American Gangster

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Frank Lucas entered a natural cavern the size of an airplane hangar. A general of the Chinese Kuomintang examined Frank’s papers, studied him for a moment, and said, “How would you get it into the States?”

“What do you care?”

“Who do you work for in there?”

Again, Frank replied, “What do you care?”

“Who are you, really?” the general asked.

“It says right there. Frank Lucas.”

“I mean, who do you represent?”

“Me.”

“You think you’re going to take a hundred kilos of heroin into the U.S. and you don’t work for anyone? Someone is going to allow that?”

Frank shrugged.

“After this first purchase, if you’re not killed by Marseilles importers — or their people in the States — then what?”

“Then there’d be more. On a regular basis. Though I’d rather not have to drag my ass all the way up here every time...”

Two days before Thanksgiving 1970, Frank Lucas had things to do for Bumpy Johnson. As usual.

On that cold sunny afternoon, Frank’s first stop was a funky little jazz club, one of those basement joints where cigarette smoke and spilled-liquor smell passed for atmosphere, and volume from the combo on the postage-stamp stage stood in for talent.

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