Mickey Cohen was the youngest of six children of a Russian immigrant who was a produce peddler and dealer. The father died when Mickey was only three months old so he never really knew he had a father. His mother, a typical God-fearing Jewish woman, was beside herself as to what to do about her mizhinik, the youngest of her brood. At an early age, Cohen indicated that he was a violent non-conformist with society and its rules.
The family moved to Los Angeles, into the squalid, teeming section of Boyle Heights, which is like the ghettos of New York City, or any other large city. The move from Brownsville to Boyle Heights was no improvement, as Mrs. Cohen had hoped it would be.
Mickey Cohen started out on his depredations while in knee pants. He sold newspapers which he stole from other kids or from newsstands, robbed fruits and vegetables from pushcarts and, when the unfortunate peddler protested or attempted to stop the young hoodlum, Cohen turned over the pushcart and sent the peddler’s wares tumbling into the street. He hustled craps, poker games, and anything else that would bring him a buck. That was his goal, the buck, his passport out of the ghetto.
Strangely enough, he was an apt pupil in school and had a fine potential, according to his teachers, a potential which never materialized. He was a bully in the schoolyard, fought other boys and won most of his fights. He then began hanging around the gyms where such name fighters as Fidel LaBarba, Jackie Fields, Newsboy Brown, Mushy Callahan, and other top-notch ringmen trained. He was fascinated by the lure of the boxing game and the crowd, the hustlers, trainers, managers, promoters, and newspaper men. He badgered name fighters to teach him the art of professional fighting.
Before he entered Boyle Heights Junior High School he was boxing at club smokers. He began skipping school and got into trouble with truant officers. When he was fifteen he was transferred to a high school for incorrigible delinquents. That didn’t suit him either and he ran away from home. He hitchhiked to Cleveland, where an older brother lived.
In Cleveland, Mickey Cohen sought out a gym where fighters trained and began working out. He was matched with fighters in his own class in the smaller clubs in and around Cleveland. After two years he went to Chicago, where he fought some main events but never showed the promise of a champion or near-champion. He was battered around by good featherweights in every fight. With only a broken nose to show for his battles in the ring, he gave up the hope of ever achieving a title and turned to gambling. Here, too, he was small-time.
An operator of a book, Syndicate controlled, hired Cohen to pick up bets and to collect from losers. This was right up Cohen’s alley. Knowing he had the Syndicate behind him, he muscled gamblers who were behind in their payments. His quick fists and hair-trigger temper resulted in many beatings which he administered to those who didn’t meet his demands to pay off. His reputation for collecting from losers spread to Jake “Greasy Thumb” Guzik, Al Capone’s bagman.
“You’re a pretty bright guy,” Guzik said. “A little rough but bright. I’ve got some work for you. Can you follow orders?”
“You bet,” Cohen replied quickly. “Right down the line.”
“Good.” Guzik handed him a list of names and addresses. “These guys are way behind in paying off their losses. The amounts are listed after each name. Get the money. You get ten per cent.”
With Jake Guzik’s power behind him, Cohen ran wild. He beat up a few important people. They complained to Frank Nitti, who had taken over the mob when Capone was sent to prison for income tax evasion. Nitti learned that Cohen was collecting for Guzik.
“Who the hell is this Mickey Cohen?” Nitti demanded.
“A good boy out of New York and Cleveland. He’s getting results. That’s what matters,” Guzik finished.
“Like hell it does! He’s bringing us heat. He muscled a few important guys. I’ve had some calls. He’s got all his brains in his hands. We don’t operate like that, Jake!”
“Look, Frank, all the guys he was sent to were months behind in paying off and all I got was a lot of excuses. I gave them extensions. They didn’t make one single effort to bring the amounts down. Some of them owe as much as ten grand.”
“Okay! Bring me the list. I’ll get the money. You take that two-bit muscleman off right now!”
“I said he’s a good boy, Frank. I can use him. Who you going to put on to collect the small stuff, the hundreds and two hundreds?”
“We’ve got a lot of men. I’ll put somebody on. Cohen is out! I don’t want to argue about it.”
Guzik called Cohen and told him he had to stop his collections.
“How will I live, Jake? I’ve got expenses.”
“Tell you what? Find yourself a small place, a store, something, and open up a horse room. I’ll okay it and put in the wire service for you. That okay?”
“Sure, Jake. Thanks. I’ll find something.”
Frank Nitti heard of it and refused to allow Cohen to run. Cohen went back to Los Angeles. He was broke. He turned to robbery. He was picked up but was released when witnesses could not or would not identify him. This was in 1933, and was the first in a series of forty arrests for every crime in the book. He was then only twenty years old, an unknown punk to the Los Angeles Police Department. He was picked up several more times in the next two years on various charges but was released for lack of evidence. He told himself the cops were stupid and couldn’t convict him on anything. This kind of thinking added to Cohen’s already monumental ego. He was, he assured everyone who would listen, immune to conviction and jail.
“I’m too smart for cops,” he declared. His boasting appeared to be justified for while his arrest record mounted, the conviction record was bare.
Los Angeles eventually got too hot for him and he decided to return to Chicago. He sought out Jake Guzik and asked for help.
“Can’t you fix it for me to open up a book?” he asked Guzik. “I’ll run it nice and clean. If you need me to do anything for you, I’ll be right there.”
Guzik thought about it. He knew that he would be doing the wrong thing if he okayed Cohen in the face of Frank Nitti’s order that Cohen was not to operate in Chicago. However, he had taken a liking to Cohen for some reason. Too, he decided to test his power against that of Nitti in the Organization. He told Cohen to go ahead and open up.
Cohen opened a Lake Shore horse parlor. He did well for a while but ran into a bad streak when he was hit for a score of big wins. He needed money to pay off. He went to several gamblers, some of them legitimate businessmen, and asked for loans. When they refused he muscled them. Bad luck followed him. He was hit again. This time he took a quick trip to Cleveland, looked up an old pal named Frank Niccoli. They rigged a phony holdup of a Cleveland restaurant. The cops nailed him this time. He received a suspended sentence and two years’ probation. He managed to fix the probation rap and beat it back to Chicago.
In the next two years he was arrested half a dozen times for bookmaking, assault with a deadly weapon, and other shennanigans. Frank Nitti got wind of Cohen again. He called Guzik.
“Jake, I thought I told you I didn’t want Cohen to run in this town. What the hell are you trying to do? He’s causing all kinds of heat. You tell Cohen to close up and get the hell out of town. Three days, Jake. If he isn’t out of town by then he’s going to wind up in the morgue.”
This was no idle threat. Guzik knew that Nitti was hotheaded and when he was mad he’d just as soon do the killing himself as he would to order it. “Okay, Frank. Cohen is out. I’ll deliver the message.” Guzik realized that without Capone’s protection he could not stand against Nitti. Capone was in Alcatraz. There was no way of getting to him. Even if he could reach Capone it would do no good. Nitti was boss.