by John Buntin
Mayor Bowron was exultant. “We’ve broken the most powerful ring that ever had an American city in its grip,” he exulted to Richardson. “We’ve swept the police department clean for the first time in many years.”
The sphere of police autonomy that Bill Parker had so laboriously constructed also seemed to have been swept away.
For four years, Parker and the Fire and Police Protective League had worked to restrict politicians’ authority over the LAPD. On paper, chief and officers alike now enjoyed substantial legal protections. Yet when the stakes were high, those protections proved to be worthless. In a matter of months, Bowron had forced out the entire senior leadership of the police department, without a prosecutor indicting a single officer, without the Police Commission acting on a single complaint, without a single review board convening. The prospect of a powerful, independent police chief must have seemed impossibly remote.
Yet the triumph of the politicians was not complete. When Bowron’s new Police Commission attempted to rescind the city charter amendments that Cooke and Parker had written—returning disciplinary authority to the chief of police (and thus to the mayor and Police Commission who appointed and oversaw him)—the city council objected. Nor did the council embrace reformers’ proposals for a new city charter, one that would have greatly strengthened the mayor’s rather limited powers over the executive branch of government. In short, the legal protections Parker’s charters had created remained, even as Mayor Bowron drained them of their significance. They simply lay fallow, waiting for a chief who would have the skill and knowledge to breathe life into them.
IN MAY 1939, Parker got his first clear shot at becoming that chief.
In theory, promotion in the LAPD was strictly meritocratic. Under ordinary circumstances, officers sat for promotional exams roughly every two years. A written exam typically accounted for 95 percent of their scores; the remaining 5 percent was determined by an oral exam and by seniority. Officers were then ranked by their results and placed on a promotional list, from which all new appointments had to be made. But the onset of the Great Depression—and the appearance of Joe Shaw—had disrupted this process. Between 1929 and 1936, hiring in the department had essentially been frozen. In 1936, Joe Shaw had overseen a new round of civil service examinations—and, rumor had it, helpfully sold answers to the questions for all fifty positions waiting to be filled. The department’s promotion lists were so suspect that Mayor Bowron’s new Police Commission decided to start from scratch. It threw out the previous lists and announced a new round of competitive examinations. Among the positions up for grabs was that of chief of police.
The acting chief of police, David Davidson, disclaimed any interest in the job, saying he preferred “not to be pushed around every time a new administration took office.” Capt. R. R. McDonald was known to be the mayor’s favorite, yet Bowron’s handpicked Police Commission nonetheless announced that it would make a purely meritocratic choice. The candidate who placed highest on the civil service exam would be the Police Commission’s choice.
One hundred seventy-one officers sat for the written examination for chief, including acting captain Bill Parker. Thirty-one were called back to complete the oral portion of the test. Once again, Parker was among the top group. On June 15, 1939, Parker received his score from the Board of Civil Service Commissioners: He had received a final grade of 78.1, which placed his name eighth on the tentative eligible list. The name at the top came as a surprise to everyone: Lt. Arthur Hohmann. After several weeks of hemming and hawing, the Police Commission decided to recognize Hohmann’s ranking and appointed him chief.
From the first, Bill Parker was in his sights. The services rendered to Chief Davis now stood Parker in bad stead. “Parker’s loyalty and zealous attention to his office was now misinterpreted as blind loyalty to organizations and individuals and his past performance as an efficient, courageous and honest officer was discounted,” wrote a friendly superior officer, B. R. Caldwell, four years after the event. Hohmann immediately created a new headquarters division—and announced that he would command it himself. R. R. McDonald was made administrative officer. Acting captain Bill Parker—now Lieutenant Parker—was out.
Demoralized by his de facto demotion and worried that he would never shake the Davis stigma, Parker seriously considered leaving the force and becoming a full-time attorney. He even lined up a few legal cases he could work on as a private attorney and drafted a letter of resignation, but at the last minute, Parker’s old boss from his time at Hollywood Division, Capt. B. R. Caldwell, stepped in. Caldwell was a Parker admirer. He intervened to secure a position for Parker in the traffic accident investigation division, which he headed. This was not an inconsequential position. Managing traffic was a major problem in the world’s most car-oriented big city. Traffic accidents were also a major cause of death, killing 533 people in 1941, more than ten times the number of people murdered that year. Despite feeling bruised by his treatment, Parker agreed to stay on.
Parker now had something to prove. In February 1940, he took the examination for captain and placed second on the promotion list. That May, Chief Hohmann recognized his achievement by appointing him captain. In September, Parker took the examination for Inspector of Police and again placed second. Soon thereafter, Parker won a fellowship award to Northwestern University’s Traffic Institute. In the fall of 1940, he left for Chicago to study the fine points of traffic control for nine months.
The Combination got in one final dig at the new order. That fall, the generally reliable Hollywood Citizen-News broke the story of Bowron and Jim Richardson’s secret meeting with Tony Cornero, in a highly misleading fashion: NEW VICE SETUP IN LOS ANGELES, proclaimed the banner headline. TONY CORNERO, MAYOR BOWRON AND EXAMINER CITY EDITOR IN SECRET
MIDNIGHT MEETING AT MAYOR’S HOUSE. It turned out that Bowron’s driver was on the Combination’s payroll. Although the charge that the mayor had met with Cornero to divvy up Los Angeles was completely untrue, Bowron felt he had to respond, and so, with no little ruthlessness, he turned against the man who had decapitated the Combination, Tony Cornero.
The gambling fleet Cornero operated just offshore had long been an embarrassment. Mayor Bowron now decided that it was intolerable, so he turned up the pressure on California attorney general Earl Warren and Sheriff Eugene Biscailuz by publicly calling on them to shut down the gaming fleet. With the attention of the public upon them, Sheriff Biscailuz and Santa Monica police chief Charles Dice set out in a fleet of water taxis to arrest the offshore crime lord, who they insisted had strayed into California waters. In court, however, Cornero sprung a surprise. Santa Monica Bay, he argued, was not actually a bay at all but rather a bight, a large coastal indentation. That put his ships in international waters, out of the reach of the California courts. An appeals court agreed, and Tony “the Hat” (now “the Commodore”) returned to action.
After much head-scratching, Attorney General Warren decided to try another tack: He announced that Cornero’s gambling fleet was a “nuisance,” which the state of California had the power to abate. A cease-and-desist warning was issued. When Cornero refused to comply, a raiding party was sent out to capture his flagship, the SS Rex. Cornero insisted the raiding party’s members were pirates. For nine days, “the Commodore” held the raiders off with a fire hose before succumbing to hunger and surrendering the ship. The courts rejected Cornero’s claims that he was a victim of piracy, and the California Supreme Court ruled that the appeals court had erred in its analysis of coastal geography. Santa Monica Bight returned to being Santa Monica Bay. Tony Cornero was out of luck for a second time.
Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen, on the other hand, couldn’t have been luckier. Mayor Bowron had shut down first the Combination and then Tony Cornero. Los Angeles’s homegrown criminal underworld had scurried off to Las Vegas. The Los Angeles underworld was now Siegel’s to command. What made the situation even sweeter was that as his influence was growing, his identity as a notorious eas
tern gangster remained virtually unknown. It wasn’t until a wiseacre NYPD detective decided to give the Los Angeles DA’s chief investigator a scare that the LAPD awoke to the fact that its nightmare of “eastern gangsters” moving into the city had already come true. The struggle for control of Los Angeles was about to move into a new phase, one that would put Bugsy Siegel and his top lieutenant, Mickey Cohen, in direct conflict with the LAPD.
* The Citizen-News wryly noted that the infamous gambling joint at 732 North Highland had been raided by Lieutenant Hoy, “under whose able protection it has operated all these years.”
9
Getting Away with Murder (inc.)
“Men who have lived by the gun do not throw off the habit overnight.”
—Florabel Muir
DISTRICT ATTORNEY Buron Fitts was in a tricky position. Angelenos were in a reforming mood—and Buron Fitts was the antithesis of reform. In 1936, Fitts had won reelection after essentially purchasing 12,000 votes along Central Avenue. (The Hollywood Citizen-News later reported that the underworld had spent $2 million—more than $30 million in today’s dollars—to fund Fitts’s campaign.) Knowing of his vulnerability on issues of corruption, when the Raymond bombing scandal broke, Fitts had acted with uncharacteristic vigor, ultimately convicting Joe Shaw on sixty-three counts of selling city jobs and promotions. Still, with a tough reelection campaign approaching, Fitts needed to do more. So in 1939, Fitts sent his chief investigator, Johnny Klein, to Manhattan. New York City district attorney Tom Dewey had made a name for himself by prosecuting gangsters. Klein’s brief was to learn what he could about eastern gangsters who might be trying to infiltrate the City of Angels.
A former Hollywood fur salesman, Klein was not known as the savviest of investigators. When he arrived at NYPD headquarters on Centre Street to examine the department’s gangster files, one of the detectives decided to have a little fun with him. He pulled forth a mug shot of Benjamin Siegel—taken in Dade County, Florida, where Siegel had been arrested for speeding.
“Now there’s an outstanding citizen named Bugsy Siegel,” the detective told the DA’s investigator.
“Never heard of him,” Klein replied.
“You never heard of him? Why, Johnny, this guy is one of the worst killers in America, and he’s living right in your backyard.” The detective continued, “Dewey wants this guy and would give anything to lay hands on him.”
Bugsy Siegel was one of the worst killers in America—the FBI would later credit him with carrying out or participating in some thirty murders—but his whereabouts were hardly a secret. Every crime reporter in New York knew that Siegel was actually in New York at that very moment, staying at the Waldorf-Astoria (where he had lived for much of the 1920s, two floors below “Lucky” Luciano). And it had been a long time since Bugsy Siegel was running around indiscriminately knocking people off. Nonetheless, Klein promptly telegrammed the news of this discovery back to Los Angeles. The DA’s office immediately sent a raiding party to Siegel’s Beverly Hills residence—along with a reporter from the Los Angeles Examiner, which was delighted to have another gangster to crusade against.
The next day the Examiner broke the story in typical Hearst style, portraying Siegel as a Dillinger-esque outlaw on the run. To those familiar with the Syndicate’s operations, the Examiner’s portrayal was laughable. Still, Siegel’s cover was blown. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Siegel had just launched an effort to sign up L.A.’s bookies for a new racing wire, the Trans-American news service. His unmasking threatened to complicate these efforts, as well as the broader effort to organize Los Angeles along eastern lines. Furious, Siegel called the Los Angeles papers. If he was really an outlaw wanted by DA Dewey, then why was he visiting New York City, unmolested, at that very moment? Siegel’s consort, the Countess di Frasso, was also upset, so much so that she drove to San Simeon to make a personal appeal to William Randolph Hearst to stop the Examiner from further besmirching Siegel’s name. These efforts floundered, for Siegel was, of course, a notorious gangster. With uncharacteristic delicacy of feeling, a despairing Siegel decided to resign from his beloved Hillcrest Country Club (though no one dared ask him to). He also decided to leave town for a bit. So he set off for Rome with the Countess di Frasso, leaving Mickey Cohen as his surrogate.
MICKEY AND BUGSY had grown close. Cohen was still raw—not to mention sullen, closemouthed, temperamental, and dangerous—but Siegel thought he had potential. As a result, he began to try, in Mickey’s words, “to put some class into me… trying to evolve me.” It wasn’t easy. As a stickup-man, Mickey steered clear of flashy dressing (too memorable). White shirt, dark sunglasses, that was it. Off the job, however, Mickey continued to pay his sartorial respects to Al Capone. Siegel tried to spiff him up. He introduced Mickey to cashmere. (Mickey thought it tickled.) He also introduced Mickey to a higher class of people. For the first time in his life, Cohen “got invited to different dinner parties and… met people with much elegance and manners.” It slowly dawned on Mickey that he’d been “living like an animal.” He grew ashamed. Earnestly, he set out to improve himself. He hired a tutor to help him learn to speak grammatically. He purchased a leather-bound set of the world’s great literature, which he proudly showed off to visitors (who noted the spines were never cracked).
When a source at the Treasury Department’s Bureau of Internal Revenue (precursor agency to the Internal Revenue Service) informed Siegel that the government was starting to get interested in his young sidekick, Siegel told Mickey he had to start paying taxes. It was a tough sell. (“I had a firm belief that if the government, or anybody else, wanted any part of my money they should at least be on hand to help me steal it,” he said later, only half-jokingly.) The fact that Siegel prevailed on Cohen to get an accountant shows the authority that Bugsy exercised over his young protege. Although he would later (much later) boast of thumbing his nose at Bugsy during his early days in L.A., Mickey was actually quite awed by the suave older gangster.
“I found Benny a person with brilliant intelligence,” Cohen told the writer Ben Hecht in the mid-1950s. “He commanded a 1,000 percent respect and got it. Also he was tough. He come out the hard way—been through it all—muscle work, heists, killings.” For someone who had dreamed of an association with “the people,” working with Siegel must have seemed like a dream come true. They were not formally superior and subordinate—Mickey continued to run his own rackets and related to Bugsy more like a subcontractor on retainer than an employee—but when Siegel gave an order, Cohen jumped to. In return, Bugsy took care of Mickey, kicking him anywhere from $2,000 to $20,000 on a regular (albeit unpredictable) basis.
It was an arrangement Mickey liked. “I didn’t have no wish to be a ruler,” said Cohen in describing his mind-set upon first arriving in Los Angeles. “In fact that was actually contrary to my nature at the time. I just wanted to be myself—Mickey.” But fate—in the form of Bugsy Siegel’s itchy trigger finger—had other plans.
BUGSY AND THE COUNTESS di Frasso’s trip to Rome wasn’t intended just to get away from the press. Both Siegel and the multimillionaire countess had a weakness for get-rich schemes. One year earlier, they had chartered a boat to look for buried treasure off the coast of Ecuador.* Now the gangster and the countess had another idea. Siegel had recently come across two chemists who claimed to have invented a new type of explosive—Atomite. Bugsy was convinced this new substance would replace dynamite and make him fabulously wealthy. With the countess’s help, he hoped to sell it to the Italian military. The countess, always ready for adventure, talked to her husband, who arranged a demonstration.
For purposes of a trip to fascist Italy, di Frasso decided to recast Bugsy as “Bart”—Sir Bart, an English baronet. This was a good idea, for when the countess arrived at her husband’s villa outside of Rome, she found that they had houseguests—Joseph Goebbels, Nazi Germany’s propaganda minister, and Hermann Goring, Luftwaffe commander and Hitler’s second in command. Although Siegel evidently
had no qualms about doing business with Mussolini’s military, the Nazi houseguests rubbed him the wrong way. One night he confronted the countess.
“Look, Dottie,” he said, “I saw you talking to that fat bastard Goring. Why do you let him come into our building?”
The countess murmured something about social niceties, to which Siegel responded, “I’m going to kill him, and that dirty Goebbels, too…. It’s an easy setup the way they’re walking around here.”
Only after the countess elaborated on the problems posed by the carabiniere—and the likely consequences for her husband—did Siegel give up on the idea. The Atomite demonstration fizzled, and “Sir Bart” and Countess di Frasso left for the French Riviera. There Siegel bumped into his old friend the actor George Raft, who was pursuing the actress Norma Shearer. Despite Atomite’s inexplicable failure, Siegel seemed to be in good spirits. Raft said he was looking forward to lingering on the Riviera. Then Siegel received a cablegram from New York and his mood suddenly changed. The next day Raft noticed he was gone. The Syndicate had a problem that required Bugsy’s unique talents.
The problem was Harry “Big Greenie” Greenberg. Greenberg was a former associate of Siegel and Louis “Lepke” Buchalter, the Brooklyn-based crime lord and labor racketeer. Greenberg had been arrested and deported to his native Poland, but “Big Greenie” had no intention of going back to the old country. He jumped ship in France and made it back to Montreal. From there he sent a letter to a friend in New York, implying that if his old friends in Brooklyn didn’t send him a big bundle of cash, he might go talk to the authorities. Instead of sending cash, Buchalter associate Mendy Weiss sent two hitmen. “Big Greenie” checked out of his hotel just hours before the two assassins checked in. For a time, the trail went cold. Then, in the fall of 1939, “Big Greenie” was spotted in Hollywood. He had a new name (George Schachter), a new wife, and, given his lack of further communications, he’d evidently learned that blackmailing the Syndicate was a foolish thing to do. Nonetheless, at a meeting in New York, Siegel, Buchalter, New Jersey rackets boss Longy Zwillman, and Brooklyn crime overlord Albert Anastasia decided that “Big Greenie” had to go. Zwillman once again sent two gunmen to California. But the gunmen didn’t like the setup and returned to New York. Bugsy being Bugsy, he decided to take care of the problem himself.