Thursday, August 19, 1965, East 132nd Street, Harlem. Bumpy Johnson left the Smalls Paradise nightclub at exactly 11:43 pm after a business meeting with three Philadelphia heroin dealers who wanted access to his Harlem network.
The meeting had gone well. The terms were agreed upon. The money would flow. Business as usual for a man who had controlled Harlem’s underworld for nearly three decades.
What Bumpy didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known, despite his legendary street instincts and paranoid security protocols—was that parked in three different vehicles within a two-block radius were seven professional hitmen. Each armed with a .45 caliber pistol, each paid $50,000 by the Genovese crime family to make sure Bumpy Johnson didn’t live to see Friday morning.
At precisely 11:46 p.m., as Bumpy reached for his car keys, the seven men opened fire from three different angles in a coordinated ambush that had been planned for six weeks, rehearsed for three days, and executed with military precision. Forty-two shots were fired in approximately eight seconds.
Twelve bullets found their mark. Bumpy Johnson was hit twice in the chest, shoulder, both arms, both legs, abdomen, back, and neck. He collapsed on the sidewalk, bleeding from twelve separate gunshot wounds, his blood pressure dropping, his consciousness fading. Certain he was experiencing his last moments on Earth.
What transpired in the next six hours became the most legendary retaliation in the history of organized crime; because by 5:47 a.m. on Friday morning, all seven shooters were dead. Three captains of the Genovese crime family were missing. The acting head of the Genovese family was on a plane to Sicily. And the FBI, which had been investigating both Bumpy and the Genovese family for 18 months, officially closed its investigation with a memo that simply stated: “Subject too dangerous to approach. Surveillance only advised. Do not get involved.”
This is the story of how Bumpy Johnson survived 12 gunshot wounds and in 6 hours made even the FBI afraid of him.
To understand what happened on August 19 and why the consequences were so swift and terrifying, you need to understand the situation between Bumpy Johnson and the five families in the summer of 1965.
For 20 years, there had been an understanding, an arrangement, a kind of treaty. Bumpy controlled Harlem. The Italian Mafia controlled everything else in New York. They didn’t compete. They didn’t interfere in each other’s operations. Bumpy paid a tribute of approximately 15 percent of his heroin profits to the Genovese family in exchange for protection, access to their international suppliers, and a guarantee that the other families wouldn’t enter Harlem.
The arrangement was profitable for everyone. The Genovese family collected approximately $2 million annually from Bumpy’s tribute without having to navigate the complex politics of Harlem, a territory difficult for white mobsters to control effectively. Bumpy gained access to the world’s best sources of heroin and political protection through the Genovese family’s extensive network of corrupt judges, police officers, and politicians.
Everyone was making money. Everyone stayed in their lane. Everyone was happy.
But by 1965, the arrangement was fracturing. The problem was generational and philosophical. The old guard—men like Frank Costello and Vito Genovese, who had made the original deal with Bumpy in the 1940s—were either dead, in prison, or retired. The new generation of Mafia leadership didn’t have the same respect for the old arrangements.
They looked at Harlem and saw America’s most lucrative drug market controlled by a single Black man, now 61 years old. They thought the arrangement was outdated, inefficient, an insult to Italian-American organized crime. They wanted Harlem for themselves and believed that eliminating Bumpy Johnson was the first step toward taking control of his territory.
Three men in particular were pressing to act: Thomas “Tommy Ryan” Eboli, acting boss of the Genovese family after Vito Genovese went to prison in 1959; Anthony “Fat Tony” Salerno, a powerful captain in the Genovese family who controlled extensive gambling and loan sharking operations in East Harlem and the Bronx; and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, a rising star in the Genovese organization who would later become one of the most powerful Mafia bosses in U.S. history.
These three men had been meeting secretly for four months, planning, strategizing, trying to figure out how to eliminate Bumpy without starting a war that would attract unwanted federal attention. Their conclusion: murder. Quick, clean, professional; make it look like a robbery or a dispute with a rival Harlem gang. No connection to the Genovese family. No repercussions. Just Bumpy dead and Harlem suddenly available to whoever moved fastest and strongest.
They hired seven men, not Italian, not associated with the Genovese family in any documented way. Independent professionals from Detroit, Chicago, and Philadelphia who specialized in high-value contract killings. Each man had at least five confirmed murders. Each man had military experience, mostly from Korea, some were World War II veterans.
These weren’t street thugs. They were trained assassins who understood tactics, coordination, crossfire, and escape protocols. The Genovese family paid them a total of $350,000, $50,000 per shooter, which was an enormous sum in 1965, equivalent to roughly $3 million in today’s money. That kind of payment indicated how seriously the Mafia took this job, how much they wanted Bumpy Johnson dead, and how certain they wanted to be that the job would be done right.
The seven shooters studied Bumpy for six weeks, learning his routines, his security protocols, and his movement patterns. They discovered that Bumpy constantly varied his routes, never drove the same road twice, always had at least two bodyguards, and changed his schedule unpredictably. He was extremely difficult to target.
But they also discovered a small vulnerability. Every Thursday night, Bumpy attended business meetings at the Smalls Paradise nightclub on 135th Street. He always arrived between 10 and 10:30 p.m. He always stayed between one and two hours, and he always parked his car on East 132nd Street, two blocks from the club, because he didn’t trust the valet service.
That walk from the club to his car, two blocks, about three minutes, was the only consistent and predictable pattern in Bumpy’s entire week. That was his window. That was the moment they would strike.
They planned the ambush with military precision. Three vehicles were strategically positioned: one at the corner of 132nd and Lenox, one mid-block on 132nd, and one at the corner of 132nd and Seventh Avenue. Seven shooters were distributed among the three vehicles. Each shooter was assigned a specific firing zone to ensure complete cover and prevent Bumpy from escaping in any direction.
The plan was simple but effective. Wait for Bumpy to leave Smalls Paradise and begin walking toward his car. Let him get halfway down the block, away from potential witnesses, to the darkest section of 132nd Street where the streetlights were broken. Then, the seven shooters would exit their vehicles simultaneously and open fire from three different angles.
Crossfire, overwhelming firepower, no escape, no survival. Bumpy would be dead before he could even draw his weapon. The shooters would return to their vehicles and vanish into the night. The police would find Bumpy’s body. The investigation would go nowhere. The case would go cold. Perfect.
Except they made a catastrophic miscalculation. They assumed 12 bullets would kill Bumpy Johnson. They were wrong.
Thursday, August 19, 1965. 11:43 pm Smalls Paradise, 135th Street. Bumpy leaves the club through the front door. His meeting with the Philadelphia distributors went well. They’ve agreed to move 50 kilos a month through his network starting in September. That’s an additional million dollars in annual revenue. Good business. Profitable business.
Bumpy is in a good mood. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, no tie, diamond cufflinks, and a gold watch. He looks successful because he is successful. At 61, Bumpy Johnson controls the most profitable criminal enterprise in Harlem’s history. He’s rich, powerful, respected, and feared.
He walks east on 135th Street toward his car. It’s late. The streets are mostly empty. A few people outside a bar half a block away. A couple walking their dog. Typical sounds of a Harlem night. Music drifting from basement clubs. Distant traffic.
Bumpy is relaxed but alert. Always alert. Forty years in this life teach you never to let your guard down completely. He constantly scans the street for threats, anomalies, anything unusual. He turns south onto 132nd Street. His car is parked mid-block on the left side. A 1964 Cadillac Eldorado. Black, immaculate; Bumpy takes care of his possessions.
He walks at a steady pace. He’s not rushing, not worried, thinking about tomorrow, about the Philadelphia deal, about other business. That’s when his instincts kick in. Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know what yet. He can’t pinpoint the specific threat, but something in his subconscious screams danger.
He slows down, scans the parked cars. Three vehicles that don’t belong there. A Chevrolet Impala on the corner, a Ford Galaxie mid-block, a Plymouth Fury on the other corner; all with their engines running, all with multiple occupants. This isn’t normal.
Bumpy’s hand moves to his waist, to the .45 automatic he always carries. A Colt M1911 A1, military grade. He’s carried the same gun for 20 years. He’s killed 14 men. Tonight, he might need to kill more, but he’s too late, too slow.
The car doors open. Seven men emerge. All holding pistols, all pointing them at him. Bumpy draws his weapon. Quick, smooth. 40 years of practice, but seven against one. Even Bumpy Johnson can’t win against those odds.
The shootout begins. All seven men firing simultaneously. The sound is deafening, massive, like a war zone. Forty-two shots in eight seconds. Bumpy returns fire, firing three rounds, hitting one shooter in the shoulder, wounding another in the leg, but then the bullets strike him.
First shot: chest, left side, just below the collarbone. The impact makes him spin. Second shot: right shoulder, breaks the collarbone. Third shot: left arm, goes through the bicep from side to side. Fourth shot: right arm, fractures the humerus. Fifth shot: left leg, thigh, damages the femur. Bumpy falls to one knee. He can’t get up, he keeps shooting.
Sixth shot: right leg, calf, tibia fracture. Both legs compromised now. He falls, lands on his back, continues firing. Seventh shot: abdomen, center of mass, potentially fatal. Eighth shot: back as he falls, near the kidney. Ninth shot: chest again. Right side, punctures the lung. Tenth shot: left shoulder. Eleventh shot: neck, superficial wound, but arterial bleeding. Twelfth shot: back again, lower spine.
Twelve gunshot wounds. Bumpy lies on the pavement. Blood everywhere. Coming from all sides. His gun is empty, fallen from his hand. He’s conscious but fading. Tunnel vision, muffled hearing, everything distant.
He thinks, “This is it. This is how it ends. 61 years old, 40 years running Harlem. It ends here on 132nd Street. Bleeding out, dying.”
The seven shooters return to their vehicles. Mission accomplished. Target down. Multiple hits. He’s dead or dying. Either way, the job is done. They drive away. Three vehicles, different directions, scattering. Professional, clean.
Bumpy lies there alone. Bleeding. Dying. No one comes. The few people who heard the gunshots stayed inside. This is Harlem. Gunshots mean stay away. Don’t get involved. Don’t witness. Survive by being invisible.
Thirty seconds pass. It feels like thirty minutes. Bumpy’s consciousness is slipping away. He’s losing blood fast. Maybe forty percent of his total blood volume is gone already. His heart races. Trying to compensate. Trying to keep him alive, but it’s not enough. He’s dying. Medical fact: twelve gunshot wounds. Massive blood loss. No immediate medical attention. Near-zero chance of survival.
But then a car screeches to a halt. Marcus Webb, Bumpy’s top lieutenant. He’d been following Bumpy from Smalls Paradise in a separate vehicle. Standard security protocol. He was two blocks back. He heard the shots, ran over, saw the aftermath, saw Bumpy on the ground, bleeding, dying.
Marcus jumps, runs towards Bumpy.
—Jesus Christ, Bumpy, stay with me.
He takes out a handkerchief, presses it against the worst wound, the abdominal gunshot, trying to slow the bleeding, trying to buy time. He takes out his phone, one of the new car phones, expensive, essential for exactly this kind of emergency, and dials Dr. Samuel Robinson.
11:49 pm Robinson answers immediately.
-What happened?
—Bumpy has been shot multiple times. At least 12 times. He’s bleeding out. I’m on 132nd between Lenox and Seventh. I need you to come here now, not to the hospital. Here. He won’t survive transport to a hospital. You have to come to him.
—I’ll be there in 8 minutes. Keep pressure on the wounds. Keep him conscious. Talk to him. Don’t let him lose consciousness.
Robinson hangs up, grabs his medical bag, runs to his car, and speeds, running every red light. Eight minutes from his office in the Bronx to Harlem. Impossible. He usually does it in seven tonight.
Marcus is talking to Bumpy. Constant flow.
“Stay with me. Doc’s on his way. You’re going to be okay. Just stay conscious. Keep breathing. Don’t you dare die here. Mayme would kill me if I let you die.”
Bumpy’s eyes are open. Barely. He can hear Marcus. He can’t respond. He can’t move. Just bleeding. Dying.
Robinson arrives at 11:56 pm, 13 minutes after the shooting. He jumps up. He runs towards Bumpy. He examines him quickly, professionally.
—12 gunshot wounds, massive blood loss, punctured lung, possible damage to abdominal organs, arterial bleeding from a neck wound. This is bad. Really bad. He needs surgery immediately. We can’t do it here.
“Where?” Marcus asks.
—My office. I have equipment. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. Help me put it in my car. Carefully. Don’t aggravate the wounds.
They lift Bumpy gently. Carefully. Each movement causes more bleeding. They put him in Robinson’s car. Back seat reclined. Robinson drives. Marcus applies pressure to the wounds. Bumpy is still conscious, barely fading.
12:07 am Friday, August 20. Dr. Robinson’s Office, Bronx.
Robinson runs a private, unofficial, off-the-books medical facility to treat people who can’t go to hospitals. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, injuries that would require police reports. He’s been doing this for 30 years, saving hundreds of lives. Tonight, he’s trying to save the most important life of his career.
He puts Bumpy on the operating table, cuts off his clothes, exposes the 12 wounds. It’s catastrophic. Worse than he thought.
—Marcus, I need blood. O negative if possible. If not, whatever you can get. I need at least six pints, maybe eight. Call everyone. Bring donors here immediately.
Marcus makes calls. In 30 minutes, eight men arrive. All from Bumpy’s team, all willing to donate blood. Robinson prepares transfusions, begins the surgery. He’s 75 years old. His hands sometimes tremble, but not tonight. Tonight, they’re steady. Perfect. Because he knows what’s at stake. If Bumpy Johnson dies, Harlem will erupt. War, chaos, hundreds dead. Robinson can’t let that happen.
He operated for six hours straight, extracting bullets, suturing blood vessels, and repairing organs. The abdominal wound hit the liver. Not fatal, but serious. The lung wound required a chest tube. The neck wound missed the carotid artery by millimeters. Pure luck. The leg and arm wounds were painful, but not life-threatening. The back wounds were concerning. Potential spinal damage, but not immediately fatal.
Robinson works methodically, professionally, flawlessly. By 6 a.m., Bumpy is stable, vital signs improving, blood pressure rising, pulse stabilizing, breathing regular. He is unconscious but alive.
Robinson takes a step back, exhausted.
“He’ll probably live. The next 24 hours are critical, but if there’s no infection, he’ll survive. He’s strong, tougher than anyone I’ve ever treated. Twelve gunshot wounds should have killed him. They would have killed anyone else, but somehow he’s alive.”
Bumpy wakes up at 6:47 am. Dazed, in pain, but conscious and alert. He sees Robinson. He sees Marcus.
-How long?
—It’s been 7 hours since you were shot. You’ve been in surgery for 6. You’re stable now, but you need to rest. No movement, no stress. You lost massive amounts of blood. Your body needs time to…
Bumpy interrupts.
—Who shot me?
Marcus replies.
Seven shooters, professional hit, coordinated ambush. I have witness descriptions. I have information on the vehicles. I’m tracking them now.
—How long will it take to find them?
“I’ve found them. All seven of them. They’re staying at a hotel in Queens, waiting to be paid. The Genovese family hired them. Tommy Eboli ordered the hit. I have all the details.”
Bumpy sits down. Pain shoots through his body. Robinson tries to push him down.
—You can’t. You need to rest.
—No, I need to make phone calls. Bring me a phone now.
Robinson knows it’s best not to argue. He gets a phone. Bumpy starts dialing. Despite the pain, despite the weakness, despite the fact that he should be dead.
6:52 am Friday, August 20. First call. Jerome Patterson, Bumpy Logistics Coordinator.
“Jerome, I was shot last night by seven professionals hired by the Genovese family. I survived. Now I need you to mobilize everyone. I want all seven shooters dead by noon. I want Tommy Eboli, Fat Tony Salerno, and Vincent Gigante missing by tonight. Can you do it?”
Jerome has no doubts.
—Consider it done. How are you?
“I’m alive. That’s all that matters. Six hours, Jerome. Seven gunmen dead by noon. Three Genovese captains missing by midnight. Go.”
Second call. Paul Williams, Bumpy’s head of security.
—Paul, I want you to send a message to every FBI agent investigating me or the Genovese family. Tell them what happened last night. Tell them I was ambushed by seven gunmen. Tell them I survived. Tell them all seven gunmen will be dead by lunchtime. Tell them to stay out of my way. If they interfere, they’ll regret it.
Third call. Vincent Drake, Bumpy’s weapons specialist.
—Vincent, I need you to prepare an exhibit. Public, visible. I want the bodies of the seven shooters displayed somewhere the FBI and the NYPD can’t ignore. Somewhere that sends a message. Figure it out. Make it memorable.
Bumpy hangs up. He looks at Robinson.
—How long until I can walk?
—Weeks, maybe months. You have 12 gunshot wounds. Nerve damage. Muscle damage. Bone fractures. You shouldn’t even be conscious right now.
—I need to walk today, in 6 hours. Give me whatever drugs I need. I don’t care about the long-term damage. I need to function now.
Robinson sighs. He knows that arguing is pointless.
—I can give you stimulants, painkillers, adrenaline injections, but it will cause enormous damage. You’ll pay for this later.
—Later doesn’t matter. Now matters. Do it.
Robinson prepares injections. Amphetamines, morphine, cortisone, adrenaline. A cocktail that would kill most people. He injects Bumpy. He watches. He waits. Bumpy’s eyes clear. His breathing stabilizes. The drugs are working. Masking the pain. Forcing function. Artificial strength. Borrowed time. But it’s enough.
8:00 a.m. Friday, August 20. Jerome Patterson’s team has located the seven shooters. They’re at the Galaxy Motor Inn in Queens, room 237, all together celebrating, drinking, thinking they’ve succeeded, thinking Bumpy Johnson is dead, thinking they’ll collect their payment in a few hours and disappear. They’re wrong about everything.
Jerome brings 20 men, professional, armed, and coordinated. They surround the hotel, block all the exits, enter through the back, go up the stairs to the second floor, reach room 237, and knock.
—Room service.
One of the gunmen opens the door, sees 20 guns pointed at him, tries to close it, but can’t. Jerome’s men enter. Overwhelming force. The seven gunmen try to fight back. Useless. They are outnumbered, outgunned, and captured in less than 30 seconds.
Jerome makes a call.
—We have all seven. What do you want us to do?
Bumpy answers. His voice is weak but clear.
—Kill them. All seven of them. The same way they tried to kill me. Twelve shots each. I want symmetry. I want justice. Then display the bodies somewhere public. Somewhere the FBI will find them. Somewhere they’ll understand what happens when you shoot Bumpy Johnson.
-Understood.
Jerome hangs up. He looks at his team.
—You heard the man. 12 shots each. Do it cleanly, professionally. The message must be clear.
The seven shooters are executed. Twelve bullets each, 84 in total, matching the 12 that hit Bumpy. Perfect symmetry, mathematical justice. Then the bodies are loaded into three vans and driven to Federal Plaza in Lower Manhattan, the FBI’s New York field office.
The seven bodies are laid out on the steps, posed, seated as if waiting to enter the building. Each body has 12 bullet wounds. Each body has a note pinned to its chest: *“Bumpy Johnson was shot 12 times. Here’s what happens next. – BJ”*
11:47 a.m. Friday, August 20. FBI agents arriving at work discover seven bodies on their front steps, all with multiple gunshot wounds, all with notes referencing Bumpy Johnson. They immediately call the NYPD, they call their supervisors, they call Washington.
This is a message, a threat, a show of force. Someone just dumped seven murder victims on the FBI’s doorstep as a warning. Special Agent Michael Morrison is assigned to investigate. He’s been tracking Bumpy Johnson for three years. He knows his methods, he knows his signature. This is classic Bumpy. Professional, precise, sending a message.
Morrison examines the bodies. Twelve shots each. Eighty-four bullets in total. The same number fired at Bumpy last night. Hospital reports indicate Bumpy was hit twelve times. Now twelve bullets per seven bodies appear on the FBI steps.
Morrison calls his supervisor.
“Sir, we have a situation. Bumpy Johnson was ambushed last night. 12 shots. He survived. Now seven bodies, presumably his attackers, are at our doorstep. All with 12 shots. This is retaliation. Swift, brutal, complete.”
—Can we prove that Bumpy ordered it?
—No. He’s been in surgery all night. He has an alibi. His team did this, but we can’t prove he ordered it.
—So what do you recommend?
Morrison thinks carefully. He’s been investigating organized crime for 20 years. He’s seen it all. But this is different. This is a message specifically for the FBI. A warning. Stay out of my way.
“Sir, I recommend we permanently close the investigation into Bumpy Johnson. He just proved he can survive 12 gunshot wounds and retaliate with overwhelming force in less than 12 hours. He dumped seven bodies on our steps as a warning. If we continue investigating him, we’re putting officers at risk. He’s too dangerous, too powerful, too ruthless. I recommend surveillance only. No direct involvement, no attempts at prosecution. Just observe him from a distance.”
There is silence. Then:
—Agreed. Close the file. Surveillance only. Make a note: the subject is too dangerous for direct investigation. All contact is advised to be avoided.
Morrison hangs up. He writes the memo. He files it. The FBI’s investigation into Bumpy Johnson is officially over. Not because they can’t build a case. Because they’re afraid of what will happen if they try.
2:00 pm Friday, August 20. Bumpy’s team locates Tommy Eboli, Fat Tony Salerno, and Vincent Gigante. All three are in hiding. All three know something went wrong. The shooters missed. Bumpy survived. Now there will be consequences. They’re trying to disappear. Trying to escape. They can’t. Bumpy’s network is too extensive, too meticulous.
Paul Williams’ team captures the three separately. Different locations. Same result. Captured, transported, delivered to a warehouse in Red Hook where Bumpy is waiting.
Bumpy is standing, barely. Sustained by drugs and willpower. Twelve gunshot wounds. Seven hours since surgery. He should be in bed, he should be unconscious, he should be dead, but he’s standing because he needs to look these three men in the eye when he hands down their sentence.
—Tommy, Tony, Vincent. They ordered a hit on me. Seven shooters, 12 bullets hit. They thought I’d die. They were wrong. Now they’re paying.
Bumpy nods to Marcus. Marcus shoots all three. Headshot. Quick, clean. They’re dead before they hit the ground.
—Get rid of the bodies separately. I want them found in three different states. I want the Genovese family to know their leadership is gone because they came for me. I want them terrified.
The bodies disappear. Tommy Eboli found in New Jersey. Fat Tony in Pennsylvania. Vincent in Connecticut. All within 72 hours. All clearly executed. All sending the same message: The Genovese family tried to kill Bumpy Johnson. Their leadership died instead.
5:47 p.m. Friday, August 20. Six hours since Bumpy woke up from surgery. In that time: seven shooters dead. Three Genovese captains dead. FBI investigation closed. Acting Genovese family boss Philip “Benny Squint” Lombardo calls Bumpy from a payphone at JFK airport.
—Bumpy, it’s Lombardo. I’m calling to tell you I had nothing to do with the hit on you. It was Eboli, Salerno, and Gigante. They acted without the family’s approval, without the Commission’s approval. They’re dead now. I accept that. I’m not going to retaliate. I’m leaving New York, going to Sicily, retiring. I don’t want war with you. Nobody wants war with you. You’ve made your point. You survived 12 shots and killed everyone responsible within 6 hours. Message received. I’m out. The Genovese family is withdrawing from any operations that might conflict with yours. We’re finished.
Bumpy responds.
—Smart decision. Stay in Sicily. Don’t come back. If you do, I’ll assume you’re a threat, and you know what I do with threats.
—Understood. This is over. You won.
Lombardo hangs up, boards a plane to Italy, and never returns to New York. The Genovese family effectively gives up.
The aftermath: In six hours, Bumpy Johnson, shot 12 times and barely alive, orchestrated the deaths of seven professional hitmen and three Mafia captains, forced the acting head of the Genovese family into permanent exile, and made the FBI so afraid of him that they officially closed their investigation with a memo recommending no direct involvement.
The story spread through the underworld instantly. Bumpy Johnson was shot 12 times and survived. He killed all his attackers within six hours. He shook the FBI. He forced the Mafia to surrender. He proved he was immortal, unstoppable, invincible.
Bumpy recovered over the next three months. The nerve damage in his legs never fully healed. He walked with a slight limp for the rest of his life. The wounds on his back caused chronic pain. The lung damage reduced his stamina, but he lived, thrived, and continued to lead Harlem until his death from a heart attack in 1968.
August 19, 1965, 11:46 pm: Seven gunmen fired 42 bullets, 12 of which hit Bumpy Johnson.
August 20, 1965, 5:47 pm: Seven gunmen dead. Three captains dead. One chief in exile. FBI investigation closed.
Six hours from near death to utter victory. That’s not revenge. That’s not even retaliation. That’s Bumpy Johnson proving you can’t kill him. You can try. You can hit him 12 times. But six hours later, you’ll be dead and he’ll still be standing. He’s not a threat. He’s a proven fact. Documented, witnessed, feared.
The FBI memo remains on file, classified, and available only to senior agents. It reads: *“Subject Ellsworth ‘Bumpy’ Johnson. Recommendation: Do not engage. The subject survived a coordinated assassination attempt and retaliated with overwhelming force within six hours. Demonstrated capability exceeds federal response capacity. Surveillance only is recommended. Avoid all direct contact. The subject is too dangerous for traditional investigative methods.”*
They weren’t wrong. Bumpy Johnson was too dangerous for the mob, for the FBI. For anyone who thought 12 bullets would be enough. Because Bumpy taught everyone the same lesson on August 20: You can shoot me 12 times, but six hours later I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.
