The Ice Man

by Philip Carlo

  Also, when Richard was mad at Barbara, he had no reservations about abusing her in front of the children. It was as though he didn’t even know they were there. He slapped her, pushed her, beat her. Horrified, his daughters watched this, begging that he stop, screaming and crying and pleading with him to stop. If not for his daughters’ intervention, their pleas, he might well have killed Barbara in a fit of rage. If he had killed her in such a fit, he would also have killed his children.

  “If Mommy dies, Merrick,” he actually told his firstborn, “you know I’ll have to kill you and your sister. I couldn’t leave any witnesses…you understand?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Merrick said.

  Barbara was, she said, trapped. There was nowhere for her to turn. If she went to the police and showed them her injuries, her black eyes and bruises, he might be arrested; but she knew that he’d be out on bail soon enough and he’d come looking to kill her. He had told her as much in plain language on numerous occasions.

  And she believed him.

  In her heart Barbara was certain, she explained, that Richard would destroy her if she ever went to the authorities or did anything to cause him to lose his family. Before that he’d kill them all.

  However, as odd as this sounds, Barbara was not cowed by Richard. She’d stand up to him, defy him, point her finger in his face and dare him to hit her again—which he usually did. “Big shot, think you’re so tough, beating up a woman—you aren’t tough. You ain’t tough at all!” she’d say, right in his face.

  If, daughter Merrick recently explained, my mom had kept her mouth shut it wouldn’t’ve been so bad. She made things worse—a bad situation even worse. It was like she wanted to egg him on. I used to tell her to be quiet—“Mommy, be quiet”—not to answer him back, not to stand up to him—“Mommy, shut up”—but she didn’t.

  Barbara’s only way of fighting back, of not losing her own identity, who she was, was to stand up to her husband, and she did, and she regularly suffered the consequences.

  Daughter Chris explained it this way: My father married the wrong woman. If, say, Mom was more meek, I mean less outspoken, the tirades would’ve ended much more quickly. But she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut and made it worse. Even when he was actually striking her, beating on her, my mom would taunt, berate, and belittle my dad. My mother…my mother encouraged it.

  Barbara, however, does not feel that way: There was no way, she explained, that I was going to allow him to walk all over me and I was going to keep my mouth shut and let him abuse me. I had nowhere to turn, no one to ask for help, and so I told him…I told him how I felt. Maybe, I mean now looking back on it, I was encouraging him, enabling him, but I was not about to let him make a doormat out of me and keep my mouth shut; forget that.

  Afterward, Richard was always angry at himself for terrorizing his daughters. Dwayne was still too young to know what was going on. Yet, Richard never said he was sorry or that it wouldn’t happen again. He acted as though nothing had occurred; everything was just peachy and dandy. It was as though a terrible storm had come and gone and the destruction was just a natural consequence of the storm. Nothing more. He had nothing to do with it. It was all the storm’s fault.

  Daughter Chris took to calling the operator after one of her father’s tirades and hanging up when she heard the operator’s voice; she somehow felt comforted and reassured knowing that there was someone at the other end of the phone, someone out there who would help. Chris and her sister began to pack an “escape bag,” as they called it. In it were some clothes, a favorite toy or two, an extra pair of shoes for each of them. They figured it was only a matter of time before their father really did kill their mother, and they wanted to have an escape kit ready to go so they could run out the door when the time came.

  In no uncertain terms, Barbara again told Richard that if he ever laid a finger on her children, she’d cut his throat when he was sleeping. She said this with such cold, calm sincerity that he believed her. Besides, he would cut his hands off before he ever physically hurt any of his children.

  Barbara…Barbara was another matter entirely.

  Sometimes, when Richard was losing it, his face paling, his lips twisting up, that terrible clicking sound coming from his lips, he’d actually strike himself with his fist so hard he’d knock himself out cold. This was, he recently confided, the only way he could avoid striking Barbara and terrorizing his little girls: to knock himself out, and he did.

  Richard knocking himself unconscious was a frightening, unsettling, sobering thing to see. Not only did he hit himself, he banged his head against the wall so hard he’d knock himself out cold, come to after a while, and silently leave the house, like a tornado going away—quietly disappearing over the horizon.

  True, Richard did not strike his children or physically abuse them in any way, but he was causing them great anxiety and pain inside…a thing Barbara seemed oblivious to. Outwardly, Chris and Merrick appeared well adjusted and happy, but inside they were in turmoil. They did, however, make friends easily, were outgoing and gregarious, and did reasonably well in school.

  Merrick, though, was still plagued by kidney and bladder problems, high fever, infections, and convulsions, and spent a lot of time in the hospital, and consequently missed an inordinate amount of school, several months of every year.

  When Merrick was hospitalized, her father was always there, getting her whatever she needed and making sure she was comfortable and receiving good treatment. He catered not only to his daughter but to all the other children on whatever ward she was housed. He was always bringing dolls and toys and candy to the kids on the ward. He had tremendous empathy for these sick children and would gladly do anything he could, including paying for procedures and medication children needed that their parents could not afford. One child, a seven-year-old girl in the room next to Merrick’s, was dying of cancer, had only a few days left. Her parents could not afford the hospital TV, and it was disconnected. When Richard came to see Merrick and heard what had happened, he was outraged that the child’s TV was disconnected, went and found the technician, paid him, and made him immediately activate the child’s television. Richard was a true Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. No matter what he did, however, what kind of outburst he had, no matter how afraid of him she was, Merrick always forgave her father, never ever held anything against him. These two, Richard and Merrick, had some kind of special bond that neither Barbara nor Chris had with Richard.

  Both Chris and Barbara held Richard’s outbursts against him, would never forgive or forget what he did. But never Merrick. To this day, after all that has happened, Merrick does not have a bad word to say about her dad, holds nothing against him. He is her sunrise and sunset, and she will be there for him to the very end, no matter what, no matter where, come hell or high water. Richard was somewhat jealous of his son Dwayne, because of the attention he received from Barbara.

  He confided that he actually didn’t want a boy because he felt somewhere deep inside that he’d become competition for Barbara’s undivided attention, even for his daughters’ attention. Richard was jealous in the extreme of any other male.

  Hit Man

  “Can you meet me at the diner on my side of the Tappan Zee Bridge?” Roy DeMeo asked.

  “Sure, be there in an hour,” said Richard, and he was soon on his way to meet Roy in his flashy new white Cadillac El Dorado. Roy and Richard had developed and perfected this simple clandestine way of talking. Roy would call Richard on his beeper and punch in the number of a Brooklyn phone booth, Richard would use a phone booth near his house to phone him back, and like this they managed to talk without fear of an FBI tap, a constant, very real concern among mob guys. Goodfellas were falling like flies because of the newly developed and cleverly applied Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act. All anyone had to do to be convicted of RICO and go to jail was talk about committing a crime, or conspire, as the statute says; no crime actually had to be committed.

  As Richard
drove to his meeting with Roy, he wondered what piece of work he had. Since the day Richard had blown away the dog walker in the Village, he had undergone a radical metamorphosis; he had now totally committed himself to murder, to killing for profit.

  Cold, detached, and exceedingly calculating—sober now—Richard was about to embark on a violent journey that would leave scores of people dead, mangled, tortured, buried and burned alive, thrown into bottomless pits, fed while still alive to ravenous rats, fed to crabs along the abandoned piers of Manhattan’s West Side.

  Whatever murders Roy DeMeo was committing with his Brooklyn crew of serial killers, he kept his promise and never involved Richard in any of those. No, DeMeo would use Richard for special jobs, as he thought of them. DeMeo had become the premier assassin for the Gambino family. He was filling hits for them—and other families—left and right, several a week. His reputation as an efficient, brutal killer had grown to monumental proportions. Even the notorious Gotti brothers, Gene and John, steered clear of DeMeo and his serial killers. His bar, the Gemini Lounge, had aptly become known as “the Slaughterhouse.”

  Richard and Roy met at a busy diner near the Westchester side of the Tappan Zee Bridge. They greeted each other with a hug and kiss on the cheek, as is the Italian way. Roy chose this place because most people that went to a diner were on their way somewhere and probably wouldn’t come back, and this place was off the beaten path of mob guys; here, it was highly unlikely that anyone in “the life” would see them together. Their business was the business of murder—a serious life-and-death enterprise for all involved. There was no room for mistakes or oversight, for bad timing or miscalculations.

  “I got a piece of work for you,” DeMeo said. “Nothing fancy, just make sure it’s done quickly and that no one knows about it…got it?”

  “Got it.”

  DeMeo handed Richard a photograph with a Queens address on the back. “This is him. He always carries; be careful.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Richard said. Roy handed him an envelope. There was twenty thousand dollars cash in it. Nothing else had to be said. The less said the better. They hugged and kissed each other good-bye and went their separate ways.

  Still, in the back of his mind, Richard remembered the beating Roy had given him.

  The following day Richard was parked on a residential street in Queens, two blocks from Calvary Cemetery. The mark lived in a two-family redbrick house, on the ground level. He had, Richard quickly discerned, a pretty wife and two little boys. The fact that the mark had a family didn’t matter to Richard, had nothing to do with the job at hand, though he would not kill him in front of his family. After a time the mark left his house, got into his car, and drove off. Richard followed him to an outdoor four-level garage on Queens Boulevard and parked in the spot just next to the mark’s car. Richard first flattened the front left tire of the mark’s car; then he unlocked the trunk of his Caddy, sat in his car, and calmly waited for the mark to return. Richard had unusual patience in these situations. He could sit still for hours on end, his mind drifting all over the place, but never losing focus on the job. This time it didn’t take long for the mark to return, carrying packages. When he saw the flat, he grimaced, then opened the trunk of his car. The moment was perfect. Richard moved quickly, silently slid out of the car.

  “Got a flat?” Richard asked the mark, stopping and looking as if he cared, as if he were a concerned good Samaritan.

  “Yeah,” the mark said, and before he knew it Richard had a gun to his head and made him get in the trunk of the Caddy, on his stomach. Richard now handcuffed him, taped his mouth shut, and warned him to be quiet. He closed the trunk and drove out of the garage. He had a pistol under his seat and one in his pocket. If a cop pulled him over, he’d kill him—simple.

  Listening to country music, Richard made his way to the bottomless pits in Pennsylvania. When he arrived there, a desolate area he knew well, he pulled the mark from his car, marched him to a mine shaft, shot him once in the head, and let him drop down the gaping hole, which seemed to swallow up the hapless man. Richard casually disposed of him as if he were discarding a bag of trash. He turned, went back to his car, and drove home to his wife and children…just another guy returning home after a day’s work.

  It didn’t take long for people in organized crime to learn that Richard was available for hire, up and running and particularly reliable. The fact that he was non-Italian and could never be made was a plus because it enabled him to work for any of the seven East Coast crime families—the Pontis and the De Cavalcantes of New Jersey, and the Gambino, Lucchese, Colombo, Genovese, and Bonanno factions of New York—without conflict, problem, or needing to explain to anyone. He did not have to ask permission to fill a contract. He was a freelance agent, and was soon receiving contracts from skippers (captains) affiliated with different families.

  Richard carried out each hit with great care, with patience and cunning, never in a hurry. He didn’t tell anyone what he was doing, when or where or how; that was his business; he kept to himself. He didn’t hang out with mob guys and always went home to his family.

  Barbara had no idea where he was going when he left home. She learned not to question her mercurial, exceedingly moody husband. Barbara had learned to live with Richard, accept him for what he was, stoically tolerated his mood swings, his temper, even his abuse. She had, in reality, no other choice. As long as he didn’t hit her children, she accepted his abuse. It was blatantly obvious to Barbara, even now, that Richard resented Dwayne; he was not nearly as warm to him as he’d been to Merrick and Chris, and this greatly concerned Barbara. She knew that in a fit of rage, Richard could very well hurt Dwayne…accidentally break his neck…

  For Richard, killing by contract became a kind of life-and-death cat-and-mouse game, a lethal chess match that he was intent upon winning. He knew that if he was caught and exposed, he’d lose his family, truly the only thing in the world he’d ever cared about. Yet, Richard continued taking contracts and filling them. He would go talk to anyone, as he puts it. He figured if he was careful, meticulous, and sober, he could earn enough money to retire, buy a stately home on the beach somewhere, and live well, provide all his family needed. They would want for nothing.

  It didn’t, of course, work out that way.

  Through his new friend, partner, and crime associate, Roy DeMeo, Richard managed to secure all kinds of handguns, shotguns, and semi-automatic .22 Magnum rifles, which Richard cut down—both the stock and the barrel—creating a perfect weapon with which to kill human beings at close range. Roy had an inexhaustible supply of armaments, which were regularly pillaged from Kennedy Airport, conveniently located a mere ten minutes from the Gemini Lounge.

  DeMeo had weapons all over the Slaughterhouse. He often held them, fondled and caressed them like a woman’s breast, as though they were warm, cute, cuddly teddy bears, not instruments of sudden death. A gun, in DeMeo’s hand, was a means to an end: dead people.

  One day when Richard went to the lounge to drop off money for Roy, his end of porn profits, Roy was all smiles and hugs and happy to see him. The usual group of serial killers was present, Anthony and Joey, Chris and Freddie DiNome, and Roy’s cousin Dracula. They all sat around the big round table and had steak and potatoes and homemade red wine. Off on the left there were weights and a heavy bag.

  Richard didn’t like any of these people, but he sat there like one of the boys, bantering and laughing and eating. Roy ate like a slob, talked with food in his mouth, a real gavone (an ill-mannered man).

  At the end of the meal, Roy’s mood suddenly changed—he was even more mercurial than Richard—and he picked up an Uzi with a long, ominous-looking silencer, a weapon that fires fifteen nine-millimeter parabellum rounds per second.

  “Beautiful fuckin’ piece,” he said, suddenly pointing the gun at Richard and chambering it, a sickening metallic sound—click-click.

  Everyone around the table quickly moved back, as if on cue, no one smiling or l
aughing or merry now. In the bat of the eye, Richard knew, his chest could be filled with gushing bullet holes. He stared at Roy curiously.

  “Why you coming at me like this, Roy? What the fuck?” he said.

  “I hear,” Roy said, “you’re saying shit about me.”

  “That’s bullshit. I have anything to say about you, I’ll say it to your face. Bring the motherfucker here who said that; I want to hear this for myself. It’s bullshit!” Richard said, getting hot. The Uzi still pointing at Richard’s wide chest, Roy stared at him with his black, white-shark eyes. Outwardly, Richard appeared tough and defiant, but inside he was all tight. He well knew Roy was a psychotic killer, that the Uzi could literally tear him apart in seconds. Roy’s finger was, he could see, actually on the trigger. The silence in the room—the Slaughterhouse—became thick and heavy. Stark images of the guy they had bled over the tub came to Richard.

  “Yeah, you would,” Roy finally said, lowering the Uzi. “You got balls, big guy. I know you got balls,” and he laughed this sickening hyenalike cackle he had, and everyone moved back to the table. The moment passed as quickly as it came. Roy put down the Uzi as if it never happened. Soon Roy and Richard moved outside. Roy sort of said he was sorry. Richard assured him of his friendship. The two hugged. Richard was soon on his way back to New Jersey. As he went, he cursed DeMeo under his breath; DeMeo had pulled a gun on him twice, bullied him—embarrassed him. All the way back to Dumont, Richard vowed to kill the prick.

  When Richard arrived home, Barbara immediately knew he was in a foul mood, and she and the girls steered clear of him. Barbara made sure Dwayne stayed in his room. Richard put on the television and watched a cowboy movie—his favorite—and seethed about Roy DeMeo. Yes, he would kill Roy; but he’d wait, he’d be patient; he’d do it when the right time came. Meanwhile, he’d use him.