Clay Pigeon

First there was Benny the Meatball, but he had run screaming into the night with five bullet holes in him. Then came "Bugsy" Siegel, but he died ignobly (of four rifle slugs) while sitting on a divan in his girl's house. After that, sad-eyed little Mickey Cohen became the undisputed boss of Los Angeles' gangdom.

Mickey also became something of a leading citizen. He took up gracious living. He acquired an ample wardrobe, changed clothes several times a day, washed his hands several times an hour. The opening of his Sunset Strip haberdashery (pastel shirts and hand-painted ties featured) was graced by George

Raft, the Ritz Brothers and sundry other notables. He bought a $75,000 stucco "bungalow" in Brentwood, shared a tailor with Lou Costello, dabbled in prizefighters and bought a piece of a supermarket chain. He was anxious to cooperate with the law.

Recently Citizen Mickey decided it was time people knew about the corruption in their police force. Two vice-squad officers, he declared righteously, had tried to shake him down for $20,000; furthermore, one of the guys had been protecting Brenda Allen's plush call-house (TIME, July 11) and Mickey knew where he could get wire recordings to prove it. Brenda went to jail largely on the say-so of another vice-squad sergeant and a handsome policewoman named Audre Davis. Then Policewoman Audre accused her friend the vice sergeant of being a burglar.

Baby Sitter. With cops ratting on each other so fast, it was hard for an honest hood to decide which law to work with. A grand jury went to work. Mickey knew things were out of hand when State Attorney General Fred Howser sent a special agent to be his bodyguard.

"I don't need no baby sitter," growled Mickey. Mickey never carries a gun himself, but he has confidence in the carload of heavily armed helpers who follow his Cadillac. Howser's Special Agent Cooper told Mickey's torpedoes to take in a ball game, or something. Mickey was in no position to argue.

One day last week, Mickey visited his haberdashery on Sunset Strip, handled a piddling $7,500 in bets, and wound up at Sherry's, a nearby gin mill patronized by racketeers, movie stars, detectives and high-priced prostitutes. Mickey settled as always in Booth 12, which commands a view of all exits and entrances. One of his boys picked up a movie doll named "Dee" David, and brought her over. Just before 4 a.m. Mickey got ready to leave.

"They're Animals." Standing in the bright floodlights at the entrance, Mickey made a fine target. A burst of shotgun fire came from behind a signboard across the street. Special Agent Cooper, the man who was going to guard Mickey, toppled over with two slugs in his belly. Miss David was hit three times. A Cohen lieutenant dropped with a slug in his kidney, screaming. Only Mickey stood silent, without moan or shout. He had been drilled through the right shoulder.

In Los Angeles' Queen of Angels Hospital, Mickey was bitter: "Them guys was just mad-dog punks," he declared. "How any human bein' can fire bullets into a crowd of people beats me. They're animals. They ain't human."

A lugubrious little man for whom life has suddenly become unbearably complex, Mickey sat up in his hospital room in powder-blue pajamas, his arm strapped up in a sling. Snapped Mickey: "I set myself up four nights in a row as a clay pigeon. [Attorney General] Howser must have had a hell of a tip." He was sure it was not a local bookie ("Every bookie in this town is a very close personal friend of mine," said Mickey firmly), nor imported Eastern gunmen. "I call New York, Chicago and Cleveland regular," said Mickey. "I'm a well-informed man. And I didn't get no rumble of anything going on ... If [Frank] Costello was moving in, we'd all be dead by now."

Detectives, sheriffs and special investigators swarmed in to ask him questions. Mickey was impatient. "They want me to sit here and lie--just to make it look like they're getting somewhere. Well, I don't lie. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I lead a real pure life."

At week's end his henchmen still prowled the halls, and flowers from admirers filled the room. For the first time in years, he was able to sleep when it was dark. Though his swank stucco house in Brentwood is ringed with a wire fence, equipped with electronic gadgets to detect intruders and bathed by floodlights which he can turn on from his car two blocks away, he seldom found it convenient to go home before dawn.

But Mickey was also thinking of the future. After all, he was only 37 years old. "South America looks pretty good," he mused. "They tell me you can get four for one dollar down there. Maybe I could be a millionaire."

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