L.A. Noir (48 page)

Mickey’s romance with Candy Barr was similarly ill fated. Early in the summer of 1959, she broke up with Mickey. She promptly married her hairdresser in Las Vegas. Without Cohen’s high-priced lawyers throwing up delays, the law quickly closed in on Candy Barr. Soon after her nuptials, she was deported to Texas to begin her prison term.

Inwardly, Mickey grieved. Outwardly, he soldiered on. He soon found a new flame—a twenty-two-year-old stripper at the Largo named Beverly Hills. Reached by an intrepid
Los Angeles Times
reporter at noon on October 1 (Mickey was still in his pajamas and visibly sleepy), Cohen confirmed that he and Miss Hills would soon be wed. Their honeymoon was to take place in Miami, where the future Mrs. Cohen would be appearing at the Clover Club. That engagement fizzled too. By late fall, Cohen had a new love, a nineteen-year-old former carhop named Sandy Hagen, whom Cohen had “discovered” at a drive-through.

On December 2, 1959, Cohen and Hagen were having dinner at Rondelli’s, an Italian restaurant in Sherman Oaks that was one of Mickey’s favorite hangouts. (Cohen was widely assumed to be the stealth owner.) With them were Cohen’s new canine companion, bulldog Mickey Jr., and the usual scrum of henchmen (including Candy Barr and Beverly Hills’s manager). At about 11:30 p.m., Jack “The Enforcer” Whalen walked in. Whalen was probably the biggest bookmaker in the Valley at the time. As his nickname suggested, the six-foot, 250-pound Whalen was also one of the toughest. He and Mickey had something of a beef. Whalen had recently beaten up Fred Sica, one of Cohen’s top men. That night “The Enforcer” was out trolling bars for delinquent borrowers, one of whom he spotted in a telephone booth in the cafe. Whalen walked over, grabbed the man, and proceeded to knock him around.

This was not a respectful way to conduct yourself in a rival gangster’s restaurant, but Whalen didn’t seem worried by Mickey’s presence. In fact, he strolled over to Cohen’s table afterward. What happened next is unclear. Words were exchanged; a punch may (or may not) have been thrown at one of Cohen’s associates. One thing was clear though. Two shots were
fired. One slammed into the ceiling. The other hit Whalen right between the eyes. Cohen got up to go wash his hands. Then he called his doctor. Then he called the fire department. Next he called the newspapers. Finally, someone called the police. By the time two patrolmen in a radio car arrived at 12:10 a.m., Whalen was dead. The policemen were disturbed to see that someone had tidied up the area around Cohen’s table, a mere six feet from where the body lay. They promptly locked the doors and began to question everyone in the restaurant. Deputy Chief Thad Brown himself questioned Cohen.

Cohen’s account of what had happened was vague.

“A man walked in and punched a little man at the next table,” Cohen told Brown. “I never saw either before. Shots rang out. I thought someone was shooting at me, and I ducked.” That was all Cohen had to say. The following day, he elaborated further—in an exclusive column for the
Herald-Express
—on the night at Rondelli’s, claiming, with wild implausibility, that he’d never seen “the boys who approached the table next to him” and that he hadn’t seen what happened after the shooting because he was taking off Mickey Jr.’s bib. (“You gotta wear one when you eat linguine.”)

The police weren’t buying it. For one thing, Cohen’s Cadillac was gone. Mickey said Sandy Hagen had taken it home, but Hagen didn’t have a driver’s license. There was also the fact that Mickey had called quite a few people before contacting the police. Chief Parker himself soon arrived to take personal control of the investigation, but Cohen wouldn’t talk to him. Outside, reporters pressed the chief about whether Cohen was a suspect.

“Obviously, he is,” Parker replied. “This killing occurred at Cohen’s headquarters. He was less than six feet away. We knew that the victim was going there to square a gambling beef. Then Mickey’s car just happened to vanish, off the lot.” Nonetheless, with no evidence tying Cohen to the shooting, he wasn’t immediately booked. Instead, some thirty policemen were dispatched to round up all known Cohen henchmen for questioning.

The police then got a lucky break. Three pistols were recovered from the trash behind the restaurant. One was registered to the late Johnny Stompanato. A clearer connection to Cohen would have been hard to imagine. Police booked Cohen and four associates on charges of murder. But try as he might, Parker could find no physical evidence (such as fingerprints on the murder weapon) that tied Cohen to the shooting. None of the guns in the trash can were the murder weapon. After two nights in custody, Mickey was released on bail.

Six days later, on December 8, a Cohen lackey named Sam LoCigno presented himself (along with two attorneys) at Deputy Chief Thad Brown’s
office with a startling confession: LoCigno claimed that he was the person who’d shot Whalen. LoCigno insisted that the shooting had been an act of self-defense. Whalen had approached the table, said “Hello, Mr. Cohen,” and then slugged one of the men at the table, George Piscitelle, before turning on LoCigno, saying, “You’re next.” Only then, LoCigno claimed, had he opened fire. LoCigno said that Mickey Cohen had urged him to turn himself in. (Cohen himself later told the press, modestly, that he had “induced” LoCigno to turn himself in “to save the taxpayers’ money.”)

Brown called in Chief Parker, who joined the interrogation. Brown and Parker quickly poked holes in LoCigno’s story. When Parker asked LoCigno where the gun he’d shot Whalen with was, he replied, “I don’t know.” He was equally fuzzy in his response to other important questions. Parker and Brown weren’t surprised. The intelligence division had long ago pegged LoCigno as nothing more than a “flunky and errand boy” for Cohen. Both felt certain that the man responsible for the shooting was Mickey himself. But try as they might, police were unable to find witnesses to make that case. Although Rondelli’s had been crowded with customers at the time of the killing, no one seemed to have seen anything—with the exception of a one-eyed horse bettor who’d had eighteen highballs before the shooting started. He fingered Candy Barr’s manager as the gunman. Instead, police focused on a more promising witness, a prostitute who claimed that Cohen ordered the killing, allegedly shouting, “Now, Sam, now!” just moments before the gun was fired. Unfortunately for the prosecution, however, on the witness stand, the prostitute acknowledged that she’d only heard this secondhand, from an off-duty maitre d’. That was hardly enough to override LoCigno’s confession.

Prosecutors tried to put a positive spin on the situation, trumpeting LoCigno’s conviction as the first successful prosecution of a gangland murder in two decades. In fact, Mickey Cohen had escaped again.

      THE WHALEN SHOOTING quickly moved off the front pages, replaced by politics. That July Democrats were meeting in Los Angeles to nominate the Democratic presidential candidate. Between July 11 and 15, some 45,000 visitors would descend on the city for the convention. Police Commission member John Ferraro had been chosen to be chairman of the convention’s public safety committee. Ferraro, in turn, would rely heavily on Parker and the roughly three hundred officers he planned to detail to the event.

Defending the Democratic Party was, in some ways, an unlikely assignment for Chief Parker, who had become a high-profile antagonist of the
party’s California branch. In 1956, Parker had expressed strong support for the reelection of President Dwight Eisenhower. Parker also had close ties to the Nixon campaign through Norris Poulson’s old campaign manager, Jack Irwin, who had joined the Police Commission after Poulson’s election. There he quickly became a strong Parker fan. Irwin was also a friend of Vice President Richard Nixon, the Republican nominee for president that year. Irwin’s connection to the vice president (and his ties to Chief Parker) worried J. Edgar Hoover. The FBI director feared that if Nixon was elected, he might attempt to ease out Hoover and replace him with Parker.

Parker was actually a double threat. Politically, he was closer to the GOP Personally he was closer to the Kennedy camp, thanks to his relationship with Bobby. The services he would offer Sen. Jack Kennedy during the convention would further solidify Parker’s Kennedy connections.

The convention began under a suffocating blanket of smog that left delegates with watery eyes and burning throats. Jacqueline Kennedy, four months pregnant, stayed away from Los Angeles entirely. Jack stayed with a few bachelor friends in a penthouse apartment in Hollywood owned by the comedian Jack Haley. Bobby stayed with brother-in-law Peter Lawford in Santa Monica. Joe Sr. monitored activities from the Beverly Hills mansion of his old friend Marion Davies, William Randolph Hearst’s longtime mistress.

From the start, Parker put the LAPD at the Kennedys’ disposal. At the opening reception on Sunday, Jack Kennedy, Bobby and Ethel, and Ted and Joan appeared, escorted by fifteen white-helmeted police officers and a thirty-person plainclothes detail. (In contrast, Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Baines Johnson, his wife Lady Bird, and their two daughters were left to greet the crowd on their own, assisted only by volunteer “Johnson girls” handing out long-stemmed roses as a band played the Johnson campaign song, “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.”) In general, though, security was light. There was no Secret Service protection. The Kennedy campaign asked that just one officer be assigned full-time to Jack. That proved insufficient. Well-wishers hemmed him in everywhere, stopping him to introduce themselves, to shake hands, to say hello. These encounters were sometimes quite frightening: on two occasions, enthusiastic supporters nearly tore off Kennedy’s coat. Eventually, the campaign asked for backup. Parker upped the detail to four. Instead of mingling with the delegates, Kennedy’s unit started to move him through freight elevators and basement kitchens.

The LAPD also proved to be useful during the convention. On Wednesday, July 13, 1960, some six hundred supporters of Adlai Stevenson, the Democratic Party’s nominee in 1952 and 1956, swarmed the Figueroa Street entrance of the Sports Arena, where the convention was being held.
Although Stevenson insisted that he was not interested in being the party’s candidate, his supporters were determined to nominate him. So they settled on the desperate stratagem of blockading the convention and then charging the floor, with the hope that they would be able to take control of the convention proceedings. The police quickly intervened, rushing forces to the entrance in order to break the blockade.

When Kennedy cinched the nomination, Parker was pleased. Yet despite Parker’s genuine admiration for the Kennedy brothers, there were things about the family that made him uneasy. Several months after the convention, Parker went to visit his younger brother Joe and his sister-in-law Jane. One evening after dinner, the topic turned to the Kennedys. Bill made a fleeting comment, that “he would never believe” the things the Kennedys were involved in. Joe would later speculate that Bill spurned a job with the administration in Washington because he did not care to associate with the likes of the actor Peter Lawford and his good friend, Frank Sinatra.

Sinatra, whom Parker regarded as being “totally tied to the Mafia,” was clearly a sore point. Relations between the LAPD and the entertainer had been strained since at least February 1957, when three LAPD officers had burst into Sinatra’s Palm Springs house—at 4 a.m.—to serve the entertainer with a subpoena to appear before a congressional subcommittee investigating
Confidential
magazine, a scandal sheet that specialized in extorting money from celebrities with skeletons in their closets.

Exactly what kind of intelligence Parker had on the Kennedys is unknown. Once—just once—Joe picked up on a passing, uncomplimentary allusion to Kennedy-Hollywood skulduggery and expressed his doubts.

“Gee, you know, I just don’t understand how that could be true, Joseph told his brother.”

“Joe, you don’t hear anything about what’s really going on,” Parker replied.

      BY ALL ACCOUNTS, the department did a superb job during the convention. Hailed by the
Los Angeles Times
editorial board for its good work, Parker was later feted at the Biltmore Bowl by nearly nine hundred leading citizens. His standing had never been higher. On November 8, 1960, Sen. John F. Kennedy was elected to be the thirty-fifth president of the United States. Less than two weeks later, while out golfing with a
New York Times
reporter, the president-elect casually let drop that he was considering appointing his thirty-five-year-old brother to be the next attorney general of the United States. The response was immediate—and negative. Bobby had never been a
practicing lawyer. Most recently, he had been Jack’s presidential campaign manager—hardly the nonpartisan background many hoped for in the nation’s top lawman. An editorial in the
New York Times
warned against nepotism in high office. “Wise men” such as Supreme Court Justice William Douglas also criticized the prospective appointment. Privately, even JFK was doubtful. But Joe Sr. insisted that Jack needed his brother at the Justice Department precisely because he was the ultimate loyalist. Joe Sr. also wanted Bobby at Justice to protect the president from the one person in government best positioned to do JFK harm—J. Edgar Hoover. On December 16, the president announced the appointment, with his brother at his side, in front of Blair house.

The reaction in the underworld was explosive. Chicago Outfit boss Sam Giancana (who shared sometime paramour Judith Campbell Exner with Jack) immediately called Kennedy confidant Frank Sinatra and demanded to know what was going on. According to Outfit historian Gus Russo, Giancana “ended the call by slamming down the phone and then throwing it across the room.”

“Eating out of the palm of his hand,” the Outfit boss reportedly screamed. “That’s what Frank told me. ‘Jack’s eatin’ out of his hand.’ Bullshit, that’s what it is.” In Los Angeles, Cohen was equally surprised. Like virtually everyone in organized crime, Mickey had assumed that “the people” had reached an understanding with Joe Sr. “Nobody in my line of work had an idea that he [JFK] was going to name Bobby Kennedy attorney general. That was the last thing anyone thought.”