L.A. Noir Part 13

Even in 1958 this was a sensitive a.s.sertion, and Parker was careful to attempt to defuse it. "[A] competent police administrator is fully aware of the multiple conditions which create this problem," he continued. "There is no inherent physical or mental weakness in any racial stock which tends it toward crime." (Indeed, Parker was fond of pointing out that racial cla.s.sifications were nothing more then pseudoscience.) "But," he went on, "and this is a 'but' which must be borne constantly in mind-the police field deployment is not social agency activity. In deploying to suppress crime, we are not interested in why a certain group tends toward crime, we are interested in maintaining order."

The LAPD deployed its forces most heavily where crime was highest-in black neighborhoods. Newton Division, a crowded district of 4.8 square miles (with a population, in 1950, of 101,000 residents, most of them African Americans), was a.s.signed 34 policemen per square mile. Hollenbeck Division, which patrolled Mexican American East L.A., had 14 patrolmen per square mile. In contrast, there were only 443 policemen a.s.signed to the 259 square miles of the Hollywood, Wilshire, and Foothill Divisions, less than two policemen per square mile. The result of this deployment pattern was that black and Chicano residents of Los Angeles were far more likely to interact with the LAPD than were white residents of the city.

Anyone who'd spent a day on the streets of Newton Division realized that the LAPD maintained order in a certain way-with a heavy hand. In those days, most good beat officers were big, imposing men. Flagrant disrespect routinely resulted in a stiff dose of "street justice"-a bogus arrest, a painful jab with a baton, or worse. A greater police presence meant this happened more in African American parts of the city. It wasn't necessarily a racial thing. Take a tough neighborhood, add thousands of newcomers who don't know the ropes, apply police officers who believe that their personal safety depends on being tough, and you've got a recipe for trouble, regardless of the color of the people involved. But there were other reasons that the LAPD was particularly insistent on "respect."

Police departments in cities with political machines such as New York and Chicago were big organizations padded with patronage jobs. Ward bosses often reserved civil service jobs for neighborhood supporters. Such forces frequently had problems with incompetency and corruption. But they also had advantages. Officers and neighborhood residents tended to know each other. Ward bosses and precinct or division captains generally worked hand in hand. And because the number of officers relative to the population being policed was often quite large, officers knew that if they got into a sc.r.a.pe, there were almost always other officers close at hand. The LAPD's officers didn't have that a.s.surance. Backup was rarely around the block. Sometimes, it was miles away. As a result, when the LAPD acted, it went in hard and fast. It was a style of policing driven in part by fear. But all that many residents saw was c.o.c.ky aggression.

This left a bitter taste in black neighborhoods. While the police demanded deference and respect, many of its officers seemed unable-or unwilling-to distinguish between actual hoodlums and ordinary citizens. It was one thing to get tough with a known criminal. It was quite another to repeatedly stop and insultingly question a law-abiding citizen. But for whatever reason, that is precisely what the LAPD too often did.

In the African American press, story after story chronicled the indignities. "EVERY NEGRO A SUSPECT," screamed the California Eagle California Eagle in a March 20, 1947, article on the police hunt for a pair of men who'd shot two police officers over the course of the preceding weekend. A shooting was, of course, a serious matter, but the police response was indiscriminate. "No Negro, no matter how little he fitted the description of the two fugitives, was immune from police search and question," continued the paper bitterly. Every few months, the paper would carry a horrifying story about a black man-or a black woman-who had suffered insult, if not a.s.sault, at the hands of the police. in a March 20, 1947, article on the police hunt for a pair of men who'd shot two police officers over the course of the preceding weekend. A shooting was, of course, a serious matter, but the police response was indiscriminate. "No Negro, no matter how little he fitted the description of the two fugitives, was immune from police search and question," continued the paper bitterly. Every few months, the paper would carry a horrifying story about a black man-or a black woman-who had suffered insult, if not a.s.sault, at the hands of the police.

"With the death this week of Dan Jense, a cafe owner who was brutally beaten by police in the course of a raid on his establishment, the spotlight shifts to police brutality and brings into focus the repeated complaints which have come out of minority communities for the past several years," wrote the Eagle Eagle in June 1949. But of course, the mainstream press didn't shift its attention to police brutality. Neither did the city's politicians. "Mayor Bowron has steadfastly defended the police in every reported incident of brutality," the in June 1949. But of course, the mainstream press didn't shift its attention to police brutality. Neither did the city's politicians. "Mayor Bowron has steadfastly defended the police in every reported incident of brutality," the Eagle Eagle lamented. lamented.

"The cold-blooded killing of August Salcido and the fatal beating of Herman Burns, climaxed the uninhibited 'legal lynching' campaign of terror that the police department has been carrying on against Negroes and Mexicans for some time," opined the paper on another occasion: Delegation after delegation has appeared before the Mayor demanding that he put a stop to the unnecessary rousting, beating and intimidating of citizens in the minority community. Bowron has promised time and again, he would check these abuses, but they have continued and grown.

The steps the mayor had taken, the paper continued, such as appointing an African American to monitor allegations of brutality, were little more than "window-dressing." With scandal again threatening the department's leadership, the paper foresaw "token raids" to divert attention from the main action.

"Any so-called 'clean-up' on the East Side [meaning east of Main Street] would be in reality a cover-up for a campaign of intimidation and police terrorism," the paper heatedly concluded.

To nonblacks, such accounts were easy to dismiss. The outspoken publisher of the Eagle Eagle, Charlotta Ba.s.s, was, if not a Communist, then at the very least a fellow traveler. Moreover, police department investigations rarely substantiated these dramatic tales of wrongdoing. Indeed, some proved so frivolous that the police department began to urge prosecutors to charge people who brought unwarranted complaints against the department with making false statements about the police. Even black Angelenos were sometimes skeptical of the Eagle Eagle, preferring instead the more conservative Sentinel Sentinel. But the Sentinel Sentinel, too, was replete with stories of black men and women going about their business and running afoul of the police. To African Americans, the sheer acc.u.mulation of anecdotes was compelling. White residents rarely heard or read about these stories.

AS THE HEAD of internal affairs, Bill Parker might have been expected to take a stance on such issues, but there's no evidence he did. Instead, Parker focused almost exclusively on corruption and the underworld. Yet there is reason to believe that Parker was initially seen as something of a progressive on race relations. The two commissioners who initially supported Parker for chief were Irving Snyder, who was Jewish, and Dr. J. Alexander Somerville, who was African American. Presumably, these men saw Parker as a fair-minded individual. The second reason for believing Parker would be fair-minded arose from his treatment of African American policewoman Vivian Strange.

When he was sworn in as chief, Parker made a striking promise to the rank and file: When it came to promotions, he would always pick the person at the top of the civil service eligibility list. The first test of this policy came almost immediately, when Strange became eligible to make sergeant, a rank that no African American woman had ever before attained. Strange was not popular in the department, where she had a reputation as someone who "hated" white people so much that she wouldn't ride in the same car with them. Fifty years after her promotion to sergeant, one senior LAPD commander described her as "a b.i.t.c.h."

Strange may (or may not) have been an unpleasant person; however, she clearly understood something that the department's white officers did not-namely, that a black woman in a car with a white man in south Los Angeles was likely to be seen as a prost.i.tute. Insisting on driving herself to meetings in African American neighborhoods wasn't standoffish; it was an attempt to avoid humiliation. Whatever her personality, Parker did not hesitate when her name came up on the sergeant eligibility list. That November, he made Strange the LAPD's first female African American sergeant.

But those who hoped for further steps toward equality were disappointed. Parker did not change the department's unstated policy of not placing black officers in positions of command over white officers. He also dismissed the idea that the LAPD had a race-relations problem. In a March 11, 1953, letter to a resident who had written Mayor Bowron to complain about police abuse, Parker presented a reb.u.t.tal noting that over the course of the year 1952, the LAPD had received 1,068 complaints. During that same period, his letter continued, the department had made "a minimum of 1,741,860 contacts." In other words, .0006 of the officer contacts had resulted in complaints. Of those, "259 (or 24.3 percent) were substantiated and resulted in disciplinary action.... A total of 116 official reprimands were issued, 126 officers received a total of 1,453 days suspension.... Sixteen officers were terminated from the Department." To Parker, the conclusion was clear: Police misconduct was exceedingly rare, and on those occasions where misconduct did occur, it was severely punished. The possibility that the department's statistics might mislead-that complaints were discouraged, that communities of color might have become inured to behavior that would have generated waves of complaints in whiter, more affluent parts of town-was something Parker does not appear to have considered.

This represented a failure of imagination. Yet to his credit, when the facts were clear, Parker followed them to their logical conclusion. In mid-1953, Los Angeles lurched into an antigang hysteria after a group of young thugs robbed and killed a pedestrian downtown. "Rat Packs Attack," screamed the newspapers; columnists demanded that the police department hit back, often in strikingly intemperate ways. (One newspaper editorial called on the department to prevent crime by using "clubs and mailed fists"-this less than two years after the "b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas" beatings.) Much of the public anger had a decidedly anti-Hispanic tone. Parker would have none of it. In response to an inquiry from the grand jury, Parker calmly refused to treat a lone incident as a deadly trend.

"The local juvenile gang problem is not new to this community, but has its roots deep in the social and economic make-up of this area," Parker wrote back to jury foreman Don Thompson. "The recent incidents which have unfortunately been so spectacularly reported have created a wave of hysteria, not a crime wave. Most ethnic groups at one time or another have had confused generations which physically displayed their resentment toward society. The best methods of integrating these groups into our society are well known. Those methods will solve the present problem, if citizens will continue to apply them."

To Parker, race relations were first and foremost a technical problem. The appropriate response was to deploy skilled public relations officers, officers like one African American officer who had caught Parker's attention-Officer Tom Bradley, the same Tom Bradley who would later become Los Angeles's first African American mayor.

IN 1955, Tom Bradley was one of the LAPD's most promising African American officers. His rise had been remarkable. Bradley's parents were sharecroppers, Texas-born, who arrived in Los Angeles in 1924 with their seven-year-old son. Tom's father, Lee Bradley, soon found a job as a porter for the Santa Fe railroad. His mother, Crenner, devoted herself to the education of their son, maneuvering Bradley into the Polytechnic high school, a predominantly white inst.i.tution known for its excellent athletics and strong academics. Tall, handsome, and fast, Tom Bradley excelled at both. Upon graduating, he won a track scholarship to UCLA. But after meeting Ethel Arnold (a beauty whom the L.A. Tribune L.A. Tribune would later describe as "the community's prettiest girl"), Bradley decided he wanted to get married. That meant he needed a job. So, during his junior year, Bradley decided to apply to become a police officer. His score on the civil service test was high, and in 1940, he joined the LAPD. would later describe as "the community's prettiest girl"), Bradley decided he wanted to get married. That meant he needed a job. So, during his junior year, Bradley decided to apply to become a police officer. His score on the civil service test was high, and in 1940, he joined the LAPD.

Bradley got the kind of a.s.signments that black officers typically do-in his instance, a position in the Newton Division vice squad. His work there on a bookmaking case in 1950 caught Parker's eye. So too did his efforts to promote the department in the local press. By the autumn of 1953, Bradley was writing a regular "Police-Eye View" column for the California Eagle California Eagle. His articles were perfectly crafted to win Parker's approval. An October 22, 1953, piece on the Police Commission described it, reverentially, as "one of the most powerful agencies of our government." This was a favorite fiction of the chief; every informed observer of Los Angeles politics knew that the Police Commission was little more than a rubber stamp. Still, it was a useful stance when the department came under Political attack. Bradley also took on the department's critics in print. A January 28, 1954, column addressed the volatile issue of residents being stopped and questioned by the police. Bradley defended the practice, noting that police officers often had information that motivated the stop. Such efforts endeared him to Chief Parker. In early 1955, Parker approved Bradley's request to move to a new community relations unit. Bradley threw himself into the work with commendable zeal. In short order, he had become a member of more than 120 social, fraternal, and business groups.

Although Parker was impressed by Bradley's work, his apologetics for Chief Parker and the department met with skepticism in much of the black community. "Instead of decent human relations based on mutual respect and a negation of false and arbitrary barriers, Parker gives us the 20th century antibiotic, public relations," complained the editorial board of another African American newspaper, the Los Angeles Tribune Los Angeles Tribune, in early 1955.

African Americans were particularly upset by the police department's failure to integrate the force more aggressively. In late 1955, fire department chief John Alderson was removed from office for his point-blank refusal to integrate the fire department. Tellingly, Parker seemed to view the attempt to integrate the fire department as a quasi-subversive campaign: Intelligence division officers were sent to observe city council sessions on the issue. But when the police were confronted with similar demands, Parker maintained that LAPD was-and long had been-integrated.

Civil rights leaders thought differently.

Critics of the department noted that 60 percent of the department's 122 "active Negro personnel" were deployed to Newton and 77th Street Divisions, the two "black" divisions. Black officers were effectively excluded from other parts of the city and from many of the department's most desirable a.s.signments.

"The Police of Los Angeles fall just a stone's throw short of being as Jim Crow as if the department were situated in the heart of Georgia, rather than California," declared the Tribune Tribune, somewhat melodramatically, in a February 1955 editorial.*

Despite such sniping, Parker seemed to value the job Bradley was doing. In the fall of 1958, Chief Parker personally called Bradley's home to inform him that he'd made lieutenant, only the third African American lieutenant in the history of the force.

But Bill Parker was not the trusting sort. After a series of negative articles about the department appeared in the L.A. Sentinel L.A. Sentinel, Parker decided to take a closer look at the performance of his top community liaison officer, and so he instructed the intelligence division to put Bradley under observation. Daryl Gates was with the chief when the intelligence report came back.

"Parker told me the report said that Bradley, instead of talking the department up, was providing negative information to dissident groups, saying unfavorable things about Parker and the LAPD," wrote Gates in his memoirs. "That changed Parker's view of him just like that. Bradley, he fumed, was an absolute traitor to the department."

What was the nature of Bradley's transgression? While the exact offense is unknown, a 1961 intelligence division report on Bradley's appearance at a meeting sponsored by the ACLU at a private residence at 16916 San Fernando Road provides a flavor of his comments: Mr. Bradley spoke first:-He stated that he had worked for the City 21 years, had served on the Police Community Public Relations Unit, and had a first-hand view of Police Department/Citizen relations.He reviewed conditions-starting back about 1947 after World War II and the Zoot Suiters, etcetera-and stated a very touchy situation was growing between the police officers and the citizens. In his opinion a lack of understanding brought about police hostilities. He stated new police candidates were given the physical and written tests and then interviewed by a psychiatrist from the University of California in Los Angeles. At the Academy recruits were treated about the same during their thirteen weeks of training. However, when the recruits left the Academy they were immediately segregated and the white officers began to get an air of superiority. Colored officers and white officers were not placed in the field as partners until about a year ago. Although, Department policy was to integrate, there was a difference between p.r.o.nouncement and action, and over the years several mistakes were made and tolerated.There seemed to be no way for line officers to communicate with top personnel concerning their grievances. The Negro officer was naturally disgusted and the white officer continued to feel more superior and better and thus bound to discriminate against the Negro in his work.... All in all, Mr. Bradley did not come right out and condemn the Department in the open manner that [ACLU board member] Mr. [Hugh] Manes and Mr. [Lloyd] Wright [past president of the ACLU] did, but his silence and very presence on the platform gave me and most of those present the impression that his view, and that of his two cohorts was the same.

These were remarkably mild and measured remarks, yet they, too, were processed as treacherous attacks. Clearly, Parker's threshold for "absolute treachery" was low. As punishment, Parker immediately transferred Bradley to Wilshire Division, where he was made watch lieutenant for the graveyard shift.

But Parker's efforts to punish Bradley came too late. Like Parker, Bradley had earned a law degree while on the force. As a member of the community relations detail, he had also had the chance to build a wealth of contacts-contacts he now utilized to launch himself into local politics. In 1959, Bradley joined the effort to elect a black representative to the city council. Although his chosen candidate, Eddie Atkinson, ultimately fell short (in part because of an L.A. Times L.A. Times story highlighting Atkinson's ownership of a tavern and suggesting underworld ties), Bradley impressed everyone he met. Atkinson's loss underscored one of Bradley's great strengths: A black tavern keeper was vulnerable to innuendo. A black cop like Tom Bradley wouldn't be. story highlighting Atkinson's ownership of a tavern and suggesting underworld ties), Bradley impressed everyone he met. Atkinson's loss underscored one of Bradley's great strengths: A black tavern keeper was vulnerable to innuendo. A black cop like Tom Bradley wouldn't be.

PARKER saw things differently. Tom Bradley was now an enemy within-and not the only one. By the summer of 1959, one of Parker's ostensible bosses, police commissioner Herbert Greenwood, had become dissatisfied with Parker too. Where his predecessor on the board had been courtly and deferential, Greenwood was a.s.sertive and sometimes sharp. Judge Williams's earlier accusations about the department's selective enforcement of gambling ordinances led Greenwood to demand some answers. He requested that the department provide him with the information on the number, rank, and a.s.signment of black officers. ("It is a question I'm frequently asked and I should know the answers," he explained to the Los Angeles Times.) Los Angeles Times.) According to Greenwood, Parker responded by going "into a rage, shouting that the only reason I wanted it was to attack him." Frustrated, Greenwood turned to a political ally, film star-turned-councilwoman Rosalind Wyman. But when Wyman pressed for more racial statistics from the department, Parker counterattacked, alleging that Greenwood and Wyman's request for information was nothing more than a personal smear campaign. Mayor Poulson and the four other members of the Police Commission rallied to Parker's defense. Wyman backed down, and on June 18, 1959, Greenwood resigned, releasing a statement that cited the "unhealthy att.i.tudes" of the people in authority. Although his letter of resignation didn't cite Parker by name, his statements to the press left no doubt that the person he had in mind was the chief of police. According to Greenwood, Parker responded by going "into a rage, shouting that the only reason I wanted it was to attack him." Frustrated, Greenwood turned to a political ally, film star-turned-councilwoman Rosalind Wyman. But when Wyman pressed for more racial statistics from the department, Parker counterattacked, alleging that Greenwood and Wyman's request for information was nothing more than a personal smear campaign. Mayor Poulson and the four other members of the Police Commission rallied to Parker's defense. Wyman backed down, and on June 18, 1959, Greenwood resigned, releasing a statement that cited the "unhealthy att.i.tudes" of the people in authority. Although his letter of resignation didn't cite Parker by name, his statements to the press left no doubt that the person he had in mind was the chief of police.

"We don't tell him," Greenwood said by way of explanation. "He tells us."

And so the Police Commission's sole African American member-the only member of the commission who routinely challenged the chief-stepped down. Mayor Poulson's effort to check his chief was at an end. Parker's power over the LAPD was now complete.

* The LAPD apparently encouraged the use of tough tactics in black neighborhoods as well. As Deputy Chief Thad Brown later told historian Gerald Woods, "You could send Negro officers to do tough jobs in the black belt, and there would be no beef." (Woods, "The Progressives and the Police," 460.) The LAPD apparently encouraged the use of tough tactics in black neighborhoods as well. As Deputy Chief Thad Brown later told historian Gerald Woods, "You could send Negro officers to do tough jobs in the black belt, and there would be no beef." (Woods, "The Progressives and the Police," 460.)* Parker was also buffeted from another direction-by demands that the police department do more to crack down on crime. In late 1957, the city council formally complained to the chief about "soaring" vice conditions in South-Central Los Angeles (as the area around Watts was coming to be described). Mayor Poulson weighed in as well, complaining that prost.i.tution, bookmaking, and narcotics "flourished without apparent restraint" between 40th and 56th Streets on Central Avenue and Aaron Boulevard. Chief Parker replied, testily, that he'd be happy to clean up the area if city officials found funding to increase the size of the vice squad by 363 percent. Parker was also buffeted from another direction-by demands that the police department do more to crack down on crime. In late 1957, the city council formally complained to the chief about "soaring" vice conditions in South-Central Los Angeles (as the area around Watts was coming to be described). Mayor Poulson weighed in as well, complaining that prost.i.tution, bookmaking, and narcotics "flourished without apparent restraint" between 40th and 56th Streets on Central Avenue and Aaron Boulevard. Chief Parker replied, testily, that he'd be happy to clean up the area if city officials found funding to increase the size of the vice squad by 363 percent.

23.

Disneyland.

"[H]ave gangsters taken over the place that can destroy me?"-Nikita Khrushchev.

BILL PARKER had long conceived of the mission of the Los Angeles Police Department in lofty terms. Its task, Parker believed, was nothing less than preserving civilization itself. Organized crime was at the top of Parker's agenda not simply because he feared that it might regain control of Los Angeles but also because he believed that it weakened American society at a critical junction in the struggle against Soviet Russia. The Communist Party was Parker's ultimate adversary. The allegations of brutality, the complaints of discrimination, the calls for a civilian review board-to Parker, they were all part of Moscow's proxy war on the LAPD. Usually, the hand of the party was hidden, but in September 1959, he got a chance to clash directly with his ultimate adversary, the general secretary of the Communist Party, Nikita Khrushchev.

Earlier that year, President Eisenhower had invited Khrushchev to visit the United States, and the Soviet leader had agreed to an eleven-day trip that would crisscross the United States. Along the way, the Soviet premier was scheduled to spend one day and one night in Los Angeles. The prospect of a Khrushchev visit to Los Angeles sparked ma.s.s panic, as if a communist takeover might be affected by the mere presence of the general secretary. A hysterical protest rally was held in the Rose Bowl. As the official entrusted with Khrushchev's security, Parker was concerned. Two weeks before the visit, Parker called on the public to "support Eisenhower" in this "most difficult decision." He advised Angelenos to receive Khrushchev in a "state of aloof detachment" and to carry on with normal daily activities. Privately, though, the LAPD was preparing for the most high-security foreign visitor in the city's history. Officers would be stationed at critical locations along Khrushchev's every route. The Soviet leader would be surrounded by an envelope of LAPD officers at all times. No unauthorized contact with American civilians would be permitted. But at the very last minute, something came up. As Khrushchev flew across the country on September 19, accompanied by U.S. amba.s.sador to the United Nations Henry Cabot Lodge, the Soviet premier made a request: He would like to tour Disneyland.

The general secretary's desire for a visit was understandable. Disneyland, which had opened in Anaheim in 1955, was one of the wonders of its age, a 160-acre, $17 million Xanadu replete with such dazzling attractions as Sleeping Beauty's castle, the Jungleland river safari ride (complete with a mechanized hippo that reared up under the boat), the Mount Matterhorn toboggan slide (with Swiss summiteers climbing the mountain), and a rocket ship that simulated a trip to the moon. With Disneyland, Walt Disney, the man whose drawings revolutionized animation, had transformed the Coney Island-style amus.e.m.e.nt park into something new, the theme park, that offered up fantasy, exoticism, and, most enticing of all, the future. Anaheim's city manager had extended an invitation to the Soviet premier when his trip to the United States had first been announced, and Khrushchev had been interested. However, when Khrushchev's advance security team went to Los Angeles to meet with Chief Parker and other local officials three weeks before his trip to the United States, the visit to Disneyland had been dropped. The fact that Khrushchev would be visiting on a Sat.u.r.day posed major crowd-control problems, and his limited stay in Los Angeles meant that he would have had almost no time to enjoy the rides or see the sights. Unfortunately, this change of plans had apparently not been mentioned to Khrushchev himself. It now fell to his American hosts to deal with this request.

Khrushchev was greeted at the airport by Mayor Poulson, who delivered a terse welcome to the Soviet premier in a vacant corner of the airport. Soon thereafter, Khrushchev's request to tour Disneyland reached Chief Parker. The LAPD was stretched thin. Some five hundred officers-more than 10 percent of the force-had already been dedicated to Khrushchev's visit. Parker himself was personally commanding their operations. As the motorcade (accompanied by fifty motorcycle officers and two police helicopters) sped to Khrushchev's first event, a luncheon at 20th Century Fox, Chief Parker's car was. .h.i.t by an errant tomato. The incident underscored the dangers Khrushchev faced in an unsecured environment. Parker decided to reject the premier's request. The LAPD simply could not secure the thirty-mile route to Orange County, Parker reasoned, much less a theme park located outside its jurisdiction which was likely to have forty thousand visitors with no advance notice. Disneyland, said the chief, was off limits.

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 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 pa.s.sed 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. (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 pa.s.sed 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 Amba.s.sador 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 hara.s.sment, 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sessment 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 a.s.serted. "There may be an a.s.similation 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 police 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 cla.s.ses-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 a.s.signments 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.similation. 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 const.i.tuents 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. "n.o.body is concerned with the rights of policemen," he fumed to the press. "I've been hara.s.sed 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 him an apology for misinterpreting his words). He didn't have to. The an apology for misinterpreting his words). He didn't have to. The Los Angeles Times 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. 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 "pa.s.s her hands over her body in such a manner that the hands touch the body at any point." The "b.u.mp and grind" was permissible-but only in "an upright position." Under no circ.u.mstances was b.u.mping 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. Prost.i.tutes? 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 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 p.o.r.n 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, prost.i.tution was a big business. During his heyday, 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 wh.o.r.ehouses fell to Mickey. Cohen insisted that he refused to do it. He claimed that he wanted nothing to do with prost.i.tution 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.'

"'I didn't have nothing to say to you,' I try to explain, 'I can't make conversation out of nothing!'"

Given these drawbacks, it's easy to understand how Cohen would eventually gravitate toward professionals. His first extended fling-with the artist Liz Renay-had been something of a publicity stunt. Barr was more serious. Perhaps the fact that she'd shot her second husband one year earlier (he survived) piqued Mickey's interest. Perhaps he simply liked her act. Whatever the motivation, at Crosby's suggestion, Mickey took on Candy Barr, personally guaranteeing a $15,000 bail bond and vowing to appeal her conviction all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

By the spring of 1959, they were dating. Cohen lined up a gig for Barr at the Club Largo on Sunset, where she was soon earning $2,000 a week. Mickey was a nightly visitor. On April 20, readers of the columnist Art Ryan learned that Cohen had squired Candy Barr to the Saints and Sinners testimonial dinner for Milton Berle. The romance blossomed. By early May, Cohen was hinting to the press that he was considering tying the knot with Miss Barr after his divorce with LaVonne went through.

While Cohen enjoyed Candy Barr, federal authorities were stepping up their efforts to gather incriminating information on Cohen. A parade of witnesses was now pa.s.sing before the federal grand jury that had been called to investigate Mickey's lavish lifestyle. Prosecutors cast a wide net, subpoenaing virtually everyone who might have seen Mickey spend money, from telephone company employees to fight promoter Harry "Babe McCoy" Rudolph to LAPD-cop-turned-private-investigator Fred Otash. Prosecutors also tightened the noose around Mickey Cohen's previous girlfriend, Liz Renay.

Renay had long been a subject of interest and was repeatedly questioned by the jury. At first, she attempted to make light of these summonses. After being called back to testify in January, she told the press that the jury was "a bunch of old meanies" and complained that the appearance had cost her a movie role. Gradually, though, the gravity of her situation began to dawn on her. Prosecutors had figured out that Cohen had turned to Renay for "loans" when he needed to pay for something with a check instead of cash. In an attempt to support Cohen's claims that he was broke, Renay initially claimed that he never paid her back. This claim was easily refuted by Western Union records that showed Cohen routinely wiring money to her account in New York. As a result, on March 12, Renay was indicted on five counts of perjury by the federal grand jury investigating Cohen's income. She was released on $1,500 bail. Two weeks later, on March 31, while Cohen was thumbing his nose at Robert Kennedy and buying a new Cadillac, Renay pleaded innocent to the charges. Evidently, she soon had second thoughts about her situation. In July, she changed her testimony, informing the judge that she'd failed to tell the truth about the $5,500 in "loans" she'd made to Cohen, and on July 18, 1959, a federal judge gave her a three-year suspended sentence-and a clear warning to a.s.sociate with the likes of Cohen no more. (She later violated the terms of the deal and ended up serving a two-year prison sentence on Terminal Island off San Pedro.) 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 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. 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sociates. 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 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 a.s.sociates 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 "h.e.l.lo, 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 highb.a.l.l.s before the shooting started. He fingered Candy Barr's manager as the gunman. Instead, police focused on a more promising witness, a prost.i.tute 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 prost.i.tute 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.