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They say that after midnight on the
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boulevards of Harlem, the concrete
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breathes, street lamps sputter like
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tired stars, and a faint saxophone
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drifts from a basement that was never
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listed on any tourist map. Somewhere in
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that halflight, dice rattle on a trash
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can lid. A man in a flatbrim hat lowers
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his voice, and a woman with eyes of
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steel counts coins faster than any
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adding machine. The official ledgers of
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New York City are silent about what
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happens next. Yet, the pavement
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remembers every footstep. Stick around
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long enough and you'll hear the ghosts
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argue about who really ran this town.
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Names whispered like forbidden spells.
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St. Claire, Bumpy, Dutch, Lucas, Barnes.
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These are not stories taught in civics's
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class. They're rumors scribbled in the
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margins of America's past. Rumors so
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potent they kept entire precincts awake
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at night. Tonight, we dig beneath the
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headlines, beneath the sanitized
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textbooks, beneath the century old
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prejudice that tried to will these
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legends out of existence.
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We are here to chase the scent of money
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and power through back alleys and
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boardrooms, through brothel and billiard
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clubs, into prisons and pen houses.
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Because somewhere inside those tangled
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threads lies a revelation. Black
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gangsters didn't just break the rules of
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America's underworld, they reddrafted
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them, forcing even the Italian
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syndicates to read from a new script.
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The tale we tell is part tragedy, part
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unapologetic. So, pour a stiff drink,
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dim the lights, and promise yourself one
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thing. No matter what you thought you
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knew about organized crime, be ready to
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unlearn it. Welcome to Black Gangster
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History. The secrets that rewrote the
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mafia code. Independently produced,
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entirely unsponsored, fueled only by
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curiosity and a stubborn commitment to
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truth. You made this possible. Let's
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begin. Picture Harlem in
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1921. Brownstones freshly painted yet
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decaying from within. Rent parties
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throbbing with piano gissandi. Cotton
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club dancers twirling feathers under a
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fog of cigarette smoke. Jim Crow might
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end at 110th Street on paper, but in
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practice, racism wraps the neighborhood
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like barbed wire. Jobs are scarce. Banks
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refuse loans. Insurance agents laugh.
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Black families out the door. Into that
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void grow alternative economies. Some
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harmless, some deadly, most of them
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invisible to city hall. The biggest
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earner among them is policy. A street
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lottery whose rules are simple. Pick
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three numbers. Hand a dime to the
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runner. Cross your fingers. If your
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combo matches the number posted next day
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in the papers, you could bring home a
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week's salary. To outsiders, it looks
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like petty gambling. To Harlemmites, it
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is a communal treasury, a bootstrap fund
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for rent, medical bills, even church
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1922, coins dropped into policy pots
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approach a million dollars a month. Real
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money in any era. Naturally, real
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predators circle. Stephanie Sinclair
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sees them coming long before they
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appear. Born in Guadaloop, smuggled
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through Marseilles, fluent in French,
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English, Creole, and the language of
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survival. St. Clare lands in New York
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with nothing but the fire in her gut.
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Within 5 years, she owns eight apartment
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buildings, three shoe shine stands, and
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the most sophisticated policy operation
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uptown. She hires black war veterans as
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enforcers, pays school teachers to check
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the books, and stores profit in tin
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boxes under grocery shelves so the cops
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can't confiscate a thing. When the 32nd
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precinct captain comes sniffing for a
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payoff, she publishes an open letter in
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the Amsterdam news. I do not bribe to
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exist. I exist. Therefore, you will have
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to bribe history to erase me. No one had
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ever talked to the NYPD like that and
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lived. Stephanie not only lives, she
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thrives, soon clearing nearly 200 grand
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a year, equivalent to over 3 million
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today. But numbers alone can't defend
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territory. Enter Ellsworth Bumpy
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Johnson, a chess playing hustler from
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Charleston who reads Dosstofski between
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dice games. He earns the nickname from a
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bump on the back of his head, courtesy
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of a childhood medical mishap and wears
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it like a crown of thorns. Bumpy
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respects St. Clare's brains. She
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respects his muscle and together they
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become Harlem's royal court. Her
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strategy, his enforcement. Bumpy's first
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task is to neutralize the so-called
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Purple Detective Agency, a gang of
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crooked cops moonlighting as
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extortionists. He does so not with
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gunfire, though that remains an option,
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but by leaking their payroll to a
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senator hungry for reform headlines.
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One week later, the Purple Boys are
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reassigned to Staten Island traffic
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duty. Harlem applauds. Down in Midtown,
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Dutch Schultz growls over his stake. A
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former beer baron reduced to bootlegging
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jin and hijacking trucks. Dutch hears
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tales of easy policy money and decides
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Harlem is ripe for plunder. He bribes
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judges, bullies union bosses, and
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finally sends 30 armed goons north of
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125th Street to negotiate. The goons
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leave carrying broken noses and an
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unmistakable message, turn around.
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Dutch, insulted, escalates. He tortures
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storefronts, kidnaps runners, and even
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tries to bomb St. Clare's townhouse
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using dynamite stolen from a
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construction site. She survives by
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napping in her bathtub, a habit she
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learned during childhood hurricanes, a
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fact that will later feel like divine
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intervention. Time for chess, Bumpy
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decides. He meets Dutch's consilier in a
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Little Italy pool hall, wearing his
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Sunday suit and an expression carved
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from granite. In measured tones, he
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explains that Harlem's internal law is
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older than Schultz's birth certificate,
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that bullets will be answered with
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burying grounds, and most chilling of
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all, that Bumpy has memorized the daily
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roots of Schulz's wife and children. The
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consiliary relays the message. Dutch
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laughs it off. Right up to the evening,
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his personal safe explodes in his face,
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courtesy of a nitroglycerin vial slipped
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between stacks of cash. Dutch survives,
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but three fingers are lost to history.
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The pyrochnics draw public outrage,
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forcing Mayor Fierella Laguadia to act.
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Sinclair seizes the moment. She smuggles
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a letter into city hall so eloquent, so
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damning that Laguadia cannot ignore it
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without ruining his reformist brand.
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Within 48 hours, the NYPD swarms
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Schultz's gin warehouses under the guise
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of a tax raid. 12 arrests, eight seized
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trucks, and one humiliated Dutch. Later,
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Harlem sovereignty is unofficially
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recognized. Bumpy and St. declare toast
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with prohibition grade champagne. But
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they both know victory is temporary.
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Laws change. Greed is eternal. Fast
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1965. Jazz has mutated into funk. The
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civil rights movement is both triumphant
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and bleeding. And across the Pacific, a
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jungle war is churning out body bags by
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the hour. Frank Lucas, an ex-drive
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driver for Bumpy, attends his mentor's
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funeral at Union Baptist Church.
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Standing amid floral wreaths, Lucas
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decides two things. The throne of Harlem
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is vacant, and America's next addiction
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isn't numbers or booze, it's heroine.
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Lucas travels to Bangkok, posing as an
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army sergeant. There he befriends a
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local smuggler nicknamed Cadillac Cow
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and strikes a devil's bargain. 98% pure
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heroin at wholesale prices hidden in
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false bottoms of furniture shipped to
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New York. The operation works, but
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shipping is slow. So Lucas improves on
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it with an idea as cold as a morg slab.
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fill military caskets with kilos, seal
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them beneath false soldier remains, and
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piggyback on US Air Force transport
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planes. He calls the product Blue Magic,
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brands it in blue waxed paper, and
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undercuts every Italian wholesaler in
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the five burrows. Over the next four
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years, Lucas pulls in a million a day.
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He buys a mink coat for his wife. So
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indulgent its sleeves drag on the
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sidewalk. The coat will later betray
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him, but that's another scene. While
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Lucas corner supply, Leroy Nikki Barnes
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corner's image. Raised in an abusive
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household, tempered by juvenile
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detention, Barnes graduates to street
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legend by the time he turns 28. He
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renames himself Mr. untouchable after a
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judge dismisses his narcotics case on a
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procedural slip. Barnes wears tailored
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Gucci, imports champagne by the
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crateful, and hires two dozen lawyers on
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permanent retainer. Unlike Lucas, Barnes
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believes visibility equals
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invincibility. He forms the council, a
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cooperative of seven Harlem dealers who
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meet monthly to set prices, allocate
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corners, and mediate turf disputes.
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Essentially, a corporate boardroom in
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bell bottoms. Their handshake oath,
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never testify, never talk, never betray.
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For a while, it works. The council's
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profits finance community cookouts,
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college scholarships, and midnight
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basketball, blurring lines between
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villain and patronage. Yet hubris is a
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thirsty beast. On June 5th,
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1977, Barnes poses for the cover of Time
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magazine, arms folded, grin unchecked,
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under the headline, Mr.
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Untouchable. Across town, a newly minted
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DEA task force studies the cover like a
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battleground map. Among them is
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Detective Richie Roberts, a white New
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Jersey cop whose moral compass spins
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unlike any partners. He turned in a
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million dollars of unmarked drug cash
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because he says, "It wasn't mine." Lucas
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mistakes Roberts's honesty for naivity.
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Barnes misreads it as bluff. Both men
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will pay. Richard Nixon's war on drugs
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declares narcotics public enemy number
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one. Yet Harlem residents know the real
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enemy wears two faces, addiction and
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neglect. Methadone clinics pop up on
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corners once reserved for shoe shines.
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School attendance plummets. Funerals
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become neighborhood reunions. Lucas's
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blue magic, though purer than anything
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on the street, is cut by mid-level
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dealers with baby laxative to maximize
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weight. Overdoses spike. Mothers weep.
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The same community that once saw Lucas
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as a Robin Hood now views him as plague
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carrier. Richie Roberts conducts
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surveillance from a battered Chevy,
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eating stale donuts while recording
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license plates outside Lucas's uptown
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mansion. One night, Roberts watches
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Lucas hand a fur draped envelope to a
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crooked NYPD detective. The detective
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enters a nightclub bathroom, emerges
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lighter, and drives away humming
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Soninatra. Roberts has what he needs,
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proof that Lucas bribes law enforcement.
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The arrest warrant follows, culminating
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in a Thanksgiving morning raid. SWAT
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crashes through Lucas's glass doors,
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sending shards across Persian rugs.
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Lucas is handcuffed midway through,
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carving a turkey large enough to feed a
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battalion. His gold watch reads 8:46
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a.m. By 10:00, he's in a holding cell,
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staring at walls the same color as
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Bangkok Sand. Meanwhile, Nikki Barnes
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grows paranoid. Council meetings devolve
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into shouting matches over missed
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payments and side deals. When Barnes
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learns that one member slept with his
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mistress, the self-styled CEO orders a
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hit, violating his own code. The council
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fractures like rotted timber. Within
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months, federal prosecutors indict
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Barnes on the strength of wire taps,
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ledgers, and the testimonies of
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disgruntled left tenants. Facing life
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without parole, Barnes calculates the
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odds and arrives at a chilling
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conclusion. The only currency left is
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betrayal. He volunteers to become a
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cooperating witness, provides diagrams
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of council stash houses, identifies
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corrupt cops, and even fingers his
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ex-wife's new boyfriend. In one marathon
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session, he names 109 accompllices.
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Harlem reels. The streets rename him Mr.
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Untouchable no more. Now he is simply
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Mr. Unthinkable. Lucas 2 flips, but with
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conditions. He agrees to expose crooked
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lawmen on the understanding that his
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family enters witness protection.
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Roberts, true to his word,
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delivers. 33 NYPD officers are indicted.
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Two commits suicide before trial. Lucas
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receives a sentence reduction and spends
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his downtime teaching GED classes behind
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bars. He will walk free in 1991.
14:58
older, softer, eerily
15:01
philosophical. All that money, man, it
15:03
was just rented. Congress, rattled by
15:06
the optics of blackrun heroin
15:08
syndicates, passes the RICO statute,
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allowing prosecutors to treat loosely
15:13
affiliated dealers as one criminal
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enterprise. Suddenly, possessing your
15:19
brother-in-law's phone number is enough
15:22
to sink you under a conspiracy charge.
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Whole blocks vanish into penitentiies.
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Mothers raise children on welfare
15:30
checks. And absentee fathers become a
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statistical cliche. Yet something
15:35
unexpected germinates in that vacuum.
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Hip hop. DJs splice drum breaks from
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James Brown. MC's lace rhymes with
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cautionary tales. And young listeners
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memorize verses about Bumpy, Frank, and
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Nikki. The way earlier generations
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recited baseball stats. The gangster
15:55
becomes anti-hero. The hustler becomes
15:58
folk philosopher. Fashion follows. Mink
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coats reappear on runways. Oversized
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sunglasses emulate barns while
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filmmakers greenlight movies like
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American gangster, packaging real pain
16:14
into box office gold. Political scholars
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coin the term gray market iconography.
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the idea that communities will
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mythologize outlaws when mainstream
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history refuses to grant them legitimate
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heroes. So, what did we witness tonight?
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A ledger of crimes. Certainly, a
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chronicle of cruelty without question,
16:38
but also a syllabus of resistance. Proof
16:41
that even within oppression, agency
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blooms, sometimes in twisted forms.
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Stephanie Sinclair defied police
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extortion. Bumpy Johnson negotiated
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peace by threatening war smarter than
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anyone before him. Frank Lucas hacked
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the global supply chain decades before
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Amazon. Nikki Barnes understood brand
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marketing better than Madison Avenue.
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Their methods were illegal, sometimes
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monstrous, but their audacity forced
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America to confront its own double
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standards. Who gets to profit? Who gets
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punished? And who writes the final draft
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of history? If truth is born in
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darkness, the decision to switch on a
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light belongs to us. Leave it dark and
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illuminate it and we might finally
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separate legend from lesson. If you
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found value in this unfiltered dive into
17:42
black gangster history, hit subscribe
17:44
and let us know your take in the
17:46
comments below. Next time we cross the
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border to meet the Latina cartel queens
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who bent entire empires to their will.
17:56
Until then, keep your mind sharp and
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your conscience sharper.