VIDEO: NY Goons 12 Final.mov

REWRITTEN: 2026-05-12 21:56:29

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Born June 1963 in the Corona section of Queens, New York City, Thomas Mckins had the hustle coded in his DNA. His pops, Thomas Lucky Harris, street name Weasel, was grinding mid-level numbers and street hustles, leaving a permanent stamp on young Mckins. Even though he was the youngest of Harris' seed, Mckins showed natural born leadership and business instincts from the jump. At just 10 years old, he was carrying grocery bags for customers at a local spot. Peeping the opportunity, he recruited his mans to help with the workload, managed the collective paper, and broke each one off with a $5 daily cut, a move that telegraphed his future plans. Mckins' early years went down in Laurelton, a neighborhood in Southeast Queens where his peoples relocated to. By the time he hit 12, tragedy struck when his pops passed away. Losing his father marked a turning point. By 15, Mckins dropped out of high school and transitioned from honest work to the streets pushing marijuana. According to him, I started with $3. I bought a tray bag, rolled up eight joints, and sold each one for a dollar. The young hustler quickly leveled up, entering the cocaine trade at 17, using his paper to fund a lavish lifestyle. He secured a 30th floor apartment in a building with a doorman, a symbol of his fast rising success in the game. Thomas Mckins was already making serious moves in the streets, pushing a key of cocaine every two days like clockwork. The hustle wasn't just about product, it was about presentation. Mckins even had business cards printed that read, Tommy, anytime, with his phone number, like he was running a Fortune 500 company instead of a street empire. His operation was airtight, thanks to a squad he trusted like family. His girl Shelby Kerney held him down while his top lieutenants, Anthony Jacobs, Norvel Flakes Young and Robert Hines, made sure the money and product kept flowing. Mckins wasn't just selling coke, he was running a whole enterprise, making sure every move was calculated. But in 1983, the streets bit back. Mckins sold half an ounce of coke to undercover NYPD detective, Robert Russell, for $1,250 and got jammed up. The charge landed him a one to three year bid, putting his hustle on ice for a minute. While Mckins sat down, the streets were buzzing about Scarface, the 1983 flick starring Al Pacino. The critics didn't love it, but for cats like Mckins, it was gospel. The movie told the story of Tony Montana, a broke Cuban immigrant who climbed to the top of the game using coke as his ticket to power. It was raw, gritty and hit close to home for anyone chasing the American dream by any means necessary. By the time Mckins touched back down, he wasn't just Thomas anymore, he had fully embraced the name Tony Montana, seeing himself as the real life version of the movie character. Like Montana, Mckins had big dreams, a cold ambition, and no hesitation about taking what he felt was his. From the block to the penthouses, Mckins was out to build his own empire, one that had his name ringing out in every corner of the city. Life wasn't just imitating art, Mckins was flipping the script and writing his own legend. While on work release, Mckins made a statement without saying a word, dropping $28,146 in cash, and a brand new 1985 Cadillac Fleetwood, one month before his June 1984 parole. It wasn't long after he got out that he and Shelby Kerney bought a house, and he copped another whip, this time a sleek 1984 BMW, all paid for in cash. Mckins wasn't just making moves, he was showing the streets that he was back and bigger than ever. Just as Mckins got back in the game, crack cocaine hit the streets like a bomb in the summer of 1984, changing the drug trade overnight. The rock was cheap, addictive, and moved faster than anything dealers had ever seen. The flood of cash brought with it a flood of new competitors, but Mckins wasn't just another player. He was a boss. His hustle, smarts, and reputation kept him ahead of the pack. The numbers don't lie. Mckins took his small crew and flipped it into a 50-strong organization, locking down territory like a general. His base of operations was at Merrick and 226th Street, but his reach stretched far beyond that. Mckins crew controlled not only the neighborhoods of Laurelton and Springfield, but also nearly all of Merrick Boulevard, one of the busiest streets slicing through the area. Despite his hold on Merrick Boulevard, Mckins wasn't the only big name moving weight in South Jamaica, Queens. The streets were crowded with heavy hitters like the infamous Supreme Team, Lorenzo, Fatcat, Nichols Cartel, the Corley family, and the Bebo's. Southside was a battlefield, but Mckins played his hand smart. Even with all that competition, his empire kept expanding year after year. On paper, Mckins was just a regular guy working as an upholsterer. He even filed taxes to keep the feds guessing. But those numbers didn't tell the whole story. By 1985, Mckins was raking in $121,000, which only looked modest compared to the bag he secured later. The following year, he nearly quintupled his income, pulling in $605,000. By 1987, he was in a league of his own clearing a staggering $1.1 million according to law enforcement. Mckins didn't just build an empire, he flaunted it, loud and clear. The Cadillac and BMW were only the start of his collection. Soon he added a Ferrari Mondial Cabriolet, a Lamborghini, a Jaguar, and three different Mercedes-Benzes plus Porsche's, Saabs, and jeeps. The man didn't just buy cars, he curated a fleet, 21 rides in total, many of them customized to scream luxury and power. The crown jewel, a $100,655 Rolls Royce, tricked out with TVs, VCRs, a video game system, and an interior laced with Louis Vuitton everything. It wasn't just a car, it was a rolling VIP suite. Mckins flex didn't stop there. He copped a 38-foot Bayliner yacht for $133,350 cash, which he kept docked out in California. And if that wasn't flashy enough, he took to the skies with his very own private helicopter. Mckins didn't just move weight, he moved into prime real estate, stacking properties, coast to coast like monopoly pieces. He had a home in Miami, Florida, and a condo out in Diamond Bar, one of Southern California's most exclusive communities. Back in Queens, he secured a $90,000 crib on Grand Central Parkway, a spot on Hollis Avenue for $51,700, and another one on Hilton Avenue. But the crown jewel, a $760,775 mansion in Dix Hills Long Island, where he lived with his girl Shelby Kerney and her mother. Dix Hills wasn't just any hood. It was elite territory, with neighbors like Dee Snider of Twisted Sister and Ralph Macchio, the Karate Kid himself. While records later revealed, Mckins had 16 properties in total, a portfolio that screamed boss status. And when it came to flexing, Mckins smile told its own story, he had sapphire, emerald, and diamond implants in his teeth. His presence wasn't just felt in the streets, it sparkled. Mckins wasn't just flipping bricks, he was flipping his dirty money into legit businesses, all stamped with his street name for branding. Montana Grocery on Hollis Avenue, Montana Sporting Goods on Rockaway Boulevard, and Montana Dry Cleaners on Merrick Boulevard weren't just fronts. They were strategic moves in his money laundering playbook. These spots helped him wash his illicit cash, making it look clean while allowing him to stash assets under the business's names. That way, the feds couldn't trace everything back to him too easily. But Mckins wasn't just about covering his tracks. He used these businesses to build his image as a respectable entrepreneur. In the neighborhood, he played the role of a community man. One of his most notable moves was financing a summer basketball league that had none other than Mark Jackson, the 1988 NBA rookie of the year, and now head coach of the Golden State Warriors hitting the courts. Mckins was giving back, or at least that's what it looked like on the surface. He sponsored local youth programs, handed out cash at community events, and made sure everybody in Laurelton knew his name for all the right reasons. But the feds were watching. By 1989, federal agents had Mckins locked in their sights. The DEA, FBI, and local NYPD had been building a case against him for years, tracking his money, his moves, and his crew. On March 23, 1989, the hammer came down hard. Mckins was arrested in a coordinated takedown that swept up members of his organization. The charges were stacked: drug trafficking, money laundering, conspiracy, and racketeering. The feds had the receipts. They seized his properties, his cars, his yacht, his helicopter, everything he'd built. The asset forfeiture was massive, totaling over $4 million in seized assets. The king of South Jamaica, the real life Tony Montana, was going down. In 1990, Mckins was convicted on multiple counts and sentenced to 25 years in federal prison. His lieutenant Anthony Jacobs got 24 years. Norvel Flakes Young caught 22. Robert Hines got 20. The crew that had run Merrick Boulevard with an iron fist was dismantled, scattered across the federal prison system. Mckins tried to appeal, tried to fight the case, but the evidence was too solid. The paper trail led straight to him. The businesses, the properties, the cars, the money transfers, it all painted a picture of a man who got too comfortable, too flashy, too visible. While sitting in federal prison, Mckins had time to reflect on his rise and fall. He'd gone from a $3 tray bag hustle to running a $1.1 million-a-year operation, but it all came crashing down because he couldn't resist the temptation to flaunt it. He became a cautionary tale, the poster child for what happens when ambition meets the streets. The legacy of Thomas "Tony Montana" Mckins and NY Goons 12 represents more than just another drug kingpin story from the crack era. It's a window into the allure and the ultimate destruction that the drug trade promises to those who enter it. Mckins had intelligence, organizational skills, and the ability to build something from nothing, talents that could have built legitimate empires if the game had been different. But the streets offered a faster path to money and power, and the young hustler took it. His downfall came not just from law enforcement, but from his own hubris. The sapphire teeth, the Rolls Royce with Louis Vuitton interiors, the helicopter, the mansion in Dix Hills—these weren't just symbols of success, they were billboards advertising his guilt to every federal agent in the tri-state area. NY Goons 12's story is etched into the history of 1980s Queens, a reminder that in the cocaine trade, getting away with it is only possible if you stay invisible. The moment you stop being hungry and start celebrating, the game switches on you. Mckins learned that lesson the hard way, and his name remains synonymous with the rise and fall of South Jamaica's drug empire, a cautionary tale that echoes through the streets to this day.