by John Buntin
This decision was not immediately relayed to the Soviet premier. Instead, upon arriving at the studio, Khrushchev was taken to the set of the movie Can-Can (starring Shirley MacLaine, who attempted to engage the Soviet premier in an impromptu dance). That was followed by a luncheon at the Cafe de Paris commissary, with 20th Century Fox president Spyros Skouras as master of ceremonies. (Frank Sinatra sat next to Mrs. Khrushchev; Bob Hope and David Niven were across the table.) By all accounts, Khrushchev was in fine spirits—as a man looking forward to an afternoon at Disneyland ought to be. Then Mrs. Khrushchev passed her husband a note, informing Khrushchev of Parker’s decision. The premier’s mood changed abruptly. Enraged, Khrushchev immediately lashed out in a meandering, arm-waving forty-five-minute address.
“We have come to this town where lives the cream of American art,” Khrushchev began darkly.
“But just now I was told that I could not go to Disneyland.” I asked, “Why not? What is it? Do you have rocket-launching pads there? I do not know.” And just listen—just listen—to what I was told—to what reason I was told. We, which means the American authorities, cannot guarantee your security if you go there.
What is it? Is there an epidemic of cholera there or something? Or have gangsters taken over the place that can destroy me? Then what must I do? Commit suicide? This is the situation I am in—your guest. For me the situation is inconceivable. I cannot find words to explain this to my people!
Instead of going to Disneyland, Khrushchev’s motorcade drove around UCLA and then visited a San Fernando Valley subdivision. That evening during a dinner at the Ambassador Hotel, Khrushchev vented his frustrations about Mayor Poulson’s perceived rudeness. “If you persist in this,” he warned, “there can be no talk of disarmament.” He left for San Francisco the next day, still in a snit.
Chief Parker was offended too—by the implication that the LAPD wasn’t up to protecting the Soviet premier. At a press conference the day after Khrushchev’s departure, Parker described the performance of his department as “one of the greatest examples of proficiency ever demonstrated.” Parker’s reaction to Khrushchev’s jibe about Los Angeles’s gangsters is unknown.
PARKER didn’t have to wait long for retribution from Moscow. In late 1959, Parker received news that the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights was planning to visit Los Angeles in order to ascertain local civil rights conditions.
The commission’s interest in Los Angeles was understandable. In little over a decade, Los Angeles had become one of the most diverse cities in the country. Close to 700,000 Mexican Americans lived in L.A.—more than in any other city in the world except for Mexico City. Its Jewish population, numbering roughly 400,000 people, was exceeded only by that of New York City. Most surprising of all was the size of its black population. In 1930, only 39,000 African Americans lived in Los Angeles. By 1960, the black population numbered 424,000. Los Angeles had the fifth largest African American community in the nation (behind New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Detroit)—far larger than any city in the South. And roughly 1,700 new black residents were arriving every day. But instead of opportunity, many found crowded, expensive housing, low-wage jobs, and simmering racial resentment. The result, according to the Los Angeles County Commission on Human Relations, was a dangerous increase in tensions. In the second half of 1959 alone, there had been more than sixty racial “incidents,” from cross burnings to telephone harassment, almost all of them instigated by whites. Naturally, the Civil Rights Commission was interested in learning more about how the city was responding. But when it contacted Parker about testifying, the chief of the LAPD declined.
For years, Parker had endured attacks on his force for brutality and discrimination. Factually, charge after charge had been disproven—at least in Parker’s mind. Yet if anything, the volume and vehemence of the attacks were increasing. To Parker, the explanation was clear: Moscow was stepping up its attacks. Appearing in a public forum that was sure to be a sounding board for criticism of the police would only further its goals. Parker replied that he would provide the commission with factual evidence but he would not appear to testify before it.
Commission members were taken aback by this summary rejection. In mid-December, two staff members flew in from Washington to meet with the chief to assure him they were eager to obtain balanced testimony. Reluctantly, Parker agreed to appear before the commission. The hearings would begin January 25, 1960, and last for two days. Parker was scheduled to be the last speaker on the second morning of hearings.
The commission’s staff was true to its word. While the first day of hearings did include witnesses who were critical of the police, the tone of the day was surprisingly mild. A black engineer who’d recently purchased a home in a white section of the San Fernando valley dispensed helpful advice: sound out people in the neighborhood before trying to buy a house, look for financing at places other than traditional banks (which often refused to give black people mortgages for houses in “white” neighborhoods), and so forth—making it sound as if pervasive residential segregation could be addressed by a few commonsense workarounds. When it came to the conduct of the LAPD, local NAACP official Loren Miller suggested that many black residents distrusted the police department because they’d had bad experiences with Jim Crow justice back home. In other words, white police officers didn’t have a bias against black people; black people had a bias against police officers. This fit perfectly with Parker’s oft-stated belief that the police were the “real” embattled minority in contemporary American society.
By the time Chief Parker and his bevy of charts-toting aides arrived to present their testimony, the commissioners were primed for Parker’s point of view. He began with a very technical presentation on the problem of crime and policing in Los Angeles. Between the years 1950 and 1959, crime had climbed by 132 percent. Parker attributed the increase to the fact that the city was underpoliced (with only 1.8 officers per 1,000 residents) and overstocked with vagabonds and criminals, “many of them deliberately shipped here by officials of other localities who want to get rid of them.” This was really no explanation at all. The crime increase was new, yet L.A. had been underpoliced for decades, and police chiefs had complained of criminals being shipped in since the days of James Davis. But no commissioner called Parker on this point.
Parker then segued into a discussion of Los Angeles’s crime problem as it related to the city’s minority community. Police records showed that in 1958 Negroes committed crime at eleven times the rate of Caucasians. Latinos committed crime at five times the rate of Caucasians. This was not, the chief emphasized, a matter of some innate tendency toward crime among blacks and Latinos. Rather, he described it as “a conflict of cultures” and a result of the explosive growth of the African American community.
“I think there is one other statistic I will bore you with,” Parker continued. “I believe this growth in population, relative growth should be of deep interest to you in attempting to translate what you have been told in terms of problems. The Negro population of Los Angeles has increased 58.8 percent since 1952, while the Caucasian population increased only 10.9 percent, which indicates the general type of growth in this community.” In the face of “the explosive growth of this community and the inherent frictions among men, the most predatory of all animals,” Parker continued, “I would like to say, to me, it is utterly remarkable that we have gone through this growth experience without violence, and to us it is nothing short of a miracle.”
Parker then shifted to the topic of segregation. His assessment of its prevalence in Los Angeles was startling.
“There is no segregation or integration problem in this community, in my opinion, and I have been here since 1922,” he asserted. “There may be an assimilation problem, I think that is inherent. But from the standpoint of integration, while there have been dislocations, this doesn’t present any serious problems.” Nor did the LAPD have an integration problem, the chief insisted.
“[W]e have Negro po
lice officers; we have had them as long as I have been on the department,” Parker told the commissioners. “They have been elected presidents of our classes—I doubt you have been told that—in democratic elections. There has been no integration problem. We have as much respect for them as anyone else in the department because they are individuals, they perform as individuals, and their conduct is graded on the basis of individual contact.”
Parker insisted that there was no section of the city where Negroes couldn’t work. He explained that he had declined to issue an order requiring black and white officers to work together because that would be “reverse discrimination.” Parker said he favored integrated assignments on a voluntary basis instead.
Parker was becoming more relaxed—and more expansive. In response to a question about a witness who had recounted a story of police brutality, Parker replied with a meandering answer that concluded with one of his favorite themes: the police as “the greatest dislocated minority in America today.”
“I have been very much interested in your charts where you break down crime in Los Angeles on a ratio of Caucasian, Latin, and Negro,” interjected commission chairman John Hannah. “Do you have any observations as to the relationship in these groups based on the kind of housing that they have available to them or the amount of education that these young people have?”
Parker replied that “it is quite obvious” that blacks and Latinos were in the lower economic brackets but said that he hadn’t “attempted to assume the role of sociologist and reach any determination” about the connections between crime and housing. (No one noted that Parker had shown no such hesitancy during the debate over public housing earlier that decade.)
“There are a few questions I would like to ask you, Mr. Parker,” interrupted another commissioner. “One of them has to do with what I believe you said was a conclusion that you had reached that much of this was the result of a conflict of cultures.”
“Yes, sir,” Parker replied.
“Then I take it that that is a conclusion you would reach with respect to the Negro population as distinguished from the Caucasian population, suggesting that the Negro has a different culture.”
“Not necessarily,” Parker replied,
No, no. I think a great deal of this has been based on our experience with the Latin population more than with the Negro or the balance of Caucasian…. Just so we keep the record straight, I’m not singling the Negro out. The Latin population that came in here in great strength—were there before us—has presented a great problem because I worked over on the East Side when men had to work in pairs. But that has evolved into assimilation. And it’s because some of these people [Mexican Americans] have been here since before we were, but some of them aren’t far removed from the wild tribes of inner Mexico.
Sitting in the audience, councilman Ed Roybal could hardly believe his ears. Had Chief Parker actually described his constituents as former members of “the wild tribes of inner Mexico”? The following day, Roybal introduced a motion in the city council requesting a transcript of the previous day’s hearing. By then, Chief Parker’s alleged “wild tribes of inner Mexico” was the talk of the town. The city council demanded a written explanation.
Never slow to respond to an attack, Chief Parker insisted that he had been set up and misquoted. “Nobody is concerned with the rights of policemen,” he fumed to the press. “I’ve been harassed by these elements ever since I’ve been chief.” The chief insisted that a tape of the meeting would vindicate him.
It didn’t. Forced to listen to what he said, Parker described the statement as “a slip of the tongue.” He once again refused to apologize (characteristically insisting that Roybal owed him an apology for misinterpreting his words). He didn’t have to. The Los Angeles Times editorial board rushed to Parker’s defense, accusing not the chief of police but rather his critics of “the most offensive kind of demagoguery.” Councilman Roybal reluctantly accepted the chief’s explanation, and the controversy soon blew over.
That April, Parker and his wife, Helen, left Los Angeles for a fifty-five-day trip to Europe (paid for with a $45,000 settlement from ABC for Mike Wallace’s interview with Mickey Cohen). The couple’s trip took them to many of the places Parker had served in during the war, including Italy. Parker’s visit to Italy made his carabiniere hosts nervous. Parker was, after all, one of the Mafia’s most committed adversaries. What if an intrepid Mafioso decided to knock him off?
During Parker’s visit to Rome, local authorities got wind of a report that gangsters who congregated at a certain cafe were indeed contemplating just such a hit. They presented this information to Parker and suggested that he cut his visit short. Parker scoffed at this suggestion. He would not be frightened by Mob threats. Instead, the following morning, he went to have breakfast at the cafe in question.
24
Showgirls
“Girls very often like me and seem attracted to me, and I find them also attractive, at times. It’s talkin’ to them that’s the hard part.”
—Mickey Cohen
THE RULES were strict and clear. Stripteases were legal in the city of Los Angeles as long as they were not “lewd and lascivious.” In practice, this meant that certain rules had to be followed. The guidance provided by the city attorney’s office was quite, well, explicit. Performers were required to wear G-strings and pasties. A performer was not permitted to “pass her hands over her body in such a manner that the hands touch the body at any point.” The “bump and grind” was permissible—but only in “an upright position.” Under no circumstances was bumping and grinding to occur “adjacent to a curtain or [an] any other object.”
The biggest no-no of all, though, was touching. That was both legally off-limits and personally unwise. Strippers, then and now, tended to have personal problems and expensive needs. There was a good reason that the most successful professional gangsters, men like Meyer Lansky and Paul Ricca, were known for being faithful to their spouses. Mickey Cohen had been too, for the most part. Sure, he liked to squire starlets around town. Yes, he enjoyed “blue films” and liked a good burlesque show as much as the next man—perhaps more so. Prostitutes? They were hard to avoid in his milieu. According to Jimmy Fratianno, Cohen dropped a C-note for a professional “flutter” from time to time. However, skirt-chasing never interfered with the serious business of being a gangster. But when Bing Crosby’s son introduced Cohen to Juanita Dale Slusher, better known by her stage name, Candy Barr, Mickey had a change of heart.
Candy Barr was striptease royalty, thanks in large part to her 1951 appearance in the stag film Smart Aleck. (Barr, then a sixteen-year-old runaway who survived by turning tricks, played the role of the teenager lured into a traveling salesman’s motel room—with a friend—after a nude dip in the pool.) The one-reel, fifteen-minute film circulated widely, making Barr arguably the world’s first porn star. From there, the teenaged Barr (measurements 37-22-33) dyed her hair blond and moved easily into the world of burlesque and, occasionally, the theater. Her angelic, innocent face and her heavenly but far from innocent body made her a popular performer. She was soon alternating between regular gigs in Las Vegas and Dallas (where she struck up a friendship with nightclub owner Jack Ruby). But in 1957, Dallas police arrested Barr on charges of possessing four-fifths of an ounce of marijuana. The green-eyed twenty-two-year-old performer was tried, convicted, and sentenced to fifteen years in the state prison. To Bing Crosby’s son, a Candy Barr fan, it seemed a terrible injustice. He soon thought of just the person who might be able to help—Mickey Cohen.
AS A YOUNG MAN, Cohen had been shy—even prudish—when it came to the female gender. That changed in Cleveland, where he shacked up with a redheaded Irish girl named Georgia (“beautiful face and fine disposition”). Although they were never married, they lived together as man and wife until Georgia moved to Michigan and really did get married. Mickey then moved to Los Angeles.
In Los Angeles, prostitution was a big business. During his heyda
y, Bugsy Siegel had routinely taken a significant cut of the action (amounting to about $100,000 a year), as did the Los Angeles Sheriff Department’s vice squad. As Siegel’s lieutenant, responsibility for collecting from the whorehouses fell to Mickey. Cohen insisted that he refused to do it. He claimed that he wanted nothing to do with prostitution as a business.*
Ordinary women were a challenge too. Mickey was not a handsome man. In 1950, Senator Kefauver would describe him as “a simian figure, with pendulous lower lip… and spreading paunch.” The muckraking journalist Ovid Demaris agreed: “Pint-sized and pudgy, with simian eyes, a flattened nose, and a twisting scar under his left eye.” The FBI was more clinical: Cohen, one agent reported, “had a one-inch scar under each eye and one on the inner corner of his left eyebrow. His nose had been broken, and he had a two-inch scar on his left hand.” Nor was he a natural conversationalist.
“Girls very often like me and seem attracted to me, and I find them also attractive, at times. It’s talkin’ to them that’s the hard part,” he said, plaintively, to Ben Hecht (one of the century’s greatest conversationalists) one day. “You break your back to be a gentleman when you take a girl out. They like the respect you got for them. So the next day she says, ‘You know last night you didn’t talk to me at all.’