Paperback LA Book 1 by Susan LaTempa

Author:Susan LaTempa
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781945551253
Publisher: Prospect Park Books
Published: 2018-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

GANGSTER CHIC

Mary Baker is a fashion führer. “Goddammit, Clancy, are those argyle socks? Give me a break, you’re not a campus cutie anymore!” Meaning, it’s time to toss Ray’s throwaways and Dress for Success.

A few streets up from the office, at 8804 Sunset where it curves away from West Hollywood, Jaffe has an arrangement with the gangster-haberdasher-and-florist-as-a-front Mickey Cohen, armed robber, killer-to-order—and Ben Siegel’s bodyguard until Jack Dragna or Meyer Lansky had Bugsy’s face shot off on Linden Drive just around the corner from Mary Baker’s mansion. For show and cover, Mickey operates, among other legit businesses, a men’s clothing store on the Strip. Even though it exposes him to drive-by assassination, Cohen is a publicity hog who enjoys loitering outside his shop waving to passing tourists. A starfucker, he extends discounts to Jaffe agents in return for access to premieres and parties where he and his bodyguards can mix with movie stars.

Mrs. Baker doesn’t trust me to shop alone so one morning sends her two enforcers, my mentors Zack Silver and Jonny Buck, into Mickey’s shop to supervise a makeover. At the front door, as in a Grade-B film, a toothpick-chewing bodyguard in an open-necked yellow silk shirt and immaculately pressed trousers eye-frisks us before he lets us in to meet the man himself. Meyer Harris Cohen, “Mickey,” emerges from behind a wheeled rack of jackets and empty hangers in a double-wide-shouldered, off-white gabardine suit and his trademark custom-made Joy Lord Hatter of New York fedora, all vain muscle and five o’clock shadow. He’s on his way to a four-year prison stretch, but you’d never know it from his demeanor.

Without a word to Zack and Jonny, like a real bespoke tailor, Mickey circles as if I’m a boxer in the ring with him. Pug-busted nose, serious bowlegs, formidable jowls, he sets himself like the featherweight pro fighter that he was, against pretty good opponents I’m told.

“So,” he rumbles to style-maven Jonny, “Ivy League or proster chamoole?” What’s that? I ask. Zack says, “Basically low-class shithead.”

Must establish my personal credibility with LA’s most notorious crook.

“Mr. Cohen, I ran numbers after school for Max Glauber the bookie.” Quick as a flash Mickey responds, “Yeah? You lie.” I go, “Cigar store. Roosevelt Road by Homan.” Real Chicagoans always say ‘by,’ not at or near. Jonny and Zack look at me in surprise. Cohen appraises me a long moment, then smiles broadly. We’re bonded in Chicago graft.

“Come,” he gestures me into the back room, “and you guys jerk off a while.”

An hour later I emerge splendiferous in a three-button double-breasted pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, Collezioni handmade tie with mother-of-pearl tie bar, Armani diamond-design white silk shirt, and Roger Vivier penny loafer oxblood shoes—some of the clothes labeled, some not, all obviously having fallen off the back of a truck, while in a box under my arm I carry a single-breasted two-button glen plaid Savile Row ensemble plus cardigan (“Cary Grant loves that slim Continental style,” gushes Mickey), all to match under his careful eye.

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