America's Gangsters: PHILADELPHIA'S LEGENDARY KINGPIN: Roland "Pops" Bartlett скачать в хорошем качестве

America's Gangsters: PHILADELPHIA'S LEGENDARY KINGPIN: Roland "Pops" Bartlett

In the 1980s, Philly had plenty of hustlers, shooters, dreamers, and wannabe shot-callers—but Roland Bartlett sat over all of them like a storm cloud with a crown on. On the street, his name wasn’t just known, it was felt. According to the feds, he was the biggest drug boss in the city, the one steering the whole underworld from behind smoked glass and quiet whispers. His machine wasn’t some loose crew of wild kids either. Bartlett ran an organization with structure, discipline, and fear baked into every corner of it. Around sixty people moved under his umbrella, broken down into tight little units—salesmen who pushed the product, cutting-crew supervisors who prepped the work, and enforcers who made sure nobody got brave or confused about who really controlled Philly’s veins. But Roland didn’t pop up outta nowhere. He built himself the old-fashioned way—blood, ambition, and the kind of patience only a man who sees the throne ahead can muster. He started as a street soldier for the Philadelphia Black Mafia, learning the game block by block, until he figured out how to move past the pavement and into the power. By the time the ’80s swung into full motion, he wasn’t just moving product—he was tapping into New York’s underworld royalty. He plugged in with the Gambino Crime Family, sliding into a pipeline that fed him heroin straight from the city that never sleeps. And he didn’t stop there—he also forged ties with the Genovese Family, stacking connections like a man building an empire brick by brick. From 1980 until the cuffs finally closed on him in ’87, Bartlett’s organization ran Philly like a private kingdom. Seven years of dominance. Seven years of money flowing so heavy it sounded like rainfall when it hit the table. His operation was pulling in close to seven million a year—back when a dollar still barked. And he didn’t hide the spoils. Bartlett lived loud, like a man convinced the world belonged to him. Cribs all over Philly. A mansion in Jersey worth three-quarters of a mil. Two more properties tucked away in a Susquehanna County resort community. A nightclub—Fleetwood—where the nights stayed long and the money stayed moving. A stable of twelve racehorses and thoroughbreds, because even his hobbies had to flex. Two Benzes and a fleet of other rides just to remind the city who was eating best. To the young Black kids watching from the sidewalks, Bartlett wasn’t just a drug boss—he was proof that power could come from the same streets they came from. They saw the cars, the club, the horses, the diamonds—and they saw a man who beat the system at its own game. And the wildest part? Bartlett had so much pull, so much weight behind his name, that even the Philadelphia LCN—Nicky Scarfo’s mob, the same crew that taxed damn near everybody—didn’t get a dime from him. No street tax, no kick-up, no negotiations. Bartlett moved how he wanted, answered to nobody, and kept the mob at arm’s length like they were the ones who should tread lightly. For a while, he wasn’t just playing king—he was king. And everybody in Philly knew it.