Then Jean Wooters figured that Whalen was an actor, because he spoke of breaking into TV westerns, how they needed cowboys who knew how to ride. He was suavely good-looking too, with thick, black hair, a Robert Mitchum type, only bigger. To top it off, he’d been a flyboy in the war, the dashing pilot of a B-25.
“She said, ‘Is this the guy we had dinner with?’ ”
“I said, ‘You can’t believe all that stuff
b
A pool prodigy who was giving trick-shot exhibitions by the age of 12, Fred Whalen hustled his way west from St. Louis in 1922 and made his fortune in L.A. by having the speediest rumrunning boat off the coast during Prohibition. Then came his truly brilliant stroke — he’d go around to hospitals posing as a doctor and pass the word that he liked to bet on the ponies and would be happy to help local bookies collect bets from others at the hospital. That was the opening move in an elaborate sting in which he bilked bookies who never suspected how confederates slipped him names of winning horses.
Freddie the Thief wanted better for his son, though. He enrolled Jack in Black-Foxe Military Institute, where the boy became a “commander” while excelling at polo. Polo. Jack could have gone straight too, after piloting bombers in the war and marrying into one of L.A.’s oldest families, the Sabichis, who had a 27-room mansion on South Figueroa. His wife, Katherine, had earned acting credits in several films and Jack was going to make a living off the movies, if not by acting then by piloting crews or training their horses.
Yes, that helped. Like when he was out on bail, and lying low, because of the strong-arming arrest. Whalen heard that a giant Mexican was going around South L.A. pretending to be “Jack the Enforcer” and demanding protection money. Any other time, he would have taken care of the impostor personally. This time he called his man on the Gangster Squad.
Wooters would argue that his deal with Whalen was no different from any cop’s with an informant — it was one bad guy pointing you to others, like to bookies in league with Mickey. But the bottom line was that people who didn’t play ball with Whalen were liable to have the law on their tail.
“What he didn’t get a piece of, I got word of” was how Wooters described their arrangement. “I never discussed the Whalen thing with too many people.”
“No, no, you’ll like this dog.”
“So he says, ‘I’m telling ya, please take the dog.’ He said, ‘You’re gonna open up that garage some night and you’re gonna get your ass blasted off.’ He said, ‘You’re hurting the wrong people.’ ”
I said, ‘Where do I pick up the dog?’ ”
The Wooters’ new pet was named Thor, after the Norse god of thunder.
“I said, ‘Well, you know, I put in a lot of years. What the hell is going on?’
“He said ‘The transfer’s effective tomorrow.’ “
“He said, ‘Who’s the guy?’ ” Keeler recalled. “I said, ‘Wooters.’
“Cap’ looked at me, just kind of shook his head.”
Wooters was a couple of months into his exile when he got a call from a familiar voice. Whalen was still out on bail, but not lying low any longer. It was Wednesday, Dec. 2, 1959.
“He says, ‘Ah, I got a real rough beef, can you give me a hand?’
“I said, ‘What?’
” ‘Well, I got a showdown with that goddamned Mickey.’
“I said, ‘Where?’
“Rondelli’s.”
“I said, ‘Jack, I’m in uniform. I’m active duty. I can’t just walk out and wind up in the Valley. . . . But I’ll see if I can get you some help.’ ”
Wooters phoned his old squad. “I called and said, ‘Listen if you . . . go by Rondelli’s tonight at around 11 o’clock, I think you’re gonna find Whalen and Mickey and some others.’ And I said, ‘I’m pretty sure you’ll find some firearms.’ Then I called Whalen. . . . ‘Don’t take any firearms.’ ”
And Jack the Enforcer did not carry a gun on the last night of his life.
Times researcher Maloy Moore and former researcher Tracy Thomas contributed to this series