L.A. Noir by John Buntin - Excerpt
L.A. Noir by John Buntin - Excerpt
L.A. Noir by John Buntin - Excerpt
JO H N B U N T I N
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L.A.
Mo
Noir
The Struggle
for the Soul
of America’s
s t S e d u c t i v e City
ks / New York
Harmony Boo
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ISBN 978-0-307-35207-1
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
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To purchase a copy of
L.A. Noir
visit one of these online retailers:
Amazon
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Powell’s Books
Random House
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Contents
Prologue ix
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viii Contents
14: The Evangelist 150
15: “Whiskey Bill” 157
16: Dragnet 178
17: The Trojan Horse 194
18: The Magna Carta of the Criminal 201
19: The Enemy Within 215
Epilogue 333
Acknowledgments 345
Notes 349
Select Bibliography 391
Credits 407
Index 409
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Prologue
OTHER CITIES have histories. Los Angeles has legends. Advertised to the
world as the Eden at the end of the western frontier, the settlement the
Spaniards named El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles
turned out to be something very different—not the beatific Our Lady the
Queen of the Angels advertised by its name but rather a dark, dangerous
blonde.
She got up slowly and swayed towards me in a tight black dress that
didn’t reflect any light. She had long thighs and she walked with a cer-
tain something I hadn’t often seen in bookstores. She was an ash
blonde. . . .
Her smile was tentative, but could be persuaded to be nice.
—Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep
For more than sixty years, writers and directors from Raymond Chan-
dler and Billy Wilder to Roman Polanski and James Ellroy have explored
L.A.’s origins, its underbelly, and (yes) its blondes in fiction and films like
The Big Sleep, Double Indemnity, Chinatown, and L.A. Confidential. In the
process, they created the distinctive worldview known as noir, where
honor is in short supply and where Los Angeles invariably proves to be a
femme fatale. Yet this preoccupation with a mythic past has obscured some-
thing important—the true history of noir Los Angeles.
For more than forty years, from Prohibition through the Watts riots,
politicians, gangsters, businessmen, and policemen engaged in an often-
violent contest for control of the city. Their struggle shaped the history of
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x Prologue
Los Angeles, the future of policing, and the course of American politics. In
time, two primary antagonists emerged. The first was William H. Parker,
Los Angeles’s greatest and most controversial chief of police. His nemesis
was Los Angeles’s most colorful criminal, featherweight boxer-turned-
gangster Mickey Cohen.
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Prologue xi
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xii Prologue
young hoodlum with a second-grade education who became the king of
the L.A. underworld and the obstinate young patrolman from Deadwood
who created the modern LAPD brings us back to the question that Los An-
geles always seems to pose: Is Our Lady the Queen of the Angels the dark
angel, or do we simply bring our own darkness to her?
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part one/
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MICKEY COHEN was not a man used to being shaken down. Threatened
with handguns, blasted with shotguns, strafed on occasion by a machine
gun, yes. Firebombed and dynamited, sure. But threatened, extorted—hit
up for $20,000—no. Anyone who read the tabloids in post–World War II
Los Angeles knew that extortion was Mickey’s racket, along with book-
making, gambling, loan-sharking, slot machines, narcotics, union agita-
tion, and a substantial portion of the city’s other illicit pastimes. In the
years following Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel’s ill-fated move to Las Vegas,
Mickey Cohen had become the top mobster on the West Coast. And the
tart-tongued, sharp-dressed, pint-sized gangster, whom the more circum-
spect newspapers described tactfully as “a prominent figure in the sport-
ing life world,” hadn’t gotten there by being easily intimidated—certainly
not by midlevel police functionaries. Yet in October 1948 that is precisely
what the head of the Los Angeles Police Department vice squad set out
to do.
Cohen was no stranger to the heat. During his first days in Los Angeles as
Bugsy Siegel’s enforcer, he had been instructed to squeeze Eddy Neales, the
proprietor of the Clover Club. Located on the Sunset Strip, an unincorpo-
rated county area just outside of Los Angeles city limits, the Clover Club
was Southern California’s poshest gaming joint. It reputedly paid the L.A.
County Sheriff ’s Department a small fortune for protection. The squad that
provided it, led by Det. George “Iron Man” Contreras, had a formidable rep-
utation. People who crossed it died. According to Cohen, one member of
the unit had been the triggerman on eleven killings. So when Neales sicced
Contreras’s men on Cohen, he undoubtedly expected that the sheriff ’s men
would scare Mickey stiff.
Contreras tried. Cohen was picked up and brought in to receive a
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4 John Buntin
warning: If he didn’t lay off Neales, the next warning would come in the
form of a bullet to the head.
Mickey wasn’t impressed. A few nights later, he sought out Contreras’s
top gunman.
“I looked him up and said to him, ‘Let me tell you something: to me
you’re no cop. Being no cop I gotta right to kill you—so come prepared. The
next time I see you coming to me I’m going to hit you between the eyes.’ ”
It was an effective warning. “He felt I was sincere,” Mickey later re-
ported. The cops backed down. Until now.
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L.A. Noir 5
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6 John Buntin
analyzed as to their more intimate characteristics, which were then care-
fully noted on file cards for cross-tabulation with her clients’ preferences.
The selection Allen offered was considerable. By 1948, she had 114 “plea-
sure girls” in her harem. She also had a most unusual partner and lover:
Sergeant Jackson of the LAPD administrative vice squad, the same police-
man who was trying to shake down Mickey Cohen.
Needless to say, Sergeant Jackson’s connection to Brenda Allen was not
common knowledge. Even someone as well informed as Mickey Cohen
might never have learned of it—but for the fact that another member of the
police department had recently blackmailed Mickey with a transcription of
certain sensitive conversations that Mickey had conducted at home. The
shakedown tipped Mickey off to the fact that the LAPD had gotten a bug
into his house. So he asked his friend Barney Ruditsky for help. Ruditsky, a
former NYPD officer, was now Hollywood’s foremost private eye. He spe-
cialized in documenting the infidelities of the stars (then as now, a business
that relied heavily on illegal electronic surveillance). Cohen asked Ruditsky if
he could recommend someone to sweep his house in Brentwood for eaves-
dropping devices. Ruditsky could: an electronics whiz named Jimmy Vaus.
Vaus found the bug, and Mickey hired him on the spot. Soon thereafter, Vaus
let Mickey in on a little secret: He was also a wiretapper for a sergeant on the
Hollywood vice squad. Vaus told Cohen he had recordings linking Sergeant
Jackson to Brenda Allen. That information was Cohen’s ace in the hole. He
decided to play it at henchman “Happy” Meltzer’s trial.
The trial began on May 5, 1949. In his opening statement, attorney Sam
Rummel laid out Meltzer’s defense. “We will prove through testimony that
the two men first sought $20,000, then $10,000, then $5,000 from Cohen
in return for their promise to quit harassing him,” Rummel declared. As a
defense, this was ho-hum stuff: Gangsters were always insisting they’d
been framed. But when Cohen appeared with “sound expert” Jimmy Vaus
and a mysterious sound-recording machine, the press took notice, especially
after Cohen confidentially informed them that he had recordings that would
“blow this case right out of court.”
The timing of Cohen’s accusation was potentially explosive. Incumbent
mayor Fletcher Bowron was up for reelection on June 1. The mayor had
based his entire reelection campaign on his record of keeping Los Angeles’s
underworld “closed” and the city government clean. Now Mickey was
claiming that he had evidence that would show that senior police officials
were on the take. Fortunately for Mayor Bowron, most of the city’s news-
papers strongly supported his reelection. So did the county grand jury im-
paneled every year to investigate municipal wrongdoing. A mistrial was
hastily declared. Cohen’s allegations received only light coverage. Mayor
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L.A. Noir 7
Bowron was handily reelected. Only then did the Los Angeles Daily News
break the story: BIG EXPOSÉ TELLS VICE, POLICE LINK: INSIDE STORY TELLS
BRENDA’S CLOSE RELATIONS WITH THE POLICE, BY SGT. CHARLES STOKER!
It turned out that Vaus’s contact on the Hollywood vice squad, Sgt.
Charles Stoker, had gone before the criminal complaints committee of the
county grand jury the day before Cohen and Vaus showed up in court with
the wire recordings. There Stoker had told the committee about overhear-
ing Brenda Allen’s conversations with Sergeant Jackson. It then emerged
that Sgt. Guy Rudolph, confidential investigator for the chief of police, had
gotten wind of Jackson’s connection to Allen fourteen months earlier
and had asked police department technician Ray Pinker to set up another
wiretap. But that investigation had mysteriously stalled, and the recordings
had then disappeared.
Spurred by these revelations and by Cohen’s charges, the county grand
jury opened an investigation. In mid-June it began subpoenaing police offi-
cers. Chief Clarence B. Horrall insisted that he had never been informed of
the allegations swirling around the vice squad; high-ranking officers
stepped forward to insist that he had been. Brenda Allen volunteered that
Sergeants Stoker and Jackson had both been on the take. The head of the
LAPD gangster squad abruptly retired. Every day brought a new revela-
tion. The Daily News revealed that the LAPD had broken into Mickey’s
house in Brentwood and installed wiretaps. Columnist Florabel Muir ac-
cused Mayor Bowron of personally authorizing the operation and implied
that the transcriptions were being used for purposes of blackmail. Shame-
faced, Mayor Bowron and Chief Horrall were forced to concede that they
had OK’d a break-in. What was worse was that no charges against Cohen
had come of it. On June 28, Chief Horrall announced his retirement. One
month later, the grand jury indicted Lieutenant Wellpot, Sergeant Jackson,
Asst. Chief Joseph Reed, and Chief of Police C. B. Horrall for perjury. Cohen
had won his bet—if he could survive to collect.
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8 John Buntin
As Mickey started to swing into his driveway and the lights came on, the
gunman opened fire, pumping slugs into Mickey’s car. Mickey dropped to
the floorboard. Without looking over the dashboard, he wrenched his blue
Caddy back onto the road and floored it. He made it about two blocks before
beaching the car on a curb. Fortunately, the gunman was gone. So Mickey
went home. Despite bleeding from cuts inflicted by the shattered glass,
Mickey waved off the questions about what had happened and insisted on
proceeding with dinner—New York strip and apple pie, Raft’s favorite. The
actor would later say that Mickey had looked “a little mussed up.”
Cohen didn’t report the matter to the police. (Why advertise his vulner-
ability further?) The attack might never have come to light but for a tip
from Cohen’s auto-body shop to the police . . . and Mickey’s decision to
commission a $25,000 armored Cadillac and test it at the police academy
firing range. When the press broke the story, Cohen replied nonchalantly,
“Well, where else? You can’t test it [by opening fire] . . . on the street for
Christ’s sake!” Posed before his massive new armored car, the sad-eyed,
five-foot-three-inch gangster (five-foot-five in lifts) looked like nothing so
much as Mickey Mouse. Gangsters in other cities marveled about Mickey’s
good luck—and sniggered about L.A.’s “Mickey Mouse Mafia.”
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 in-
clined 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 inter-
ests 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 gen-
eral’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 un-
protected. 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
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L.A. Noir 9
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 lin-
gering 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 to-
ward 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 Her-
bert 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 sprin-
kling 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 Man-
hattan crime boss Frank Costello. Others pointed to Jack Dragna, a local Ital-
ian 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
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10 John Buntin
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.
Brown was a big teddy bear of a man, enormously popular with the de-
partment’s detectives and well regarded by the underworld, too. As chief
of detectives, Brown insisted on knowing every detective’s confidential
sources. As a result, he had a wide range of acquaintances. He saw the un-
derworld’s denizens as human beings, not evil incarnate. As a result, Cohen
had something of a soft spot for the man the papers called “the master de-
tective.” Brown had another, even more influential backer in Norman Chan-
dler, the publisher of the Los Angeles Times. The support Norman could offer
was not purely rhetorical. The Chandler family had long maintained a
special—almost proprietary—interest in the LAPD. Indeed, for more than
two decades the city’s dominant newspaper had made it clear that a voice
in police affairs was the sine qua non of the paper’s political support. It was
widely known that Norman Chandler controlled three of the Police Com-
mission’s five votes—and that Chandler expected them to vote for Thad
Brown as chief.
In short, Brown’s ascension seemed inevitable. However, it was not au-
tomatic. The Police Commission could not simply vote to promote the
“master detective.” Since 1923, the chief of the LAPD had been chosen
under the civil service system. As a result, applicants for the top position
had to take an elaborate civil service exam, composed of a written test and
an oral examination. The results of the written test typically accounted for
95 percent of the total score; the oral exam plus a small adjustment for se-
niority contributed the other 5 percent. Candidates then received a total
score and were ranked accordingly. The Police Commission was allowed to
choose from among the top three candidates.
To no one’s surprise, Thad Brown got the top score. What was surprising
was who came in second: Deputy Chief William H. Parker, the head of the
Bureau of Internal Affairs. A decorated veteran of the Second World War,
wounded in Normandy during the D-day invasion, Parker had helped to de-
Nazify municipal police forces in Italy and Germany as the Allies advanced.
He now wanted to purge the LAPD of corruption—and Los Angeles of or-
ganized crime—in much the same way. Mickey Cohen was determined to
make sure that Parker never got that chance.
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L.A. Noir 11
“I had gambling joints all over the city,” Mickey later explained, “and I
needed the police just to make sure they ran efficiently.” Bill Parker would
not make things go smoothly.
One of the things that any crime lord needs is a line on the Police Com-
mission, and Cohen had it. His contacts there assured him that three of the
five commissioners—Agnes Albro, Henry Duque, and Bruno Newman—
favored Brown. That left only Irving Snyder and Dr. J. Alexander Somerville,
the sole African American police commissioner, in favor of Parker. Mickey
was convinced that “the fix” was in and that Brown would be the next
chief of police. The only obstacle Brown faced, Cohen’s connections in-
formed him, was that Brown’s selection might be seen as a personal tri-
umph for the little gangster. On their advice, Cohen decided to leave town
for the actual decision-making period—“just to blow off any stink that
could possibly come up.” Along with his sometime bodyguard Johnny
Stompanato (who was also known as one of Hollywood’s most notorious
gigolos) and his Boston terrier, Tuffy, L.A.’s underworld boss set off on a
leisurely road trip to Chicago.
Cohen arrived in Chicago to shocking news. The day before the Police
Commission vote, Brown-supporter Agnes Albro had unexpectedly died.
The following day, the commission had voted to name Bill Parker the next
chief of police. The battle for control of Los Angeles was about to begin in
earnest. Though Mickey didn’t know it, it was a fight Bill Parker had been
preparing for his entire life.
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L.A. Noir 13
historic plaza that had been the center of town back in Los Angeles’s
pueblo days. Its opium dens introduced Angelenos to the seductions of the
poppy flower; its fan tan and mah-jongg parlors catered to the area’s still-
sizable Chinese population; its fourteen-odd lotteries attracted gamblers of
every color and nationality from across the city. Just north of Chinatown
was the predominantly Mexican part of the city known as Sonoratown.
There women in negligees lolled casually in the open windows of “disor-
derly houses,” advertising their availability. According to the Los Angeles
Record, a hundred known disorderly houses operated in the general vicinity
of downtown. The citywide brothel count was 355—and growing fast.
(By the mid-1920s, reformers would count 615 brothels.) That was just the
high-end prostitution. Streetwalkers offered themselves on Main Street, a
thriving but seedy neighborhood of taxi dance halls (so named because
a dancing partner could be hired like a taxi for a short period of time), bur-
lesque shows, and “blind pigs” (where a shot of whiskey went for ten cents
a gulp). Farther south, down on Central Avenue in the thirty-block area
between Fourth Street and Slauson Avenue, an even more tempting scene
was taking shape, one offering narcotics, craps, color-blind sex for sale, and
a strange new syncopated sound called jazz.
The city also boasted a steamy sex circuit. Upscale “ninety-six clubs”—
some just blocks away from City Hall—offered “queers,” “fairies,” or other-
wise straight men a place for a discreet “flutter” or “twentieth century”
(read: oral) sex in a luxurious setting. The less well-to-do worked a circuit of
downtown speakeasies, bars, public baths, and parks along Main and Hill
Streets—Maxwell’s, Harold’s, the Crown Jewel, the Waldorf. For those who
could not afford “to spend a quarter or fifty cents for a dime’s worth of
beer,” there were the parks. The poet Hart Crane, visiting Los Angeles in
1927, would marvel at what he saw in the lush groves of bamboo and ba-
nana trees in downtown’s Pershing Square. “The number of faggots cruis-
ing around here is legion,” he wrote friends back East. “Here are little fairies
who can quote Rimbaud before they are eighteen.” The city itself was hor-
rid, Crane wrote, but the sex was divine.
Then there was gambling. Amid the banks and stock brokerages of Spring
Street, bootlegger Milton “Farmer” Page presided over a string of gambling
clubs, the most imposing of which, the El Dorado, occupied the entire top
floor of a downtown office building. There on a typical evening five to six
hundred people would gather to play craps, poker, blackjack, roulette, and
other games of skill and chance. At the corner of Spring and W. Third Streets,
bookies waited to take the public’s wagers on the Mexican racing tracks or on
Pacific Coast League baseball games. Nearby saloons provided upstairs
rooms for poker and faro, sometimes even roulette, while younger and less
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14 John Buntin
prosperous customers stayed in the alleys to try their luck with the dice in
one of the ubiquitous games of craps. Bingo games sucked away the earnings
of bored housewives; card rooms distracted their husbands. “Bunco” men (as
con men were then known) preyed on the unwitting, selling naïve newcom-
ers nonexistent stocks, gold mines, oil fields, and real estate. “Boulevard
sheiks” prowled for and preyed on the growing number of working girls
making their homes in Los Angeles. Among this teeming underworld’s vic-
tims was a seventeen-year-old emigrant from Deadwood, South Dakota,
William H. Parker III.
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In 1922, his mother announced that she was separating from Bill’s fa-
ther and moving to Los Angeles and that she was taking Bill’s three
younger siblings with her. Bill went with her to help with the move—and
to see the City of Angels for himself.
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18 John Buntin
Angeles. Despite having moved to a nice neighborhood, the family’s posi-
tion was a tenuous one. Support from Deadwood was uncertain. (Mary
Parker and Bill’s youngest brother, Joseph, would later move to the im-
migrant neighborhood of Pico Heights.) In Deadwood, the Parkers had
been one of the most prominent families in town. In Los Angeles, Mary
Parker was basically a single mother. Moreover, she and her family were
Catholics in America’s most belligerently Protestant big city, a place
where the Ku Klux Klan’s members at one point included the chief of the
LAPD, the Los Angeles County sheriff, and the U.S. attorney for South-
ern California. Bill Parker did not look like one of the swarthy Mediter-
ranean immigrants that caused Protestant Angelenos such concern. Yet at
a time when anti-Catholic views circulated freely, he was in a very real
sense a minority.
Parker probably didn’t dwell much on these difficulties. He didn’t have
time. At the age of seventeen, Bill Parker was now the man in the family.
Although Bill’s father continued to support his family from afar, finances
were tight. Bill had to find a job. And so Parker turned to Los Angeles’s—
and America’s—fastest growing industry: the movies.
Los Angeles became the home of the movie industry almost by acci-
dent. In 1909, Col. William Selig (a minstrel show owner who filched a
title from the military and the design of the Kinescope movie projector
from Thomas Edison) had sent director Francis Boggs west from Chicago
to shoot a western in Arizona. Arizona was hot and dull, so Boggs
pressed on to the city he had visited two years earlier, Los Angeles. There
he and other itinerant filmmakers found the perfect outdoor shooting
environment—a mixture of cityscape and countryside, deserts and
mountains, ocean and forest. Its three-thousand-mile distance from New
York and the Motion Pictures Patent Company “trust,” which technically
(i.e., legally) held the license on the technology used by the industry, was
a plus too.
By 1910, the year Los Angeles annexed Hollywood, some ten-odd mo-
tion picture companies had set up operations in the area. That same year
the director D.W. Griffith completed the movie In Old California, the first
film shot completely in Hollywood. The following year, the Nestor Film
Company moved from New Jersey to the corner of Sunset and Gower
Street, becoming the first Los Angeles–based motion-picture studio. Uni-
versal, Triangle, Luce, Lasky’s Famous Players (later Paramount), Vita-
graph (later Columbia), Metro (later part of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer or
MGM), Fox, and others soon followed. By 1915, Hollywood was synony-
mous with the film industry, and Los Angeles was producing between 60
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L.A. Noir 19
and 75 percent of the country’s motion pictures—a little more than a quar-
ter of the world’s total films. The First World War destroyed the foreign
competition and made Hollywood the cinematic capital of the world. By
1921, its seventy-plus studios had 80 percent of the world market. In the
process, Hollywood became fantastically rich. By 1919, an estimated fif-
teen thousand theaters in the United States alone were generating roughly
$800 million a year in revenues—roughly $10 billion in today’s dollars.
Parker was plankton in the Hollywood food chain. His first job was as
an usher at the California Theater, an imposing Beaux Arts theater at the
corner of Main and Eighth Streets. He soon switched jobs, moving two
blocks north to Loews’s State Theater, a glorious 2,600-seat theater, report-
edly Los Angeles’s most profitable movie palace, in the heart of the Broad-
way movie district. There (for ten to fifty cents a ticket) the public could
enjoy entertainment of the most wonderful variety. It wasn’t just the
movies. Pit orchestras performed Gilbert and Sullivan—or Beethoven.
Opera singers trilling arias shared the stage with acrobats; ballets followed
circus animals; elaborate “moving tableaux” gave way to daring stunts.
What tantalized audiences most, though, was something new—the femme
fatale.
The first was Theodosia Goodman, a tailor’s daughter from Ohio, who,
in the hands of her press agents, became Theda Bara, “foreign, voluptuous,
and fatal”—a woman “possessed of such combustible Circe charms,” panted
Time magazine, “that her contract forbade her to ride public conveyances
or go out without a veil.” Others soon followed: Pola Negri, Nita Naldi,
Louise Brooks. Women weren’t the only ones steaming up the screen. In
1921, Rudolph Valentino rode off with the hearts of women around the
world as the Sheik, the mesmerizing Arab who kidnapped, wooed, lost,
saved, and ultimately won an English lady-socialite as his bride (Agnes
Ayres).
As the movies heated up, so did the imaginations of the public. No one
was more vulnerable than the people most exposed—theater employees.
“Love is like the measles,” explained one girl usher to the Los Angeles Times.
“You can’t be around it all the time without catching the fever.”
Bill Parker caught the fever.
As chief of police, Parker would become a tribune of social conser-
vatism. As a young man, however, he was ensnared. Soon after arriving in
Los Angeles while he was working as an usher, Parker met Francette
Pomeroy, a beautiful, high-spirited young woman, age nineteen—almost
two years older than himself. The exact circumstances of their courtship
are unknown. However, it’s easy to understand how Francette (who went
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20 John Buntin
by “Francis”) might have fallen for Bill. He was an unusually handsome
young man—slender, of medium height, with a high forehead, prominent
nose, and large, intelligent eyes. He was smart and attentive; even then, he
had a sense of presence. On August 13, 1923, the two essentially eloped
and were married in a civil ceremony.
Despite (or perhaps because of) the failure of his own parents’ marriage,
young Bill Parker had very conventional ideas about his relationship with
Francis. She did not share these ideas. On the contrary, she saw no reason
why marriage should interfere with the life she previously enjoyed, which
involved music, dancing, and active socializing, including a continuing as-
sociation with other young men. This came as a shock to Bill. In time,
Parker’s family would come to view Francis as a sex addict.
Perhaps she was. More likely, Francis was an adventuresome, somewhat
risqué young woman who reveled in the freedom of life in Los Angeles
and who was caught off guard by Bill’s traditional expectations. Whatever
her activities, they were unacceptable to her husband. In February 1924,
when Francis prepared to leave the house, Parker confronted her with a
torrent of abuse and, according to Francis, threatened “bodily harm.” Two
months later, on April 15, he allegedly delivered on that threat. Francis had
announced that she was going out, and Parker exploded. He followed her
down the staircase, arguing furiously. When she refused to come back in-
side, he struck her in the face, grabbed her by the throat, and dragged her
upstairs and back into the apartment.
Something horrifying was happening—to Parker and to his marriage.
The handsome, ambitious young man whom Francis Pomeroy had married
was vanishing, replaced by a man she would later describe in her divorce
petition as “cross, cranky, peevish, irritable, aggravating, and of a generally-
nagging and fault-finding attitude.” He, in turn, was soon describing his
wife as a “damned fool,” an “idiot,” a “god-damned bitch”—and worse.
What Bill was like before his marriage we do not know; however, these ad-
jectives, this intolerance of fools, would be all too familiar to the men who
later worked with (and for) him. In less than two years, Los Angeles had
frustrated Parker’s hopes and brought out the ugliest features of his per-
sonality. Bill Parker was discovering that in Los Angeles, violence, dreams,
and desire kept close company.
Bill Parker was not the only young man spurred to violence by life in
“the white spot” in those days. One afternoon in the summer of 1922, just
a few blocks away from where Parker was working as a movie usher,
idling motorists witnessed an outburst of violence that was far more re-
markable than Bill Parker’s (alleged) wife-beating—a holdup of the box of-
fice of the Columbia Theater.
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L.A. Noir 21
Any attempt to heist a box office in downtown Los Angeles, in the middle
of the day, in the presence of hundreds of witnesses would have been note-
worthy. But what made this band of bandits so singularly striking was
their frightening, baseball bat–wielding leader. He was only nine years old.
His name was Meyer Harris Cohen, but all of Los Angeles would soon
come to know him simply as “Mickey.”
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L.A. Noir
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