Gangster Squad: Covert Cops, the Mob, and the Battle for Los Angeles

by Paul Lieberman

  By surface appearances, one side of the clan had gone straight by then—the Wunderlich brothers gave every impression that they had learned from their time in court, or prison, that the fun (and profit) of crime wasn’t worth it. Gus Wunderlich would never stop telling tales of their rum-running days and never stop tinkering to invent things, whether an electric hot dog cooker or the proverbial perpetual motion machine. But Gus now applied his mechanical wizardry to the irrigation business—he built a crane-like device in the back of his ’51 Dodge pickup and made the rounds of area ranches and farms, helping fix the pumps that brought them water. His kid brother George, who had playfully listed himself as an aviator in the 1930 census, had become a florist—with real greenery, not plastic stuff. He had a retail outlet downtown and acreage in Torrance where he grew beautiful calla lilies and narcissus. Fred Whalen’s side of the clan never stopped believing that George had told the feds about their post-Prohibition whiskey scheme, but that wound had healed—he, too, was invited to the gatherings around Jack Whalen’s pool or at the real center of family activity.

  The “Big White House” was perched on a hill in the stately Los Feliz neighborhood below Griffith Park Observatory and resembled the White House in Washington, complete with a curved, columned portico. The house was owned by Jack’s older sister Bobie, now Bobie von Hurst after a few trial runs at wedded bliss had led her into a successful (and unlikely) marriage with a former army colonel. The onetime platinum model in her early years had followed the Elizabeth Taylor philosophy of courtship whenever the lust got to her, which was often. “In my day you didn’t fool around,” she explained, “you got married. At least I gave ’em a year. When I first got married, if they couldn’t get me pregnant in a year, I let ’em go and tried somebody else. That’s all I wanted. I passed up some good things. Clark Gable…”

  Well, there was a story about Mr. Gable and a nightclub and her in a fur coat without much under it. But after a half dozen try-’em-and-divorce-’em marriages, she stuck with the super-square Colonel Derek von Hurst who, after time in the service, became an aeronautical engineer and executive while still doing military-like inspections of the kids’ beds in the Big White House.

  Bobie’s daddy, Freddie The Thief, still lived in an apartment on the flats of Hollywood but gave everyone the impression the house was his. Freddie kept a professional Brunswick pool table in the basement, with tall upholstered bar stools around it for onlookers. He also hosted lavish holiday parties at the house, with carved turkey and ham, to which he’d invite a straight crowd early, including his friends in law enforcement, then have the pool sharks and others come later. His boy, Jack, used the big house, too, keeping his reel-to-reel tape recorders in the basement. Like any substantial bookie, he had various bars and other sites taking wagers for him around town. They would call in their rundowns of bets using phone numbers he provided, but linked in his case to dead apartments where he kept no furniture, only phones. If the calls were traced, authorities would get those meaningless addresses while the calls were forwarded to his recorders in the Big White House.

  His sister, Bobie, sometimes helped with Jack’s bookmaking when it came time to pay off winners or collect from losers. Needless to say, Jack handled any collections from those who hesitated to pay. But how many cops would be suspicious of a middle-aged mom making the simpler pickups, and payoffs, while carting three children home from parochial school? Her son John was one of the passengers.

  She’d pick us up from the nuns at three in the afternoon and we’d go out with a car full of—we used to take our lunch in those little brown bags and the payouts were all wrapped up in those bags with names on ’em and we’d drive around to various gas stations and bars and people would run out and hand my mother those same sort of bags wrapped up with the payoffs, or she had to pay them. There were times we didn’t get home until after dark. We’d sit there and do our homework in the backseat.

  * * *

  JOHN VON HURST was a Whalen without the name. As Bobie (Whalen) von Hurst’s eldest son he was the nephew of Jack Whalen and grandson of Freddie The Thief. He also was the toddler being taken for a walk when Freddie was abducted off the street in Hollywood years before. By the mid-’50s he was living with his mom in the Big White House, still not yet a teenager, when a frantic long-distance call came in from Grandpa Fred. The Whalen patriarch was back east with old buddies pursuing his favorite scheme, posing as a hospital doctor eager to place bets on the ponies. But this time Freddie apparently had taken bookmakers who were really connected, and it must have gone badly—he was calling for help, and fast, from Jack, the son he’d come to frown on. As John explained:

  He and a couple of the “honorary uncles” were busting bookies. So they’d take these guys for $3,000 to $4,000 at a crack and it usually took them three or four days to figure out that they were beaten bad. And Grandpa would leave and go to the next town and do it again. But this time in New York, I guess he had busted a number of the “family’s” bookmaking operations and two thugs came to the hotel and threatened my grandfather. Well, my grandfather called the house in California and we went and put my Uncle Jack on one of those Constellation four-engine TWA flights to New York and off he went.

  Jack Whalen managed to get to Freddie before the East Coast muscle returned and he greeted them with his own muscles, and threats, after which they returned with their boss, who suggested a compromise with Freddie The Thief and his very strong son.

  He said, “Let’s do it this way—you leave my bookmakers alone, I’ll give you the name of my competition’s, you bust them. And we’ll take half the money.” And my Uncle Jack said, “No, we’ll take all the money but we’ll bust these guys for you. They’re out of your hair.” And the man said, “Yeah, I’d rather have these guys out of business.” So that’s what they’d do.

  According to Whalen family lore, that’s how Freddie The Thief began putting on his white coat and stethoscope on behalf of the New York mob and busting its uncooperative bookies. But there was a different outcome when his son Jack tried the same scheme, on his own, back home. The Whalen clan had by then adopted a name for Freddie’s favorite con—the scamus.

  * * *

  JERRY WOOTERS STOPPED trying to figure out why Jack Whalen didn’t go straight. You’d hear the stories of him beating on people, yet he could act with civility and polish anytime he wanted.

  Jerry’s wife assumed they were going out with another policeman when he told her they were having dinner with a friend. But their companion was Whalen, who brought along his society spouse, Kay. Jean Wooters assumed then that Whalen was an actor because he spoke of how TV westerns needed cowboys who really knew how to ride, who looked at home in the saddle. It was believable that he was an actor, too, with his dark, rugged looks and engaging manner. Whalen stood up when Jean and Kay excused themselves to go to the powder room. In the time they were gone, he tossed down two shots of whiskey. When they returned, he stood again to pull out Jean’s chair.

  Jerry had picked a steakhouse near where he and Jean lived—now with two little boys—out in Arcadia, in the ’burbs. The town was far from The Strip or even the Valley, places where Whalen might be recognized and where other cops might be lurking. They took a table in a far corner, just in case. Jack told a great story of meeting the decorated World War II soldier Audie Murphy, who was now a movie actor and going to help him get parts. The former Katherine Sabichi shared a great tale about her family’s ancient piano that had to be shipped around South America.

  “Had a great old time,” Jerry said of their night out, though he had some explaining to do when his wife saw a photograph in the paper.

  She asked, “Is this the guy we had dinner with?”

  * * *

  JACK WAS SURE he could pull off the scamus, the great con of his dad, and in L.A. As a police report spelled out the episode, “the supposed victim, Ted Hersk, had been told there was a doctor who worked at Queen of Angels Hospital [and] was looking to take book
making action for the employees. The victim was introduced to the defendant … dressed in a white jacket, stating that he was a doctor of the hospital. The victim became suspicious and notified Sergeant Gerard of the Bunco Detail, who advised the victim to play along.”

  The bookie let the unusually muscular physician pass him a bunch of wagers, a few of which proved to be astute, winning close to $1,000. The lucky doctor said he’d be waiting in his car at the corner of Bellevue and Waterloo—the bookie could pay him there. As the bookie, Hersk, climbed into the passenger’s seat to complete the payoff, the plainclothes bunco cop approached the car window to make the arrest and Dr. Jack Whalen did what came naturally. “Defendant stepped out of the car and struck Sergeant Gerard on the right side of the face, knocking him to the sidewalk where his head struck the edge, knocking him out … Sergeant Gerard was conveyed to the Georgia Street Receiving Hospital.”

  That was just like cops, claiming that the sidewalk knocked their guy out, not the fist of Jack the Enforcer. In his own defense, Whalen said the man smelled of alcohol, was sloppily dressed, and had a gun—what was he supposed to do? His mother, Lillian, spoke up for him, too, telling a court officer, “He had a calm childhood and it looked to her as if somebody did not like him, as the plainclothes men from Intelligence are always taking him down for suspicion.”

  Fortunately for Whalen, it was much like his earlier KO of a policeman—they still expected a cop to be good with his fists so they didn’t make it a federal case if you got the better of one. Jack Whalen by his own estimate had been arrested forty times but guessed he could plea bargain the hospital mess down to a few weeks in the cooler and probation. He may have crunched a cop unconscious but all they charged him with was “resisting public officers in discharge of their duties.” The bad news was, he’d tried his father’s con and failed.

  CHAPTER 27

  More Money for Mickey

  Bill Peterson was a fledgling big-band trumpeter and a student at UCLA when he read Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely and fell in love with the fictional Philip Marlowe, who mucked around the city’s seamy underside and actually solved murders. Peterson admired the private eye’s jadedness—no one impressed Marlowe—and he began looking at people through similar eyes when he started getting trumpeting gigs as a sideman in clubs along Central Avenue and on the Sunset Strip. The Hollywood glamour types who drew so many stares? They were “famous folks getting bombed,” that’s all. Then someone else came into the Crescendo, Gene Norman’s jazz club that showcased the likes of Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong and such edgy comics as Mort Sahl and Lenny Bruce. On this night, it had a torch singer on the bill.

  Peterson first noticed two large men in wide-brimmed hats and dark suits get the big-time treatment from the maître d’ and brush past the blond hat-check girl dressed in gold lamé. The pair kept their wide-brims on as they made their way to a front table for the show. Then the young singer was told to wait, to hold off her performance, and the piano player whispered, “I guess some big shot is late.” Finally he arrived, the sort who peeled a hundred-dollar bill off a thick roll and asked that the drinks keep coming for his entourage, though he personally didn’t imbibe—he went for ice cream and pastries. On stage, the singer’s set began and finished and as soon as the applause died Peterson headed for the men’s room, bursting to relieve himself. The big shot also got up, along with one of the men in the hats …

  Oh Lord, now what? But I can’t linger, I’ve got to go. I dash in past José, the little Mexican guy who is the attendant, and thank God all the urinals are vacant. I make it, and unzip just as the big wide-brim guy comes through the door. He glances at me, checks the rest of the room, then gestures with his thumb to José, and barks, “You! Outside!”

  Jose manages a nervous smile, and scrams out the door. After Jose has exited, Mr. Widebrim nods to someone at the door. In comes Mickey Cohen! I’ve seen his picture in the paper, but he’s bigger and stockier that I thought. He’s got a real five-o’clock shadow, which is kind of covered up with powder. He’s still got the hat on and to my complete terror he sidles up into the urinal compartment next to me. Now there are only three people in here: Mickey Cohen, his big bodyguard, Mr. Widebrim, and me. I can see the headlines in tomorrow’s Times—

  HOLLYWOOD MUSICIAN MURDERED IN NIGHTCLUB REST ROOM. GANGLAND SLAYING SUSPECTED!

  And even worse is that fact that I can’t even pee! I’m too scared to let go! Mickey has no problem. He finishes, and then he reaches inside his coat, not fast, just real relaxed. Oh God … I grit my teeth and glance frantically around. What would Philip Marlowe do? I turn back to watch with a feeling of horrified fascination as Mickey Cohen’s hand comes out of his coat in a kind of slow motion. Now I know how Philip Marlowe feels when the heavy has the drop on him. But instead of a blue-steel automatic he is holding a little can of Johnson’s Baby Powder! With his other hand, he pulls his pants out and sprinkles the powder into his pants, and a cloud sprays up. I can smell the scent. Then he proceeds to give the can to Mr. Wide-brim, who shakes some more into Mickey’s hands. Mickey then pats his face to cover his stubble. He turns, washes his hands like a surgeon, takes a towel from Widebrim, and dries his hands. He throws the towel down, glances at me, and says:

  “Now you can say you took a leak with Mickey Cohen. Take it easy, kid.”

  * * *

  MICKEY HAD MORE to sell than his soul. His celebrity had to be worth something, right? He couldn’t go out in L.A. without a bunch of people wanting his autograph and a few brave ones asking for it. While he was in the pen, Ben Hecht had written him about possibly doing a book—Ben Hecht, co-host of his wild Slapsy Maxie’s fund-raiser for Israel but more important, a two-time Oscar-winning screenwriter and co-author of The Front Page. While Mickey was away, Hecht had given him a cameo in his own memoir, A Child of the Century, briefly playing him and their gala for comic relief, but so what? Hecht floated the possibility of doing a book and Mickey’s mind swam with it. In the summer of 1957, he gave the old Chicago newsman his own suggestions for a manuscript about his life, in his trademark dese-dems-dose lingo. “He must have done it himself,” Hecht said. “No one but Mickey uses words that way.”

  Hecht saw an opportunity to peer inside the mind of a gangster—“looking as deeply as I can into the disordered soul of a fellow human”—but also into the ethos of the underworld he had glimpsed as a reporter during the heyday of the Capones. It could be a fine shoot-’em-up, but with sociological overtones. Hecht wrote in his notes:

  The underworld is not a geographic area. Its trail runs thru slums, fine hotels, swank residences and office buildings—cafés, theaters and the sanctums of government.

  The stamp of the underworld citizen is his citizenlessness. He must be an enemy of society—and hold its laws and pretentions in contempt. Such a point of view cannot be faked any more than savagery can be faked.

  Mickey was no more than a stick of a man till L.A. His social life consisted chiefly of proving he could lick any enemy. He had no greed, nor sense of organization.

  The corruption of government—the bribing of its large and little factotums—is the perquisite of what Mickey calls “the higher echelon” of society … Railroad, oil, and manufacturing empires have been built in the Republic with the aid of canny bribery.

  The yearning for respectable society, for the good opinion of his betters, is a confused wish for a magic change of self.

  Exhibitionism is a rare matter. Invisibleness is the social norm.

  Ben Hecht had a lot to say about the underworld and the world above too. Still, the project made him uneasy—he had concerns he didn’t share with Mickey. On a purely practical level, Hecht couldn’t see himself scurrying around behind the man with his notebook. As nostalgic as he was about his newspaper days he was sixty now, well past the cub reporter grind. But then Hecht would visit Mickey’s new apartment and witness the talcum routine for himself, hearing Mickey bang a can of the stuff on the bathroom walls to loo
sen up the powder after his third therapeutic bathing of the day. It was impossible not to be intrigued by the sight of Mickey emerging naked except for the hat and gartered socks to faire la toilette and ready his sagging torso to be transformed by a covering of monogrammed linen and natty gabardine. Hecht was invited to watch Mickey’s daily rendezvous with his new crew of hangers-on, including that tiny “Itchy” fellow and some of his old heist partners as well, like the Sica brothers, to relive the days when he “took over” Los Angeles. So Hecht would be pumped up again and tempted to do The Mickey Cohen Story, even if this wasn’t quite an invitation to witness Al Capone’s private moments with Frank Nitti.

  Hecht had other concerns more substantive than the demands of being a fly on the wall to that crowd. As much as he admired Mickey’s innate skill as a corruptor, he did not want to be the mouthpiece of a criminal. He was wary of resembling the defense lawyer who cites extenuating circumstances to explain away his client’s bloodthirstiness and thefts. He sensed that most people tended to admire crooks in fiction and despise them in real life. And while they thrilled at seeing the gangster in his prime, they were more exhilarated by his demise, especially if the fall was as dramatic as the young Cagney being wrapped like a mummy and toppling facedown into his old household in The Public Enemy or, better yet, Cagney in White Heat, perched atop the oil refinery about to blow shouting, “Made it, Ma, top of the world!”—that one filmed only a few years back by one of the oil fields that fueled modern Los Angeles.