1963: Ra*ist Cop Took Bumpy Johnson to the Woods for EXECUTION — Bumpy Came Back Driving the Cop CAR

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Chapter 1: The King Returns

Late November, 1963. Harlem, New York. The streets buzzed with anticipation and tension as Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson, the legendary Godfather of Harlem, stepped out of his black Cadillac onto 145th Street. At 58, Bumpy was freshly released from a decade in Alcatraz, but the years had done little to dim his aura. Harlem had changed while he was away—new hustlers carved up corners, Italian mobsters tightened their grip, and the police presence grew ever more hostile. But Bumpy Johnson was not a man easily displaced.

Within weeks of his release, Bumpy reclaimed his empire with a blend of diplomacy and force. He met with the Italian mob bosses—the Genovese family, who had encroached on Harlem’s rackets—and reminded them, politely but firmly, that Harlem was still his domain. He allowed the Italians their cut, just as under Lucky Luciano’s old arrangement, but the streets would answer to Bumpy. Word spread fast: the king was back.

But power came at a price. Every move Bumpy made was watched. Federal agents, NYPD detectives, and local beat cops all trailed him, hoping for a slip, a sign of resumed narcotics dealing—the very crime that had put him away in ’53.

Chapter 2: The Nemesis—Detective Frank Howerin

Among the cops, none hated Bumpy more than Detective Frank Howerin. Howerin was a stout, square-jawed Irish American in his mid-40s, decorated for bravery yet infamous for brutality. He’d walked a beat in Harlem since the 1950s, his knuckles scarred from enforcing his own brand of law. To Howerin, Bumpy was more than a criminal—he was an affront. A Black man with money, intelligence, and the adoration of his people.

Howerin had been assigned to keep tabs on Bumpy post-release, a job he relished. Night after night, he tailed Bumpy’s Cadillac through Harlem, hoping to catch him in the act. But Bumpy left no fingerprints, no obvious deals. If drugs moved, Bumpy’s hands stayed clean.

Frustration mounted. Howerin wanted more than an arrest—he wanted humiliation, a public fall. And as racial tensions simmered in Harlem, his vendetta grew ever more personal.

Chapter 3: The Confrontation

February 1964. Outside Wells Restaurant on Lenox Avenue, Bumpy enjoyed a late coffee. Two plainclothes officers approached, Howerin a few steps behind. The street hushed as they stopped at Bumpy’s table.

“Ellsworth Johnson,” the lead cop barked. “Stand up. We’re searching you for narcotics.”

No warrant. No probable cause. Just harassment.

Bumpy calmly set down his cup and stood. Even at 58, he moved with a panther’s grace. The officers patted him down roughly, tossing aside his wallet, cash, and a book of poetry—a Langston Hughes collection. Howerin sneered, spat on the book, and dropped it to the ground.

Bumpy retrieved it, wiping off the spittle. “Are we done here, detective?” he asked quietly.

Howerin leaned close. “Just do as you’re told, boy,” he hissed—a deliberate insult.

Bumpy’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He knew Howerin wanted a reaction, an excuse for violence. Instead, Bumpy smiled—a small, tight smile. “No threat, detective,” he said. “Just stating a fact. Now, unless you plan to arrest me, I’ll be on my way.”

Howerin, frustrated, snatched Bumpy’s fedora and flung it into the gutter. Bumpy picked it up, shook off the water, and placed it back on his head with dignity intact. He walked away, leaving Howerin humiliated in front of the crowd.

Chapter 4: Escalation

Over the following months, Howerin’s harassment intensified. Bumpy’s car was pulled over weekly. His apartments were raided on anonymous tips. Associates were arrested on minor charges, pressured to turn on Bumpy. None did.

Bumpy filed formal complaints, but nothing changed. Howerin operated just within the bounds of the law, angling for one misstep—a moment to justify lethal force.

In the summer of 1965, Bumpy staged a one-man sit-in at the 28th Precinct, demanding an end to police harassment. The NYPD arrested him for trespassing, but the case was dismissed in court. The department, and Howerin, were publicly embarrassed.

Howerin’s hatred festered. He began meeting with men outside the law—mobsters, thugs, anyone willing to help take Bumpy down. Money was offered. Favors promised. Howerin was ready to cross any line.

Chapter 5: Betrayal

By autumn 1965, Howerin found his inside man: Calvin “Cal” Parker, a sharp-eyed lieutenant in Bumpy’s crew. Cal had grown up under Bumpy’s wing, but resented being perpetually the junior man. Secretly, Cal had started dealing heroin—a move Bumpy forbade. To keep suspicion away, Cal fed Howerin small tips about minor rackets.

One day, Howerin cornered Cal in a Harlem bar. “You’re Bumpy’s boy, aren’t you?” he said, pressing his forearm into Cal’s throat. “I know what you’ve been up to. If I haul you in, you’re looking at 20 years. Or you can help me put Bumpy away—for good.”

Cal hesitated, knowing betrayal was a death sentence. But Howerin promised money, protection, a new identity. The Italian mob wanted Bumpy gone too. Cal, trapped, agreed.

Chapter 6: The Setup

The plan was simple: lure Bumpy out of Harlem, far from his stronghold. The Italians floated a rumor of a massive heroin deal upstate, one that could flood Harlem with cheap product. Bumpy, though he hated heroin, couldn’t ignore a threat to his turf.

Cal played his part, convincing Bumpy to meet the supposed dealers in Rockland County, 40 miles north. Bumpy agreed, bringing only Cal and a trusted bodyguard, Jimmy.

The night before, Bumpy’s wife, Mayme, sensed something wrong. “Promise me you’ll come back,” she pleaded. Bumpy smiled, reassuring her. “A few hours, that’s all. Then I’ll be back for your apple pie.”

Chapter 7: The Woods

Late November. Bumpy, Cal, and Jimmy drove into the woods near an abandoned cabin. Another car was parked nearby—the unmarked police Chevy of Howerin and his partner Russo.

The trio approached the cabin. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. Jimmy fell, dead. Bumpy reached for his revolver, but felt the cold muzzle of Howerin’s gun at his neck.

“Drop it, Johnson,” Howerin commanded.

Bumpy was cuffed, dragged into the cabin, and tied to a chair. A freshly dug grave waited in the corner.

Chapter 8: The Execution

Inside the cabin, Howerin reveled in his victory. “You think anyone’s coming to save you?” he taunted. “You’ll just disappear. Your reign’s over.”

Bumpy stared back, unflinching. “You should be careful what you promise,” he said.

Howerin pressed his revolver to Bumpy’s forehead, ready to pull the trigger. But at the last moment, he changed his mind. “Cal should do the honors,” he said, tossing the gun to Cal.

Cal hesitated, shaking. Bumpy met his eyes. “If you’re going to kill me, son, look me in the eye while you do it.”

Cal faltered. “I can’t,” he whispered.

Enraged, Howerin swung his revolver at Cal. In that instant, Bumpy acted. He lurched forward, smashing the chair into Cal, sending him sprawling. Cal’s gun fired wild, the bullet punching into the wall.

Russo aimed the shotgun at Bumpy, but in the chaos, he fired and hit Howerin instead, blasting his shoulder. Bumpy broke free from the shattered chair, fought Russo, and knocked him out with his handcuffed fists.

Cal tried to reach for the gun, but Bumpy kicked it away. Howerin, bleeding, reached for a shovel, but Bumpy seized it and struck him down.

Cal, desperate, pointed Howerin’s revolver at Bumpy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this,” he sobbed.

“They were going to kill me too,” he pleaded.

Bumpy ordered him to put the gun down. Cal obeyed, dropping it to the floor. Bumpy clubbed Cal with the shovel, knocking him out.

Chapter 9: Survival and Retribution

Bumpy, battered but alive, surveyed the carnage. Howerin and Russo were dying. Cal was unconscious. Bumpy finished the job, shooting Russo and Howerin with the last bullets in the revolver.

He dragged the bodies into the grave, covered them with dirt, and spat on the mound. He recited a line from Dylan Thomas: “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

He wiped down his own car, removing fingerprints, and switched to the unmarked police Chevy. In the glove compartment, he found a spare handcuff key, freed himself, and drove back to Harlem as dawn broke.

Chapter 10: The Return

At 6:30 a.m., Bumpy rolled into Harlem in the cop’s car. Rain fell as he parked outside the Red Rooster Bar. His men, stunned, rushed to meet him. They saw the blood, the dirt, the exhaustion.

“Jimmy’s gone,” Bumpy said. “He was loyal to the end.” As for Cal, Bumpy’s voice was cold. “Cal won’t be coming back.”

He ordered his men to get rid of the car, to keep quiet. The official story: the cops never crossed their path. Cal disappeared with money. Jimmy died protecting Bumpy.

Bumpy walked home, rain pattering on his hat. Mayme greeted him at the door, relief and sorrow in her eyes. They embraced, holding each other as the storm faded.

Chapter 11: The Legend Grows

Word spread quickly. Some said Bumpy outsmarted crooked cops. Others said he fought his way out. However it was told, the tale became Harlem legend: the king taken to the woods for execution, only to return driving the cop’s car.

Detectives Howerin and Russo were reported missing. Internal investigations found nothing. Calvin Parker was never heard from again.

Bumpy’s stature in the community grew. No cop dared try such a move again. He continued to lead, arbitrate, and protect his turf. In quiet moments, he reflected on the night in the woods—the betrayal, the violence, and the survival.

Chapter 12: Lessons and Legacy

Bumpy Johnson’s story was more than a tale of crime—it was a testament to loyalty, survival, and dignity. Power meant nothing without loyalty. Survival depended on wits and will. Betrayal deserved the harshest punishment.

For years, Harlem’s underworld whispered the story. “They tried to take the king to the woods and bury him, but the king came back driving their damn chariot.”

Bumpy never boasted. For him, it was handled. His enemies were gone, his circle purged, and life moved on. But the legend endured—an old man, a book of poems, and a battered fedora, returning to Harlem against all odds.

Epilogue

The story of how a cop took Bumpy Johnson to the woods for execution—and how Bumpy came back driving the cop’s car—became part of Harlem’s oral history. It was a cautionary tale about trust, power, and survival. It was a tribute to a man who would not be brought down, even by those sworn to uphold the law.

In the end, it was just another chapter in the legend of Bumpy Johnson—a legend that would never die.

END