BUMPY JOHNSON:
Drug kingpin Frank Lucas says- Ellsworth "Bumpy" Johnson (Above) the most famous of all Harlem gangsters, saved my life. "I was hustling up at Lump's Pool Room, on 134th Street. Eight-ball and that. So in comes Icepick Red. Red, he was a tall motherfucker, clean, with a hat. A fierce killer, from the heart. Freelanced Mafia hits. Anyway, he took out a roll of money that must have been that high. My eyes got big. I knew right then, that wasn't none of his money. That was my money.
"'Who got a thousand dollars to shoot pool?' Icepick Red shouted. I told him I'm playing, but I only got a hundred dollars . . . and he's saying, 'What kind of punk only got a hundred dollars?' I wanted to take out my gun and kill him right there, take his damn money.
"Except right then, everything seemed to stop. The jukebox stopped, the pool balls stopped. Every fucking thing stopped. It got so quiet you could've heard a rat piss on a piece of cotton in China.
"I turned around and I saw this guy -- he was like five feet ten, five feet eleven, dark complexion, neat, looked like he just stepped off the back cover of Vogue magazine. He had on a gray suit and a maroon tie, with a gray overcoat and flower in the lapel. I never seen nothing that looked like him. He was another species altogether.
"'Can you beat him?' he said to me in a deep, smooth voice.
"I said, 'I can shoot pool with anybody, mister. I can beat anybody.'
"Icepick Red, suddenly he's nervous. Scared. 'Bumpy!' he shouts out, 'I don't got no bet with you!'
"Bumpy ignores that. 'Rack 'em up, Lump!'
"We rolled for the break, and I got it. And I wasted him. Icepick Red never got a goddamn shot. Bumpy sat there, watching. Didn't say a word. Then he says to me, 'Come on, let's go.' I'm thinking, who the fuck is this Bumpy? But something told me I better keep my damn mouth shut. I got in the car. A long Caddy. First we stopped at a clothing store -- he picked out a bunch of stuff for me. Suits, ties, slacks. Nice stuff. Then we drove to where he was living, on Mount Morris Park. He took me into his front room, said I should clean myself up, sleep there that night.
"I wound up sleeping there six months . . . Then things were different. The gangsters stopped fucking with me. The cops stopped fucking with me. I walk into the Busch Jewelers, see the man I robbed, and all he says is: 'Can I help you, sir?' Because now I'm with Bumpy Johnson -- a Bumpy Johnson man. I'm 17 years old and I'm Mr. Lucas.
"Bumpy was a gentleman among gentlemen, a king among kings, a killer among killers, a whole book and Bible by himself," says Lucas about his years with the Robin Hood of Harlem, who had opposed Dutch Schultz in the thirties and would be played by Moses Gunn in the original Shaft and twice by Laurence Fishburne (in The Cotton Club and Hoodlum). Bumpy Johnson remains the most power black gangster in US history.
"He saw something in me, I guess. He showed me the ropes -- how to collect, to figure the vig. Back then, if you wanted to do business in Harlem, you paid Bumpy or you died. Extortion, I guess you could call it. Everyone had to pay -- except the mom-and-pop stores."
With Bumpy, Frank caught a glimpse of the big time. He'd drive downtown, to the 57th Street Diner, waiting by the car while his boss ate breakfast with Frank Costello. Frank accompanied Bumpy to Cuba to see Lucky Luciano. "I stayed outside," Frank remembers, "just another guy with a bulge in my pocket."
"There was a lot about Bumpy I didn't understand, a lot I still don't understand . . . when he was older, he'd lean over his chessboard in his apartment at the Lenox Terrace, with these Shakespeare books around, listening to soft piano music, Beethoven -- or that Henry Mancini record he played over and over, 'Baby Elephant Walk' . . . He'd start talking about philosophy, read me from Tom Paine, 'The Rights of Man' . . . 'What do you think of that, Frank?' he'd ask . . . I'd shrug. What could I say? Best book I remember reading was Harold Robbins's The Carpetbaggers."
In the end, as Frank tells it, Bumpy died in his arms: "We were at Wells Restaurant on Lenox Avenue. Billy Daniels, the singer, might have been there. Maybe Cockeye Johnny, J.J., Chickenfoot. There was always a crowd around, wanting to talk to him. Bumpy just started shaking and fell over."
Lucas says, "There wasn't gonna be no next Bumpy. Bumpy believed in that share-the-wealth. I was a different sonofabitch. I wanted all the money for myself . . . Harlem was boring to me then. Numbers, protection, those little pieces of paper flying out of your pocket. I wanted adventure. I wanted to see the world." To read more about Frank Lucas, click here: Crew Boss
Source: New York Magazine
Related Story..
"HARLEM UNDERWORLD AFTER DARK"
*The following is an excerpt from Mayme Johnson's upcoming book, "Harlem Godfather: The Rap On My Husband Ellsworth "Bumpy Johnson," by Mayme Johnson and Karen E. Quinones Miller.
It wasn’t unusual for a gunshot victim to be wheeled into the operating room of Sydenham Hospital in Harlem in 1952. Especially in the wee hours of the morning when club hoppers with too much to drink took their nine-to-five frustrations out on whoever was available.
But this was no usual gunshot victim. This was my husband, Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson.
The man who, according to legend, almost single-handedly fought the infamous Jewish hoodlum Dutch Schultz when that notorious madman tried to take over the Harlem numbers rackets. The man who was as well-known for his charity to children as for his deadly temper when he was crossed by other gangsters. The man who was the undisputed King of the Harlem Underworld. The man to whom I’d been married only three years. And from the looks of things, the 45-year-old man who was about to take his last breath.
“Bumpy,” Detective Philip Klieger yelled as he trotted alongside the gurney towing the bloodied half-conscious man, “You know you’re not going to make it. Tell me who shot you so we can bring him to justice.”
But see, my husband lived by the gangster code. Bumpy opened his eyes and momentarily focused on the detective, and his slackened lips curled into a snarl. “A man can only die once, and dead men make no excuses,” he managed to get out before falling into full unconsciousness.
In June 1952, the tall dark-skinned Robert "Hawk" Hawkins was determined to make someone take himself seriously. He desperately wanted to be accepted by the Harlem hustlers. He needed to make a name for himself.
The Vets Club, which was located at 122nd Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, was owned by John Levy – the abusive boyfriend/manager of jazz great Billie Holiday, and Vincent Nelson – one of the most successful pimps in Harlem. By 3 a.m. the joint would be jumping and the folks would be stomping. There was always a good time and a good crowd at The Vets.
On this particular night jazz great Sarah Vaughn was there sipping champagne, along with the Brown Twins, a popular jazz duo. The gorgeous vamp Margherite Chapman, who would later marry baseball slugger Willie Mays (she was a lot older than him, but she lied to him about her age) was there also, along with a couple of black Hollywood starlets who wished they looked as good as Margherite, and R&B diva Dinah Washington was holding court to her usual entourage of ten or twelve.
It was about 5:30 a.m. when the already half-drunk, Hawk sauntered over to the bar and ordered a scotch, then proceeded to loudly talk about his take for the night – the trick money his “bitches” had turned over to him after a night of whoring.
“Man, why don’t you cool out? Can’t you see there’s ladies in here? Show some respect,” Bumpy said irritably as he clinked the ice in his watered down glass of ginger ale. As bad as Bumpy was, he didn’t smoke or drink, and he didn’t like men cursing around women they didn’t know.
To be honest, I don’t believe Hawk even looked up to see that it was Bumpy, because he would have been stupid to say what he said next. “Ni**er, who the fuck is you to tell me to cool out?” he yelled in his heavy southern accent.
Bumpy looked him up and down and then said quietly, “I’m about to be your worst nightmare. Now haul your behind outta here before someone has to carry you out.”
This time Hawk did look up before saying anything else, and that’s when he realized who it was he’d been addressing. Intoxicated, but not stupid, Hawk turned to leave but stumbled over a chair on the way out. Someone snickered and Hawk angrily whirled around to say something, but Bumpy looked at him with an icy stare and said, “You still here?”
Ego bruised, Hawk left. Bumpy bought a round of drinks for the ladies as an apology for the rudeness for the younger man, and the merriment continued as it had been before the intrusion.
An hour later most of the party-goers were gone, and my husband was standing at the bar talking to the bartender, and the club owners John Levy and Vincent Nelson when he suddenly felt a nudge on his shoulder and turned around. Hawk, had topped off the scotch he’d already imbibed with cheap wine, and armed with liquid courage and a borrowed revolver he had come back to seek his revenge.
“What you got to say now, ni**er?” he screamed as he shakily pointed the gun at Bumpy’s head. “You so fucking bad, what you gotta say now?”
Bumpy was out on bail and carried no knife or gun, and because he was backed up against the bar, there was no way he could escape.
“Man, why don’t you go home and sleep it off?” Bumpy said calmly as he stretched his hand out behind him, hoping to grasp something on the bar that he could use as a weapon. “You were wrong and you got called out on it. It’s over now.”
“Ain’t shit over,” Hawk yelled as he stepped back and tightened his finger on the trigger to take his shot. But just then Bumpy managed to grab a potted plant and smashed it into the side of Hawk’s face. It was enough to throw off Hawk’s aim, and the bullet meant for Bumpy’s head slammed into the right side of his chest instead. Bumpy slumped to the floor – eyes closed -- and for a moment Hawk stood over him as if just realizing what he’d done. But when Bumpy reopened his eyes, and Hawk realized he was still alive, Hawk flew out the door.
“Bumpy, are you alright?” the bartender asked as he, Vince, and Levy rushed over to the fallen man.
“I’m fine,” Bumpy said in a weak and shaky voice. “Just help me to my feet.”
Levy and the bartender half-carried Bumpy to Vince’s car, and they sped off to Sydenham Hospital on 124th Street and Manhattan Avenue. .
As Vince helped Bumpy up the stairs another gambler and pimp, Gershwin Miles, called from across the street. “Bumpy is that you? You alright, man?”
“Naw, man. I’ve been shot,” Bumpy managed to yell back to his friend.
No lie, it seemed like all of Harlem must have been listening because within ten minutes the hospital was filled with people trying to see what had happened to Bumpy.
I was home asleep when Vincent called me to tell me what happened. I almost had a heart attack right there in bed when he said, “Mayme, you’d better hurry. The doctors aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”
The operation took six hours, and when it was over Dr. Wardrow came over and told me, “Mrs. Johnson. Had the bullet been one one-tenth of an inch to the left it would have pierced his heart and we wouldn’t be here speaking now because your husband would be dead. And to be honest, we’ve done all we can, but it’ll still be touch and go for the next few days. I suggest that you pray for your husband’s survival.”
“Dear Lord,” I said. “I know that my husband hasn’t always been the most upright citizen, but he’s always been an upright man. And I love him very much, Dear Lord. Please don’t take Bumpy away from me.”
I stayed on my knees for another fifteen minutes sending up prayer after prayer. When I got up and turned to face Hoss Steele, Nat Pettigrew, Junie Byrd, Vince Nelson, John Levy, Ricky Williams and George Rose I was surprised and touched to see tears in their eyes – these men were considered to be some of the toughest men in Harlem, and they were on the verge of breaking down with emotion. Suddenly Ricky cleared his throat and spoke. “Look, the doctors done all they could, and Mayme got the God thing in hand, let’s go get out in the street and kill that punk motherfucka Hawk.”
Without another word they all walked out the hospital and got in their cars and sped off. They never did find Hawk, though. We found out later that once he ran out the Vets Club he got in his car and drove to Albany, New York and hid out there before finally high-tailing it back to North Carolina.
After weeks of touch and go, Bumpy would make a full recovery.
Al Capone may have ruled Chicago. Lucky Luciano may have run most of New York City. But, when it came to Harlem, the man in charge was my man, Bumpy Johnson.
courtesy of the 'Panache Report'.. an Excellent site with a Wealth of info
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