George Putnam
Friday, June 14, 2002

We have said farewell to the last celebrity mobster – Dapper Don, Teflon Don, John Gotti – the swaggering New York crime boss who became America's most famous and feared Mafia boss. He was the fifth of 13 children born to a poor family in the South Bronx. He dropped out of high school at 16 and fell in with one violent street gang after another.

Gotti presided over an empire that took in about $1 billion a year. It came from prostitution, narcotics, pornography, gambling, labor racketeering and business fraud. He was a ruthless killer. The one that brought him down was his orchestration of the gangland execution of Paul Castellano – the former head of the Gambino family. Sammy "the Bull" Gravano, who was linked to 19 murders, cut a deal with prosecutors and testified that his boss planned the sidewalk murder so he could take Castellano's job.

Gotti died with his boots on; throat cancer caught up with him.

I never met Gotti, but I did have an interesting meeting with the former Mafia boss, Frank Costello. It was around 1939-40 and I was doing a regular evening news report on NBC. Announcer Ben Grauer and I stopped off at the Copa Cabana for a drink. The Copa was owned by the gang and their front man Jack Entratta was in charge. Jack approached me and said, "There's a couple over here who would like to have you join them for a drink." I declined, but Jack insisted and I joined them.

The gentleman remained quiet and his beautiful wife asked me question after question. "You're new to New York," she said, "We listen to your news reports. You've become one of our favorites. Are you married?"

"No," I said.

"What do you do with your weekends? What are your hobbies?"

"Horses, yachting and sports cars," I answered.

And she responded, "All of those things are available at our home on Long Island. Would you like to spend a weekend?"

Still the gentleman did not speak. I never did visit their home, though I received several more invitations.

When I returned to Ben Grauer at the bar, he said, "Good God! Do you know who that is?"

I said, "No."

He said, "That is Frank Costello – the big man in the Mafia."

The next time I saw Costello was when he testified before the Kefauver Committee where he took the Fifth and the cameras showed him fidgeting with his hands. (Between 1950 and 1951, the Kefauver Committee held all of American's attention. It was the first committee made up of senators from around the country organized not only to gain a better understanding of how to fight organized crime, but also to expose organized crime for the conglomerate empire that it was.)

My next brush with the Mob was when I moved to Los Angeles television in the early 1950s. That's where I met Mickey Cohen, and what a character he was – also of poor beginnings, undereducated but streetwise. He tried every which way to ingratiate himself. Gifts began to appear in my television studio. Bits of information whetted my appetite. He sent lovely young ladies to the studio. His sister, Rose, owned a children's apparel shop; she would appear with clothing for the kids. All of this was returned and refused.

A reporter learns in dealing with the Mob that you accept their information, but you don't go into business with them. That's what happened in the case of the Chicago newsman Jake Lingle. He got too close, they say.

Mickey was a strange one. He attempted to wash away his sins with five or six showers a day. He always came out of the bathroom smelling of perfume and baby powder. His apartment had as many as 10 telephones; obviously, he was making book cross-country. He complained to me that he would do the dirty work of Los Angeles for some of our first citizens in the afternoon, then they would refuse to acknowledge his presence at a restaurant or nightspot in the evening.

Not unlike Gotti, Mickey Cohen wore $2,000 imported suits, flashy jewelry and exquisite neckwear. Before dining, he would don a large bib so as not to soil his clothing.

One time I referred to "dirty money." He pulled out two $10 bills, slapped them down on the table and said, "Tell me, which is the clean and which is the dirty money?"

One evening, Red Skelton and I ran into Mickey at dinner. Mickey said to Red, "Give me $5,000 and I'll give you $50,000 by the end of the week." Another time, he called me and said, "George, I owe ya one – the way you handled that story about me. Meet me at the corner of Hollywood and Vine at 6:00. Bring a camera." I did.

Promptly at 6:00, one of his lady friends, Liz Renay, stood there with a robe around her. "Lights, camera, action!" shouted Mickey. Liz disrobed and ran stark naked two blocks down Hollywood Boulevard. I got the film. Needless to say, we didn't run it on the Evening News.

One time I said, "Mick, did you ever kill anyone?"

His answer: "Nobody who didn't deserve it."

I once offended Mickey with a story in which I indicated that he was involved in a restaurant deal in the San Fernando Valley. It brought about a hearing before the Police Commission. Mickey was forced to appear. He got even with me. At a break in the hearing, the room was quiet and Mickey stood up and yelled across the room, "Hey, George! Did the kids get the dresses? Do they fit? I'm sending some more! Give my best to your wife and the family!" It brought down the house and he got his pound of flesh.

Gotti's gone, Costello's gone, Capone is gone and Mickey's gone. And we say goodbye to the last of the celebrity mobsters ... or, should I say, monsters.

The legendary George Putnam is 87 years young and a veteran of 67 years as a reporter, broadcaster and commentator ... and is still going strong. George is part of the all-star line-up of Southern California's KPLS Radio – Hot Talk AM 830.