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October 26, 2008—
That was especially daunting at Mickey's house because someone -- probably Dragna -- had exploded dynamite under it. Mickey now had round-the-clock guards, swinging searchlights and an armored front door with a porthole window.
The answer? A diversion. As soon as Mickey and Lavonne went out one night, two squad members began digging noisily in a nearby lot. When Mickey's guards went to have a look, Keeler climbed a fence and crept though an orange grove behind the house. He had burlap over his shoes to silence his footsteps and ammonia on his clothes to drive off dogs.
The bombing had left splintered openings under the house, and Keeler was able to slide one bug inside a closet where Mickey stacked dozens of pairs of shoes. Then he crept out through the orchard and past the home of an English physician who had worked for British intelligence in the war and was letting them use his garage as a listening post.
But they hadn't counted on what their bugging would do to Mickey's TV. At a time when only 10 million Americans had sets, he had the fanciest sold by W&J Sloane department store, with a "distinguished mahogany" cabinet and 45 tubes to guarantee clear reception. Now they overheard him ranting about the screwy lines on Channel 2.
Listening from the doctor's garage, the squad knew what was up -- their transmission was too close to the lowest frequency picked up by a TV. Mickey was likely to figure it out also.
"We could hear him call up and raise hell with W&J Sloane company. 'Take this goddamn thing out of here or come out and have somebody fix it!' " O'Mara recalled. "Sure enough, they sent a technician out."
O'Mara had an idea -- intercept the repair truck. "Pulled him over, talked to him. He was scared, but he agreed. 'I'd like you to take a man,' I said."
Mickey wanted service? He'd get two men fiddling with the back of his set. "While we're in, we put in another bug. Right in his TV. And the batteries to run the damn bug."
This one used a slightly different frequency that would not put annoying oscillations on Channel 2.
"Mickey said, 'Fine, well, fine, thank you, guys' and gave 'em 25 bucks apiece for a tip, you know. Well, my guy takes Mickey aside and says, 'Lookit, I'll be back in here once a week and take care of it. You know, there's a lot of bugs in televisions and stuff you have to work out.' "
Mickey had to think his lavish tips were why the repairman was so eager to get into his TV every week.
OK, so the bug couldn't hear much when Mickey's TV was on, and it was on all the time. But O'Mara sensed that their mission might be measured by small victories, and it was a small victory, for sure, to be able to say, a half-century later . . . and that's how Mickey Cohen wound up paying for his own bugging.
paul.lieberman@latimes.com
Times researcher Maloy Moore and former researcher Tracy Thomas contributed to this series.
The answer? A diversion. As soon as Mickey and Lavonne went out one night, two squad members began digging noisily in a nearby lot. When Mickey's guards went to have a look, Keeler climbed a fence and crept though an orange grove behind the house. He had burlap over his shoes to silence his footsteps and ammonia on his clothes to drive off dogs.
The bombing had left splintered openings under the house, and Keeler was able to slide one bug inside a closet where Mickey stacked dozens of pairs of shoes. Then he crept out through the orchard and past the home of an English physician who had worked for British intelligence in the war and was letting them use his garage as a listening post.
But they hadn't counted on what their bugging would do to Mickey's TV. At a time when only 10 million Americans had sets, he had the fanciest sold by W&J Sloane department store, with a "distinguished mahogany" cabinet and 45 tubes to guarantee clear reception. Now they overheard him ranting about the screwy lines on Channel 2.
Listening from the doctor's garage, the squad knew what was up -- their transmission was too close to the lowest frequency picked up by a TV. Mickey was likely to figure it out also.
"We could hear him call up and raise hell with W&J Sloane company. 'Take this goddamn thing out of here or come out and have somebody fix it!' " O'Mara recalled. "Sure enough, they sent a technician out."
O'Mara had an idea -- intercept the repair truck. "Pulled him over, talked to him. He was scared, but he agreed. 'I'd like you to take a man,' I said."
Mickey wanted service? He'd get two men fiddling with the back of his set. "While we're in, we put in another bug. Right in his TV. And the batteries to run the damn bug."
This one used a slightly different frequency that would not put annoying oscillations on Channel 2.
"Mickey said, 'Fine, well, fine, thank you, guys' and gave 'em 25 bucks apiece for a tip, you know. Well, my guy takes Mickey aside and says, 'Lookit, I'll be back in here once a week and take care of it. You know, there's a lot of bugs in televisions and stuff you have to work out.' "
Mickey had to think his lavish tips were why the repairman was so eager to get into his TV every week.
OK, so the bug couldn't hear much when Mickey's TV was on, and it was on all the time. But O'Mara sensed that their mission might be measured by small victories, and it was a small victory, for sure, to be able to say, a half-century later . . . and that's how Mickey Cohen wound up paying for his own bugging.
paul.lieberman@latimes.com
Times researcher Maloy Moore and former researcher Tracy Thomas contributed to this series.
