman C. C. Julian from his office suite above the palatial Loews’s State Theater on Broadway. It wasn’t Sacramento in 1848; it wasn’t Deadwood in 1876 or the Klondike in 1897;
it was bigger. For a child of Deadwood, it should have been familiar terrain. Instead, Los Angeles would prove to be a cruel instructor.
THE PARKERS settled first in Westlake (today’s MacArthur Park), west of downtown, then one of the most fashionable parts of Los Angeles. Despite having moved to a nice neighborhood, the family’s position was a tenuous one. Support from Deadwood was uncertain. (Mary Parker and Bill’s youngest brother, Joseph, would later move to the immigrant neighborhood of Pico Heights.) In Deadwood, the Parkers had been one of the most prominent families in town. In Los Angeles, Mary Parker was basically a single mother. Moreover, she and her family were Catholics in America’s most belligerently Protestant big city, a place where the Ku Klux Klan’s members at one point included the chief of the LAPD, the Los Angeles County sheriff, and the U.S. attorney for Southern California. Bill Parker did not look like one of the swarthy Mediterranean immigrants that caused Protestant Angelenos such concern. Yet at a time when anti-Catholic views circulated freely, he was in a very real sense a minority.
Parker probably didn’t dwell much on these difficulties. He didn’t have time. At the age of seventeen, Bill Parker was now the man in the family. Although Bill’s father continued to support his family from afar, finances were tight. Bill had to find a job. And so Parker turned to Los Angeles’s—and America’s—fastest growing industry: the movies.
Los Angeles became the home of the movie industry almost by accident. In 1909, Col. William Selig (a minstrel show owner who filched a title from the military and the design of the Kinescope movie projector from Thomas Edison) had sent director Francis Boggs west from Chicago to shoot a western in Arizona. Arizona was hot and dull, so Boggs pressed on to the city he had visited two years earlier, Los Angeles. There he and other itinerant filmmakers found the perfect outdoor shooting environment—a mixture of cityscape and countryside, deserts and mountains, ocean and forest. Its three-thousand-mile distance from New York and the Motion Pictures Patent Company “trust,” which technically (i.e., legally) held the license on the technology used by the industry, was a plus too.
By 1910, the year Los Angeles annexed Hollywood, some ten-odd motion picture companies had set up operations in the area. That same year the director D.W Griffith completed the movie In Old California, the first film shot completely in Hollywood. The following year, the Nestor Film Company moved from New Jersey to the corner of Sunset and Gower Street, becoming the first Los Angeles-based motion-picture studio. Universal, Triangle, Luce, Lasky’s Famous Players (later Paramount), Vita-graph (later Columbia), Metro (later part of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer or MGM), Fox, and others soon followed. By 1915, Hollywood was synonymous with the film industry, and Los Angeles was producing between 60 and 75 percent of the country’s motion pictures—a little more than a quarter of the world’s total films. The First World War destroyed the foreign competition and made Hollywood the cinematic capital of the world. By 1921, its seventy-plus studios had 80 percent of the world market. In the process, Hollywood became fantastically rich. By 1919, an estimated fifteen thousand theaters in the United States alone were generating roughly $800 million a year in revenues—roughly $10 billion in today’s dollars.
Parker was plankton in the Hollywood food chain. His first job was as an usher at the California Theater, an imposing Beaux Arts theater at the corner of Main and Eighth Streets. He soon switched jobs, moving two blocks north to Loews’s State Theater, a glorious 2,600-seat theater, reportedly Los Angeles’s most profitable movie palace, in the heart of the Broadway movie district. There (for ten to fifty cents a ticket) the public could enjoy entertainment of the most wonderful variety. It wasn’t just the movies. Pit orchestras performed Gilbert and Sullivan—or Beethoven. Opera singers trilling arias shared the stage with acrobats; ballets followed circus animals; elaborate “moving tableaux” gave way to daring stunts. What tantalized audiences most, though, was something new—the femme fatale.
The first was Theodosia Goodman, a tailor’s daughter from Ohio, who, in the hands of her press agents, became Theda Bara, “foreign, voluptuous, and fatal”—a woman “possessed of such combustible Circe charms,” panted Time magazine, “that her contract forbade her to ride public conveyances or go out without a veil.” Others soon followed: Pola Negri, Nita Naldi, Louise Brooks. Women weren’t the only ones steaming up the screen. In 1921, Rudolph Valentino rode off with the hearts of women around the world as the Sheik, the mesmerizing Arab who kidnapped, wooed, lost, saved, and ultimately won an English lady-socialite as his bride (Agnes Ayres).
As the movies heated up, so did the imaginations of the public. No one was more vulnerable than the people most exposed—theater employees. “Love is like the measles,” explained one girl usher to the Los Angeles Times. “You can’t be around it all the time without catching the fever.”
Bill Parker caught the fever.
As chief of police, Parker would become a tribune of social conservatism. As a young man, however, he was ensnared. Soon after arriving in Los Angeles while he was working as an usher, Parker met Francette Pomeroy, a beautiful, high-spirited young woman, age nineteen—almost two years older than himself. The exact circumstances of their courtship are unknown. However, it’s easy to understand how Francette (who went by “Francis”) might have fallen for Bill. He was an unusually handsome young man—slender, of medium height, with a high forehead, prominent nose, and large, intelligent eyes. He was smart and attentive; even then, he had a sense of presence. On August 13, 1923, the two essentially eloped and were married in a civil ceremony.
Despite (or perhaps because of) the failure of his own parents’ marriage, young Bill Parker had very conventional ideas about his relationship with Francis. She did not share these ideas. On the contrary, she saw no reason why marriage should interfere with the life she previously enjoyed, which involved music, dancing, and active socializing, including a continuing association with other young men. This came as a shock to Bill. In time, Parker’s family would come to view Francis as a sex addict.
Perhaps she was. More likely, Francis was an adventuresome, somewhat risqué young woman who reveled in the freedom of life in Los Angeles and who was caught off guard by Bill’s traditional expectations. Whatever her activities, they were unacceptable to her husband. In February 1924, when Francis prepared to leave the house, Parker confronted her with a torrent of abuse and, according to Francis, threatened “bodily harm.” Two months later, on April 15, he allegedly delivered on that threat. Francis had announced that she was going out, and Parker exploded. He followed her down the staircase, arguing furiously. When she refused to come back inside, he struck her in the face, grabbed her by the throat, and dragged her upstairs and back into the apartment.
Something horrifying was happening—to Parker and to his marriage. The handsome, ambitious young man whom Francis Pomeroy had married was vanishing, replaced by a man she would later describe in her divorce petition as “cross, cranky, peevish, irritable, aggravating, and of a generally-nagging and fault-finding attitude.” He, in turn, was soon describing his wife as a “damned fool,” an “idiot,” a “god-damned bitch”—and worse. What Bill was like before his marriage we do not know; however, these adjectives, this intolerance of fools, would be all too familiar to the men who later worked with (and for) him. In less than two years, Los Angeles had frustrated Parker’s hopes and brought out the ugliest features of his personality. Bill Parker was discovering that in Los Angeles, violence, dreams, and desire kept close company.
Bill Parker was not the only young man spurred to violence by life in “the white spot” in those days. One afternoon in the summer of 1922, just a few blocks away from where Parker was working as a movie usher, idling motorists witnessed an outburst of violence that was far more remarkable than Bill Parker’s (alleged) wife-beating—a holdup of the box office of the Columbia Theater.
Any attempt to heist a box office in downtown Los Angeles, in the middle of the day, in the presence of hundreds of witnesses would have been
noteworthy. But what made this band of bandits so singularly striking was their frightening, baseball bat-wielding leader. He was only nine years old. His name was Meyer Harris Cohen, but all of Los Angeles would soon come to know him simply as “Mickey.”
3
The Combination
“The purpose of any political organization is to get the money from the gamblers …”
—Wilbur LeGette
MICKEY COHEN wasn’t supposed to exist in Los Angeles.
“The conditions which exist here should make for the finest character building in the land,” opined the Los Angeles Times in 1923. “The hazards of the environment are at their minimum. We should have more than the ordinary proportion of patriotism because our citizens are mainly the descendants of American pioneers. As a city we have no vast foreign districts in which strange tongues are ever heard. The community is American”—meaning, in Times-speak, white, native-born, and Protestant—“clear to its back-bone.”
