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

Still, someone clearly was trying to kill him, albeit rather ineptly. It might have seemed like a good time to lie low. But that was a feat Cohen seemed constitutionally incapable of. Thanks to the tabloids, Mickey was a celebrity, one of the biggest in town, and he acted the part, courting the press, squiring “budding starlets” around town (although in private his tastes inclined more to exotic dancers), and frequenting hot nightclubs like Ciro’s, the Trocadero, and the Mocambo.

The evening of Tuesday, July 19, 1949, was a typical one for Mickey. After dining with Artie Samish, chief lobbyist for the state’s liquor interests and one of the most powerful men in Sacramento, Mickey and his party of henchmen, starlets, and reporters repaired to one of his favorite hangouts, Sherry’s, a nightclub on the Sunset Strip that was owned by his friend Barney Ruditsky. Standing watch outside was a curious addition to Mickey’s crew: Special Agent Harry Cooper, from the state attorney general’s office. After the attempted hit at Michael’s Haberdashery, the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department had insisted—somewhat counterintuitively—on disarming Cohen’s men and checking them frequently for weapons, to make sure they stayed unarmed. As a result, Mickey was essentially unprotected. Samish had arranged to provide a little extra protection in the form of Special Agent Cooper.

By 3:30 a.m., Mickey was ready to call it a night. Ruditsky went outside and did a quick sweep of the parking lot. Everything looked clear. Two of Cohen’s men went to bring around his Cadillac (one of the regular ones, Mickey being embroiled in a dispute with the California Highway Patrol about the excessive weight of his armored car). A valet went to get Cohen pal Frankie Niccoli’s Chrysler, and at 3:50 a.m., Mickey and his party stepped outside. Almost immediately a shotgun and a high-powered .30-06 rifle opened up from an empty lot across the street, and members of Mickey’s party started to drop.

One of them was newspaper columnist Florabel Muir, who had been lingering inside over the morning paper as Mickey’s party exited. Muir (who frankly admitted to hanging around Mickey in hopes that some shooting would start) now charged outside, into the gunfire. One of Cohen’s top thugs, Neddie Herbert, had been hit and was lying wounded on the ground. Special Agent Cooper was staggering about, clutching his stomach with one hand and waving his pistol with the other. Then Muir saw Mickey, “right arm hung limp, and blood spreading on his coat near the shoulder” running toward Cooper. With his one good arm Cohen grabbed the sagging six-foot-tall lawman and stuffed him into Niccoli’s Chrysler. Cohen piled in as well, and the Chrysler zoomed off—to the Hollywood Receiving Hospital. Thanks to Mickey’s quick reaction, Cooper lived. The more seriously wounded Herbert wasn’t so fortunate; he died four days later. Mickey himself escaped with only a shoulder wound. Florabel Muir got her exclusive, along with a sprinkling of buckshot in her bottom.

Later that night, policemen found automatic Savage and Remington shotguns in the empty lot across the street from Sherry’s. A ballistics test determined that the buckshot slugs used were standard-issue police riot-control shells. Muir also noted with interest that the deputy sheriffs who seemed so diligent in ensuring that Cohen’s crew was firearms-free had vanished a few minutes before the shooting.

The papers, of course, were thrilled. “The Battle of the Sunset Strip!” the press dubbed it. But who was behind the hit? Mayor Bowron blamed Manhattan crime boss Frank Costello. Others pointed to Jack Dragna, a local Italian crime boss who’d reluctantly accepted direction from Bugsy Siegel but who was known to dislike Mickey. Sergeant Stoker, the former vice officer turned county grand-jury witness, claimed the triggerman was LAPD. Cohen himself was confused by the attack. But Mickey did know one thing: He could deal with an underworld rival like Dragna. But in order to thrive as a crime lord in Los Angeles, Mickey needed a friendly—or at least tolerant—chief of police in office.

For the moment, that was impossible. In the wake of Chief Horrall’s ouster, Mayor Bowron had appointed, on an emergency basis, a no-nonsense former Marine general named William Worton to run the department. One of Worton’s first acts was to reconstitute the LAPD’s intelligence division. Its top target: Mickey Cohen. Fortunately for Cohen, Worton was only a temporary appointment; civil service rules required the Police Commission to hire from within the department. That meant Cohen would have a chance to put a more friendly man in the position, and the diminutive gangster already knew exactly who he wanted: Thaddeus Brown, a former detective who’d headed the homicide department before winning promotion to deputy chief of patrol in 1946.