Meanwhile, in Chicago, James Ragen was murdered and the Chicago mob took over Continental Press. They now set their sights on the wire service held by Siegel in Los Angeles. Trans-America was an independent, held solely by Siegel. The mob wanted it so they could tie it up with Continental Press and so control the country, coast to coast, with the one wire service.
It must be remembered that the mob held mixed feelings about Siegel and Cohen for their part in the Ragen deal. Siegel’s act was an unforgivable one. Because of his association with Meyer Lansky, Siegel was a member of the inner council of the National Crime Combine. His interference in the Ragen situation was deemed as an act against the Syndicate, amounting to a virtual double-cross. Cohen was regarded as a loudmouth upstart, unpleasant and annoying as a mosquito. Killing Siegel would require the vote and approval of the inner council. Knocking off Cohen was a routine matter, merely getting rid of someone who was causing unnecessary trouble, in spite of the Mayfield Mob who seemed to be Cohen’s Godfather.
Five attempts were made to kill Cohen. He escaped death on each occasion by one miraculous twist after another. Cohen went after the hired hit-men.
On May 2, 1946, Paulie Gibbons, a minor hood with ambition, was ambushed just outside his Beverly Hills apartment and slain. Cohen was picked up for questioning along with Benny “Meatball” Gamson, a rival of Cohen’s.
Both men were grilled intensively. Detectives got nowhere. Neither would tell the cops the time of day. They were held for three days and released. A month later, Gamson was seen by detectives in a suspicious looking car. The automobile had been riddled with bullets. Gamson was taken to police headquarters.
“I don’t know how those damned holes got there!” Gamson yelled. “Some crazy bastards shot it up while it was parked outside my apartment.”
“Was that a warning, Benny?” a detective asked.
“A warning about what?”
“From Mickey Cohen.”
Gamson snickered. “Why the hell would Cohen wanna do that? Me and him is good friends.”
“That’s not the way we heard it, Benny. I think we better hold you for a while for your own protection.”
“I don’t need no protection. From nobody, see!”
Gamson was wrong. The grapevine said that Cohen had put up Gamson’s number. The price on his head was only two grand. He was small time in Cohen’s estimation.
Shortly after, on August 16, 1946, two men walked calmly into Lucey’s Restaurant, a fashionable dinery where movie stars often were seen, and used blackjacks to administer a savage beating to Jimmy Utley, a gambler and known associate of Gamson. One of the men covered the diners and restaurant help with a gun while the other man beat Utley. The man with the gun then used a blackjack to finish the assault. The elite patrons were horrified. Utley was rushed to a hospital. He was questioned by detectives.
“I don’t know the men who did it,” Utley said. “I never saw them before in my life.”
All but one of the patrons in the restaurant said they could not identify the two men who beat Utley. The lone diner, a visitor to the city, picked out Cohen and Sica’s pictures from the rogue’s gallery. Then, after thinking it over, he said he couldn’t be sure. He was prodded by detectives but he held firmly to his statement that he couldn’t be sure. Once more, Cohen and Sica got away scot free.
On October 3, 1946, Meatball Gamson and a newly arrived hood from the East named George Levinson were shot to death in Gamson’s apartment on Beverly Boulevard. Gamson had imported Levinson to kill Cohen. Cohen learned of it and had both men executed. Cohen was again picked up for questioning but proved he had been a mile away at the time of the murders. Detectives, ever skeptical of Cohen’s alibis, knew better but couldn’t prove it, and Cohen again went free.
Cohen continued his irrational attacks on Dragna hoods and those ambitious independents who wanted to move in for a piece of the action. His beatings and shootings roamed over all dimensions of violence, brutality, and murder. He was trying to prove to everyone that he was boss of Los Angeles not only in name but in fact, and that he had replaced Bugsy Siegel, with not only Siegel’s approval and blessings but that of the National Crime Cartel as well. He wasn’t so much sinister as he was a thug without rhyme, reason, or direction. His ability to avoid conviction for any of his depredations increased his already monumental vanity.
A short time after the Gamson and Levinson killings, Cohen beat up Hymie Miller, a bookie. Questioned by detectives in his hospital bed, Miller refused to name his assailant.
Detectives attributed the beatings and shootings to a war between independent bookies and the Los Angeles Syndicate over the racing wire service. Trans-America, without Siegel’s guiding hand, was in serious trouble. Income tax returns filed by Trans-America in 1946 listed losses of $125,000.
Newspaper editorials again screamed for a cleanup of the hoodlum element. The police had nothing against Cohen they could take into court, although they harassed him constantly by picking him up for questioning. That should have told Cohen something but he was too hard-headed to see it, understand it, or realize he was in serious trouble.
The government now took a look at Cohen and his activities. They began to probe into his sources of income, expenditures, and his income tax return. For the moment, it’ was a keyhole glimpse.
Bugsy Siegel, meantime, had overextended himself in his operation of the Flamingo Hotel and was in trouble with the Syndicate, whose money was invested in the hotel and casino. It was agreed that Siegel was a dismal failure as a hotel and gambling hall operator. The truth of the matter was that he was more interested in his movie star mistress, Wendy Barrie, Marie “The Body” MacDonald, the Countess Dorothy DiFrasso, and Virginia Hill, than he was in the Flamingo. The Syndicate knew this and advised him to give up the hotel. He blew his top when he was told that he was also to give up Trans-America to the Chicago mob.
Lucky Luciano, who had been deported to Italy after his release from prison, was in Havana for a meeting with the top hoods of the country. Siegel flew to Havana for a conference with Luciano who was still the boss despite the fact he was living in Italy. Luciano was courteous to Siegel but insisted that he had to give up Trans-America to the Chicago mob and to turn over the Flamingo to those of the Syndicate who had loaned him money to build it.
Siegel pleaded strongly but Luciano was adamant.
“Ben,” Luciano said, “you’re keeping five women, four that I know about, and one that I don’t. Virginia Hill is enough to break a dozen millionaires. You be a good boy and do as you’re told and we’ll find some things for you in a different setup.”
Siegel blew his top. “Who the hell do you think you’re pushing around, you lousy Wop! I killed for you. I helped put you where you are. I helped make you a big shot. I need Trans-America. I am hot giving it up!”
Luciano stared at Siegel with cold eyes. He didn’t raise his voice when he spoke. “No more talk, Ben. No more arguments. Give up Trans-America and the Flamingo. That’s it.”
“You go to hell!” Siegel stormed, kicked the door before he opened it, and slammed it shut.
A short time later, on June 20, 1947, Siegel was in Los Angeles, at the Moorish mansion at 810 Linden Drive in Beverly Hills where kept Virginia Hill. Allen Smiley, a close pal, was with him. Smiley sat on a divan in the living room whose windows faced a garden. Siegel came down from the upstairs rooms, settled himself on the divan alongside Smiley, picked up a newspaper.
At that instant a shot rang out and shattered the window, and then more shots split the quiet of the night. Smiley dived for the floor at the sound of the first shot. Siegel had been hit in the face, over his left eye, in the chest, belly, and groin. The blood poured out of him in streams. He was very dead.