L.A. Noir: The Struggle for the Soul of America's Most Seductive City

      MICKEY was supposed to get in touch with Siegel as soon as he arrived in Los Angeles. Instead, he decided that he’d first make a few scores and put a little money in his pocket. If Siegel wanted to get in touch with him, well, then Siegel could come and find him. Mickey quickly hooked up with two Italian brothers, Fred and Joe Sica, who were freelance holdup men. Together, the three men went “on the heavy.” They found a city that was easy pickings. Tipsters were easy to recruit. Mickey and his crew were soon heisting two or three joints a week. Brothels, shops, drugstores—any place with cash on hand was a possible target. Soon Mickey was summoning old colleagues from Cleveland, Chicago, and New York to come join him in L.A. As their confidence increased, so did the size of their targets. Were these establishments perhaps under someone else’s protection? Mickey didn’t know, and truth be told, he “didn’t even give a shit.”

“I was out with ten different broads every night,” he later boasted, “and I was in every cabaret that they could possibly have in town.” Bugsy Siegel was forgotten—until, that is, Mickey and his crew made a spectacularly foolish heist.

Their target was a commission bookmaking office on Franklin that handled high-roller bets and was owned by Morris Orloff, one of the biggest bookmakers in town. Mickey got in using one of his favorite ruses. At nine in the morning, he started banging on the door. The peephole opened and an ex-deputy sheriff eyed Mickey suspiciously. Mickey played it cool:

I says to the doorman, “Is Morey in?”

“Don’t get here till ten o’clock or later,” he says.

“I got to give him this here,” I says, “and pick something up.”

“Put it through the peephole,” the ex-cop says.

“I can’t,” I says, “it’s a package.”

The ex-cop opened the door—and found himself staring into the barrel of Mickey’s .38. Two of Mickey’s associates forced their way in.

The baby-faced kid messenger tone was gone. “Lookit you cocksucker,” Mickey told the lookout, “you just move and you’re gone.”

The man didn’t move. Nor did the four other men in the room who were looking at Mickey. Mickey herded them into a corner and then announced that he was going to wait for Morey Orloff himself to arrive with the big money.

“Look kid, you got alla the money,” said a big Italian man in the corner. “Whatta ya wanna stay around here. A copper could come in.”

Mickey walked over to the man. He was wearing a large diamond stickpin. Mickey ripped it off.

“Listen you dago bastard,” Mickey yelled at the man, “mind your own business or I’ll put a phone through your head. I’m staying for Morey Orloff if I gotta stay till tomorrow.”

Another man spoke up. “I’m Morey Orloff.” To prove it, he showed Mickey his signet ring. That Orloff was joined at the hip with Jack Dragna, Los Angeles’s top Italian crime boss, troubled Cohen not one bit. He took the signet ring too. Then, just as Mickey had hoped, an Orloff flunky arrived—with $22,000 in cash. Mickey and his crew took the money from the messenger and left.

Now Siegel was looking for Cohen. That afternoon, Mickey got a call from Champ Segal, who ran a popular barbershop next to the Brown Derby on Vine—and managed the featherweight boxing champion of the world. Segal was one of Bugsy’s closest associates. He was also one of the few people in Los Angeles who knew Mickey well enough to have a phone number where he could be reached.

“Ben Siegel wants to see you.” (No one called Siegel “Bugsy” to his face.)

“Ben who?” Mickey responded, vainly attempting to project innocence.

“Ben Siegel, a name you got to stand attention to,” Champ replied sharply. Then, no doubt aware of how touchy Mickey was, he shifted tone. “Look, do me a favor and come on up” (to the Hollywood YMCA). Bugsy routinely spent his afternoons there, working the bag and enjoying the sauna, and he wanted to talk to Cohen. Mickey agreed.

When Mickey arrived at the Hollywood Y, he was greeted at the door by Champ and by one of Bugsy’s men.

“Mr. Siegel is expectin’ you,” the man said curtly. He led Mickey and Champ down to the sweat room. Siegel emerged, clad in a towel and with a big smile on his face.

“Take a walk, Champ,” Siegel said. Champ left. Siegel turned to Mickey.

“You were supposed to contact me when you got here,” he said.

“I didn’t get around to you yet,” Mickey responded sullenly. “I wanted to see my family. I been busy.”

“Pretty big score you got this morning,” said Siegel.

Mickey said nothing.

“I want you to kick back the money,” said Siegel.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey replied.

Siegel smiled. “You’re a good boy, but you’re a little crazy. I want you to kick back that money.”

“I wouldn’t kick back no money for my mother,” snarled Mickey. “I don’t give a fuck who or what it is. When I go on a score and I put up my life and my liberty on the score, I wouldn’t kick back to nobody.”

“You heard what I said,” Siegel said coldly.

“Go take a fuck for yourself,” said Mickey. And with that, he stalked out.