4 | Pau l Li e be r m an
straw for Los Angeles officials—and the reason Lieutenant Willie Burns assembled eighteen hand-picked candidates for a secretive new squad that October. “You’ll be working with these,” Burns told them as he hoisted the Tommy gun and slid in its circular 50-round drum. The deal was: If they joined him, they would continue to be listed on the rosters of their old stations while operating out of two rusted old Fords. They would not make arrests. If someone had to be booked, they’d call in Homicide, Vice, or Robbery. They would also be available for other chores, as Chief C. B. Horrall saw fit. They would have cash at their disposal, a Secret Ser vice Fund to pay informants who might help them gather intelligence on the likes of Bugsy, Dragna, and Mickey Cohen. But they would have no office. They’d meet on street corners, in parking lots, and up in the hills. In effect, they would not exist. Burns gave the eighteen men a week to ponder his invitation and some advice from an old lieutenant at the 77th who said an assignment like that could get you in good with the chief, or even make you a hero, “Or you could end up down in San Pedro, walking a beat in a fog.” Sergeant Jack O’Mara puffed on his pipe as the old lieutenant cautioned them, “Whatever you do, keep your nose clean.” After the week to think it over, only seven came back to join Willie Burns, making a Gangster Squad of eight. One was O’Mara, who had to explain to his wife, Connie, what was in the stylish black violin case he began keeping under their bed.