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

He got no further. Mickey whipped out his .38 and shot Fox on the spot. (By way of justification, Cohen later explained that Harry “was particularly close to me.”) The bookmakers were stunned, then hysterical. The host’s wife lost her voice for several months. Mickey calmly left—and headed downtown to the Olympic Auditorium to catch a prizefight. He didn’t know if Fox was alive or dead and he didn’t care. As he was leaving the auditorium, he was grabbed by Det. Jack Donahoe, one of the LAPD’s toughest (and most upright) officers.

“You dirty son of a bitch,” said the six-foot-one, 225-pound detective to Mickey, as he placed him under arrest. “You kill a man, and you go see a prizefight?”

For three days, Mickey languished in jail—until it became clear that Fox was going to live. Mickey claimed that Fox had drawn on him and that he had fired in self-defense. The tough Irishman declined to contradict him or comment in any way on the shooting. Cohen was released.

Imprisonment hadn’t improved his mood. He blamed Eddy Neales for his three days in jail. One night while he was out with a hooker, Cohen decided that he was going to take care of Neales once and for all. Somehow he managed to acquire a key to Neales’s apartment. Telling his “date” to wait in the car, Mickey slipped in and waited for the rival underworld figure to come home.

“I’m in the joint waiting to put his lights out, I hear him start opening the door. I’m ready to hit him” but then “some sixth sense told him something,” Mickey later recounted. Neales “shut the door real quick and ran”—back to his business partner Curly Robinson. Eddy Neales was done with organized crime in Los Angeles. Robinson called Mickey to capitulate.

Unfortunately, Mickey’s men didn’t get the message fast enough. Around midnight, one of Neales’s men left his Sheridan Road apartment house—alone—to get some cigarettes. Rounding the corner, he ran into Mickey’s right-hand man, Hooky Rothman. This is something that no rational person ever wanted to do. A hundred and ninety pounds and built like a bull, Hooky inspired trepidation in even the toughest toughs. He was an idiot savant of assassination, brilliant at plotting a complex killing but either unable or unwilling to engage in conversation with another person. (His standard courtship line, Mickey’s crew joked, was “Hello goil,” followed by silence.)

“If there was a piece of work to be done, Hooky stopped eating, drinking and sleeping till it was done,” Mickey commented later, approvingly.

When Neales’s man saw Hooky, he was greatly relieved that the feud was over. “Hi ya, Hooky,” he greeted Mickey’s man. Hooky gunned him down on the spot.

“It was a bad tragedy,” Mickey later reflected, “but it ended okay.” Hooky was acquitted on the grounds of self-defense. Eddy Neales moved to Mexico City, just to be safe. Siegel and Cohen had run their leading bookmaking rival out of town. But the Los Angeles underworld was still not entirely under their control. The problem was the LAPD.

During his first year or so back in Los Angeles, Cohen focused on avoiding the police. Not until he met the legendary gambler Nick “the Greek” Dandolos did he realize he’d also have to deal with it.

Over dinner one night at the Brown Derby, Dandolos had a heart-to-heart with Mickey.

“You’re doing it all the hard way,” Nick the Greek told the uncharacteristically attentive young heister. “A smart kid doesn’t have to go on the heavy to make a living.” There was a better way—bookmaking.

Mickey liked “going on the heavy.” As he would later tell the screenwriter Ben Hecht, “winning a street fight, knockin’ over a score, havin’ enough money to buy the best hats—I lived for them moments.” However, Cohen had conducted so many heists during his short time in Los Angeles that he risked becoming recognizable. So at Dandolos’s suggestion, he decided to go visit the Santa Anita racetrack, fifteen miles east of downtown Los Angeles, to see this business that Siegel was so interested in. He was stunned by what he saw there.

“Fifty thousand people are shovin’ their money across a betting counter in open sight,” he exclaimed with astonishment. Within three days, Mickey was a racetrack bookie, taking bets at his spot along the track rail. When the Pinkertons shut him down, Mickey decided to open a bookie joint of his own. Of course, to do so, Mickey would need police protection.