Lucky Luciano opened his door in 1950 and found something waiting for him on the threshold. Five wrapped, heavy packages. He hadn’t ordered anything. He wasn’t expecting any deliveries. He opened the first one, and what he saw inside made him close the door, call a meeting, and never send men to Harlem again.
Because those five packages weren’t gifts. They were a message from Bumpy Johnson. A message written in a language every gangster understands.
To understand what happened in 1950, you have to understand the power dynamic between Lucky Luciano and Bumpy Johnson. By 1950, Luciano was in exile. The U.S. government had deported him to Italy in 1946. But even from across the ocean, he still maintained influence over New York’s criminal operations. He had men in place: Frank Costello running things day-to-day, Meyer Lansky handling the finances, Vito Genovese waiting in the wings. And they all reported to “Charlie Lucky” in Naples.
But there was one neighborhood in New York that Luciano’s organization couldn’t touch. A territory that remained independent: Harlem.
Bumpy Johnson controlled Harlem. He had controlled it since the 1930s. Underground lotteries, bookies, protection rackets—everything went through Bumpy. And Bumpy didn’t answer to the Italian families. He didn’t pay tribute, he didn’t ask permission.
This annoyed Luciano’s lieutenants, especially Vito Genovese.
—Charlie—Genovese said during a transatlantic call in January 1950—. Harlem is generating millions and we’re not seeing a penny.
—Bumpy has an understanding with us. We stay out of Harlem. He stays out of our territories.
—That agreement was made 20 years ago. Times have changed.
—Bumpy hasn’t changed.
—Then maybe it’s time for someone to change the situation.
Luciano was silent for a moment. He respected Bumpy, he always had. But Genovese was right. Harlem represented money they weren’t earning, territory they didn’t control, and control was power.
“What do you propose?” Luciano asked.
—Let me send some people, set up operations, show a presence. We don’t have to go to war. Just remind Bumpy that he’s not untouchable.
Luciano considered it. From Italy, everything seemed manageable, theoretical. He wasn’t on the ground, he didn’t see Bumpy every day, he didn’t feel the weight of his reputation.
—Send men, but professionals. No cowboys, no violence unless absolutely necessary.
-Understood.
—And Vito, if this goes wrong, it’s your responsibility.
—It won’t turn out badly.
But he did it. Very badly.
In February 1950, five men arrived in New York from Chicago and Detroit. Professional enforcers with experience establishing operations in hostile territory. Their names: Tony “Baccala,” Vincent “Vinnie” Russo, Michael Delaney, Sal Martino, and Frank “The Hammer” Costanza. Not to be confused with Frank Costello. A different Frank, but just as dangerous.
These weren’t street thugs. They were seasoned soldiers. Between them, they had over 40 years of experience in organized crime: extortion, gambling operations, execution, debt collection. They knew how to discreetly enter a neighborhood, set up gambling dens, recruit local dealers, and offer protection to businesses.
The plan was simple. Phase one: establish three bookmakers in East Harlem. Recruit local bookies. Offer better odds than Bumpy’s operations. Phase two: approach businesses. Offer “insurance” against problems. Build a customer base. Phase three: expand. Once they had a foothold, bring in more men, more operations, slowly take over Harlem, block by block.
The five men checked into a hotel in Midtown. Not Harlem. Too obvious. They would travel during the day, scout locations, make contacts. What they didn’t know was that Bumpy Johnson knew they were coming even before they landed in New York.
Bumpy had eyes everywhere. In hotels, in restaurants, in train stations and airports; people who worked legitimate jobs during the day and reported to Bumpy at night. A bellboy at the hotel where the five Italians checked in noticed them. He noticed their behavior, their expensive suits, and their watchful eyes. He made a call.
—Mr. Johnson, five men just checked in. Strangers, Chicago accents, asking questions about Harlem.
Bumpy thanked him, hung up, and made another call.
—Illinois, I need you to follow five men, guys from Chicago, staying at the Lexington Hotel. I want to know where they’re going, who they’re talking to. Don’t get close, just watch.
Illinois Gordon was one of Bumpy’s best lookouts. Invisible, patient, meticulous. For three days, Illinois followed the five Italians, watched them scout locations, spoke with potential recruits, and surveil businesses. On the fourth day, Illinois reported to Bumpy.
—They’re setting up betting shops, three locations: 116th Street, 125th Street and 135th Street. They’ve already recruited four local guys, promising them better payouts than you pay.
Bumpy listened silently, then asked a question.
—Do they know we’re watching?
—No, boss. They’re overconfident, acting like they already own the place.
Bumpy nodded slowly.
—Let them settle in. Let them get comfortable.
—Do you want them to establish operations?
—I want them to commit. Once they’re committed, they can’t run away. Then we move.
February 14, 1950, Valentine’s Day. An ironic moment for what was about to happen.
The five Italian enforcers had set up their first bookmaker’s shop, a storefront on 125th Street. Front operation: a social club. Back room: an illegal lottery. They had recruited eight local dealers, printed their own betting slips, and set their own odds. Business was starting to pick up. Small at first, but growing.
Tony Baccala, the leader, called Genovese from a public phone.
—We’re up and running. The first location is running smoothly. The locals are responding well. Better odds mean better business.
—Any problem with Johnson?
—We haven’t seen him. We haven’t heard from him. I think he’s letting it go. Or he’s watching. If he’s watching, he’s not doing anything about it. We’re fine.
But they weren’t well.
That same night, Bumpy called a meeting at Small’s Paradise. His main team, 20 men, in whom he had complete confidence.
—Gentlemen, we have visitors. Five Italians working for Genovese. They’ve opened a betting shop on Route 125.
One of his men asked:
—Do you want us to close it?
—No. I want you to let it run for three more days. Let them relax. Let them think they’re safe. Then, on the third night, we’ll pick them up. At five o’clock.
—At five?
—At five o’clock. The same night. No mistakes. I want them alive first. Then we send a message.
His men nodded. They understood. This wasn’t just about stopping the competition. It was about sending a message that would resonate with every Italian family in New York: you don’t come to Harlem without permission.
February 17, 1950, 11:00 pm The five Italian hitmen were leaving their bookie’s on 125th Street.
-Good night.
—Good collection.
They felt confident. Tony Baccala said:
—See? I told you Bumpy isn’t doing anything. He’s getting old, losing control.
Vinnie Russo laughed.
—Or he’s afraid of Genovese.
They walked toward their car, parked two blocks away. That’s when the lights went out. Not just the streetlights, all the lights. Every building, every window. Total darkness.
Tony stopped.
-What the devil…?
Shadows moved in the darkness. Ten, fifteen, twenty men surrounded them, appearing from doorways, alleyways, and parked cars. Tony reached for his weapon.
—Don’t do it.
The voice came directly from behind him. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching. He turned slowly. Bumpy Johnson was there, three feet away, with a .45 in his hand, pointed at Tony’s chest.
—Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to Harlem.
Vinnie tried to run, managing five steps before three men tackled him to the ground. The other Italians froze. Bumpy walked slowly around them, inspecting them like a general inspecting troops.
—You guys are very brave, coming into my neighborhood, setting up operations, without even asking for permission.
Tony found his voice.
—We’re just businessmen. Free market.
Bumpy smiled.
“Free market? That’s funny. You know what’s not funny? The disrespect. They disrespected me. They disrespected Harlem. And now they’re going to help me deliver a message.”
-Whom?
—To the man who sent them.
Bumpy nodded to his team. They moved quickly, disarmed the five Italians, tied their hands behind their backs, and put hoods over their heads.
—Load them, take them to the warehouse.
The five men were pushed into cars. Three different cars, separated. They drove for 20 minutes. None of the Italians knew where they were going. Their hoods remained up. When the cars stopped and they were taken out, they could hear water, river sounds, and ship horns. They were near the docks.
They were dragged inside a building, an old warehouse, empty and cold. Their hoods were removed. The five Italians were there, tied to chairs, in a circle, facing each other. Bumpy was in the center. Around him were 20 of his men, all armed.
“This is what’s going to happen,” Bumpy said calmly. “They’re going to go back to Chicago, Detroit, wherever they came from. But first, they’re going to deliver something for me.”
—Hand over what?
Bumpy walked over to a table, picked up a phone, and dialed.
—It’s done. Send the car.
He hung up and turned to the five Italians.
“Your boss, Genovese, thought he could just walk into Harlem and take what’s mine. He was wrong. And you five are going to help me explain that to him.”
—We’ll tell him. We’ll tell him it was a mistake. Just let us go.
Bumpy shook his head slowly.
—Words mean nothing to men like Genovese. He needs something more permanent.
That’s when the Italians understood. They weren’t going to get out of this warehouse alive. Tony began to pray quietly in Italian. Bumpy walked toward the door, stopped, and looked back.
—For what it’s worth, this isn’t personal. It’s just business. But in Harlem, I am the business. Remember that.
He left. His men stayed behind.
February 20, 1950. 6:00 am. Lucky Luciano’s safe house in Naples, Italy. He was still asleep when the phone rang.
—Charlie, it’s Costello. You need to get on a safe line.
Luciano woke up quickly.
-What happened?
—The five men we sent to Harlem are… they’re gone.
—Gone? What do you mean by gone?
—I mean, we can’t find them. They missed registration three days ago. We’ve been looking. Nobody has seen them.
Luciano joined.
—Bumpy…?
—We don’t know, but Charlie, there’s something more.
-That?
—Genovese received a delivery at her home this morning. Five packages.
Luciano was frozen.
—What was in them?
Costello remained silent for a long moment.
—The men, Charlie. All five men. Bumpy sent them back in pieces.
The phone almost slipped out of Luciano’s hand.
-You’re sure?
—Genovese identified them. Personal effects, rings, watches, and other things. Bumpy made sure we knew who they were.
—And there was no note, no message?
—There was a note. One word.
—What word?
—Harlem.
Luciano closed his eyes. He had made a mistake. He had underestimated Bumpy Johnson. He thought age had softened him. He thought distance had weakened his control. He was wrong.
“Call Genovese,” Luciano said quietly. “Tell him we’re done in Harlem. Not one more man, not one more operation. Bumpy Johnson owns Harlem. Period.”
—Charlie… Genovese is talking about war. He wants revenge.
—Then Genovese is a fool. You don’t go to war with Bumpy Johnson on his own turf. You’d lose. We’d all lose. Tell him to stand down.
—He won’t listen to me.
—Then I’ll tell him myself.
Two hours later, Luciano called Genovese directly.
—Vito. I heard about the delivery.
“Those were my men, Charlie. Our men. And now they’re dead because you sent them where they didn’t belong.”
—So we just accept this? We let Bumpy Johnson murder five of ours?
—Yes, that’s exactly what we do. Because those five men died sending us a message. A message we need to hear.
—What message?
—That Harlem belongs to Bumpy Johnson. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. We had an understanding. You broke it. He reminded us why that understanding existed.
—You’re afraid of him.
—I respect that. There’s a difference. And if you’re smart, you’ll respect it too. Because the alternative is a war you can’t win.
Genovese hung up, angry and humiliated, but he followed orders. No more men went to Harlem.
The story of the five packages spread through the underworld like wildfire. No one knew all the details—how Bumpy had killed them, where, when—but everyone knew the outcome. Five Italian hitmen went to Harlem. Five packages returned. The message was clear: Harlem was off-limits.
Years later, after Bumpy’s death in 1968, an old associate was asked about that night.
—What really happened to those five men?
The associate smiled grimly.
—Bumpy caught them, tied them up, and then did something I’d never seen him do before.
-That?
He talked to them for hours. He explained why they had to die. Not out of anger, but out of necessity. He said, “Nothing personal, but if I let you live, 10 more will come. And then a hundred. This ends with you.” And then… and then he did it quickly, cleanly, professionally. Because Bumpy wasn’t cruel. He was just absolute.
The five packages that arrived at Genovese’s doorstep became legendary. A cautionary tale, a warning. You don’t enter Bumpy Johnson’s territory without permission. And if you try, you won’t return. At least not in one piece.
Lucky Luciano, sitting back in Italy, understood the message perfectly. He never sent anyone to Harlem again. He never tested Bumpy again, never questioned the understanding they had built decades earlier. Because some men you can threaten, some men you can buy, some men you can intimidate. But Bumpy Johnson wasn’t “some men.” He was the king of Harlem, and kings don’t negotiate with invaders. They send them back as a warning to anyone who might try.
If this story showed you why he was called the Godfather of Harlem, hit that like button. Subscribe for more untold stories from the era when respect was earned through actions, not words. Leave a comment: Do you think Bumpy went too far, or was this exactly the message that needed to be sent? And turn on notifications because next week we’ll reveal the story of when Luciano and Bumpy finally came face to face after this incident. And what they said to each other changed their relationship forever.
Remember, in Harlem, Bumpy Johnson didn’t make threats. He gave demonstrations. And five packs proved it.
