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

Two facts about Vaus’s character eluded his LAPD interlocutors. The first was his avarice. The second was his growing sense of resentment. Vaus had developed marvelous eavesdropping tools for the police: a fake cane that, when pressed against a door, could detect what was said on the other side; a telescoping rod that could attach a tiny mike to a hotel room window several stories up; a remote wiretapping device that allowed police to monitor conversations from several miles away. However, he hadn’t made any money from these endeavors. At first, the excitement and gratitude shown by the police (plus, no doubt, the thrill of playing policeman) was enough. Vaus was even flown to Washington, D.C., to teach a class on eavesdropping at the FBI. But after a while, Vaus began to feel aggrieved by the lack of payments. As he later put it, “The thrill of the chase was marred by the penny-pinching of the officials.”

Not that Vaus reserved his electronic talents exclusively for the LAPD. He also worked closely with Barney Ruditsky on sensitive assignments for clients such as Errol Flynn (who had a problem with underage girls). So when Harry Grossman in Ruditsky’s office called Vaus in late 1948 and told him “there’s a fellow I want you to meet” with a business proposition, Vaus was naturally curious.

“Who is it?” he asked

“Mickey Cohen,” Grossman replied.

“Mickey Cohen!”

Even then it was a name Vaus knew. His first thought was one of pleasure that someone so important would want to see him.

“Where am I supposed to meet him?” asked Vaus.

“In his haberdashery around the corner from our office.”

“Tell him I’ll drop over.”

Vaus quickly had second thoughts. What if the meeting with Mickey was some kind of trap? Or worse still, what if Vaus’s work for the police department had infringed on one of Mickey’s enterprises and Mickey knew about it?

      VAUS HAD NEVER BEEN in Michael’s Haberdashery before. Stepping in, he was dazzled. “The walls were of highly polished walnut and most of the merchandise was behind sliding doors,” wrote Vaus soon after the initial meeting. “Only a few ties, with a silk sheen, lay on the counter. A luxurious robe on a model and a pile of finely woven shirts indicated the garments for sale—at fabulous prices.”

A clerk, “tailored to the nth degree,” was watching Vaus closely, pencil-thin eyebrow raised. Vaus felt intensely conscious of “my not-too-fat wallet.”

“I’m Jimmy Vaus,” he said.

A quick phone call later, and Vaus was being escorted into the rear of the store, to Mickey Cohen’s private office.

A steel-plated door separated Cohen’s office from the haberdashery. Once again, Vaus was struck by “the lavish, expensive fittings.”

“There was a beautiful television set in one corner suspended from the ceiling,” Vaus later recalled. “The lighting was indirect. Toward the back was a circular desk.” There, beneath a huge picture of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, in a large swivel chair, sat Mickey Cohen.

Vaus was impressed: “He was short, stocky and solidly built. His tailoring was exquisite and his grooming impeccable. Not a hair was out of place. His eyes flashed, sizing one up, and then shifted to something else.”

Eyeing Vaus coldly, the great man finally spoke.

“Vaus, I understand that you’re the man who planted a microphone in my home for the police department. Is that right?”

It was with great relief that Vaus denied this allegation. “I don’t even know where you live!” he responded.

“If there were a microphone in my home, do you think you could locate it and take it out for me?” Mickey asked, sounding slightly less severe.

“Mr. Cohen, you’ve got me all wrong,” Vaus responded. “I’m in the business of putting them in, not of taking them out.”

Mickey again fixed a cold gaze on him. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a “reel-sized roll” of hundred-dollar bills—the biggest wad Jimmy Vaus had ever seen. In a slow, deliberate motion, Cohen peeled off one C-note, then a second, then a third. Visions of hand-painted ties, tailored suits, and “chromium accessories for my car” floated through Vaus’s mind. Before he knew it, he was on his way to the Cohen abode, accompanied by Cohen lieutenant Neddie Herbert.

When he entered the house, Vaus had to pause to catch his breath. The contrast between the lifestyles of the gangster and the policeman left him dumbstruck:

No cop had a home this luxurious. It had obviously been decorated by a professional—only they would be this bold in their color combinations. Lemon-yellow, shades of mauve and bold tones of blue harmonized with the gleaming woodwork and indirect lighting.