The Ice Man

by Philip Carlo

This was a bone of contention between the two men. Solimene had vouched for House numerous times and been proven very wrong.

  “Look,” Richard said, “I know people make mistakes…that he’s family, and I’m not holding anything against you. Just get rid of the store. That’s my advice, take it or leave it.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  “I will, soon.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve got this Dom guy I told you about. He’s getting people some amazing stuff.”

  “You think he could get his hands on some cyanide?” Richard asked offhandedly.

  “Sure, absofuckinlutely. Why don’t you meet him?”

  “I’m just so busy right now, and the truth is I already know enough people.”

  As much as Solimene wanted to campaign more for Polifrone, he kept his mouth shut now, was very wary about tipping Richard off. To do that—he knew—was certain death. “I’ll ask ’im,” he said, and nothing more.

  Still, Richard very much wanted to kill Percy House. With him loose, cooperating with the authorities, Richard was vulnerable. Richard asked Solimene if he knew where Percy was, if his wife had heard from him.

  “No, not at all, Rich. I have no idea where he is,” Solimene said.

  “What about Barbara Deppner?”

  “I heard she was staying with a sister, but I don’t know where,” Solimene said.

  Richard figured correctly that if the cops truly had anything they would already have arrested him, and Richard soon left for Zurich again and received another check, but not before killing a second man involved with the Arab he had murdered with the cyanide spray. This man had an office in a new building in Zurich Central. Richard heard from Remi that he was now threatening to expose the Asian bank official.

  “How many fucking people know about this guy?” Richard asked.

  “Too many,” Remi said.

  This second fellow was a currency trader, a nasty individual with a chip on his shoulder, Remi told Richard. Richard contacted the man, made believe that he was interested in doing business with him, went to his office late in the day, and just at the right moment, he pulled out a knife he bought near the Central Station and stabbed the man in the back of the neck. To cut the throat and carotid arteries was far too messy. Richard left the currency trader dead right there on his desk. Considering the police scrutiny and interest in Richard, it’s amazing that he could travel so freely, leave the country and return at will with no one even knowing about it. This was because the police had given up on trying to trail Richard.

  Pat Kane walked into his house with a long face. By now it was already late spring and they hadn’t made any headway.

  “I think we lost him,” he told Terry. “Everyone…everyone is right. He’s just too savvy for me, for us, for what we’re trying to do.”

  “Patrick, you’ll get him. Just don’t give up. That’s not like you,” Terry said, and he knew she was right. This wasn’t like him at all.

  Would You Like Some Tea?

  By now Richard had grown to despise John Spasudo. If he hadn’t needed him, if Spasudo hadn’t come up with these profitable scams, Richard would already have killed him several times over. Their relationship came to a head, in a manner of speaking, when Richard went to see Spasudo to give him money, his share of the last check. When Spasudo opened the door, he didn’t invite Richard inside. Strange, Richard thought.

  “What’s the matter, do I smell?” Richard asked, offended.

  “No, I just have my girl inside.”

  “And so—I’ve seen her naked a half dozen times,” Richard said, and walked right past Spasudo, sensing something. “You playing me, John?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Richard could see in the bedroom the form of someone under the sheets on the bed, but the figure, he knew, was too small to be Spasudo’s girlfriend.

  “Hi,” Richard said.

  No answer.

  He repeated—“Hi there, it’s me, Rich.”

  Nothing.

  Richard walked right into the bedroom and pulled the sheets off the bed, revealing a naked young girl with frightened eyes. She was, Richard realized with a start, very young, prepubescent. He could feel the anger moving up his body to the top of his head. His lips twisted and he made that soft clicking sound.

  “John, are you fucking kidding me here? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Just fooling around. I didn’t hurt her. Tell him I didn’t hurt you, honey,” he told the girl. She didn’t answer.

  Richard wanted to kill him on the spot, but he didn’t want to traumatize the child. He turned and stormed out of the bedroom. Spasudo sheepishly followed.

  “John, you’re fucked up. Get her back to where you found her,” he said, and left, planning to do in Spasudo. The problem was that too many people knew of his involvement with Spasudo and that if something happened to Spasudo he’d be the first suspect, he was sure. For now he had to be judicious, he knew. He’d wait for the right time: when their business was done, when he had no further use for Spasudo, he’d poison him and make his death look like a heart attack. But he had no more poison. Hmm—what to do?

  Sammy Gravano beeped Richard. Richard phoned him. A meeting was set up at the diner. Richard was on edge about this particular meeting. He knew Gravano was a killer; he knew too that he might be the next target. Richard was a direct, tangible link between Gravano and the Castellano hit, a link Gravano might very well make disappear. Richard armed himself heavily for war and went to see Gravano. He had a Ruger .22 Magnum cut-down rifle with a thirty-round clip under the front seat of his van, three handguns on his body. He arrived at the diner an hour early, parked the van so he could readily see who came and who went—in case there was any kind of setup in the wind. Gravano arrived on time in a black Mercedes. Just him and a driver. All seemed okay. Richard was still very on guard, ready for action, as he stepped from the van. They hugged and kissed hello. Gravano congratulated Richard on his good work and gave him a paper bag with the agreed-upon thirty grand, “plus a little bonus,” he said.

  “I appreciate that,” Richard said, and he did.

  “I hear you do,” Gravano said, “special kinky work too.”

  “Like I said, I aim to please,” Richard said.

  “I’ve got a good friend; his daughter was knocked up by this coke-sniffing asshole and the father wants him to suffer. To suffer bad!”

  “No problem,” Richard said. “My pleasure.”

  Gravano told Richard he’d have the mark in a bar in Brooklyn on Friday night.

  “You want me to grab him then?” Richard asked.

  “Sure, sooner the better. John asked me to tell you that you did good. We plan to use you a lot,” Gravano said.

  “Sounds good, I’m available,” Richard said.

  Gravano told him where to be Friday night, and they shook hands, kissed, hugged, and parted.

  Friday night Richard showed up at the bar, wary and on guard, heavily armed, a fragmentation grenade in his pocket. This, he knew, could be a setup, though his instincts told him Gravano’s request was on the up-and-up. The bar was called Tali’s. It was on Eighteenth Avenue. Richard had the camera with him, as well as the dart gun. Gravano was already there. He introduced the mark to Richard. The mark was about twenty-five, had greasy black hair, another guido wannabe whose dick got him into trouble, Richard thought. The two started talking, had a drink. Sammy drifted away. Richard offhandedly told the mark that he had some “good coke” he needed to get rid of, quickly putting out the bait, as Richard thought of it.

  “Sammy know about this?” the mark asked.

  “No. This is off the record.”

  “Sure, I can move it. Got a taste?”

  “Out in the van,” Richard said, thinking this was going to be easier than he thought. They both walked outside.

  Inside Richard’s van, parked just off Eighteenth Avenue on a quiet side street, Richard knocked the mark unconscious w
ith a jawbreaker, taped him up, covered him with a plaid blanket, and headed for Pennsylvania…rat country. He didn’t particularly like to drive so far with the mark in the back of the van, but if he was stopped by cops or state troopers, he’d shoot them dead in a heartbeat. He had a .38 right under the seat for easy, quick access. He did, however, stick to the speed limit and drove carefully, listening to country music as he went. A few times the mark acted up, but Richard told him to be quiet or he’d beat him with a hammer.

  Richard hadn’t intended to do this anymore—feed people to rats. But if Gravano wanted the guy to really suffer, so be it. It was convenient, easy to do, and very effective. Richard was curious, still, to see his own reaction to this barbarity he had created.

  By the time Richard reached the caves where the rats dwelled it was nearly 3:00 A.M. He made the mark walk to his own grisly end. There was a nearly full moon out and it was easy to see. Richard knew the rats had acquired the taste of human flesh, that they’d be on the mark like white on rice, as he puts it. The mark tried to run but Richard knocked him down, made him get up, and marched him into the cave. The stink of the rats was strong—a foul, pungent, fetid odor. Richard made him lie down, used duct tape and bound his legs together. He set up the camera. He could hear the rats toward the back of the cave, even saw a few of them, skulking about the shadows. The mark was moaning and begging. Richard turned and left.

  The following day Richard returned to the cave. There was no sign of the mark, not a bone, not even a piece of cloth. Richard retrieved the camera, set up a meeting with Gravano, went to Brooklyn, and showed both Gravano and the girl’s father the tape. Neither of them could bear looking at it. Pleased, the father paid Richard twenty thousand dollars. Richard went back to New Jersey. A few days later he left for Zurich.

  Pat Kane had to do something. The investigation was going nowhere fast. Richard had completely stopped coming to the store. Dominick Polifrone was in the store just about every day, playing cards, shooting the breeze, brilliantly telling dirty jokes, waiting on Richard to no avail. Kane went and spoke to Lieutenant Leck.

  “I have an idea, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “We need to shake up Kuklinski. We’ve got to stir up the pot.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to go talk to him…ask him a few questions—see what kind of response we get…. I’m thinking it’s time we rattle his cage, Lieutenant.”

  “Have you run this by Dominick?”

  “I did. He thinks it’s a good idea. Right now nothing at all is happening, Lieutenant. We’ve got to be more proactive.”

  “Give it a go. Take Volkman with you.”

  “Okay,” Kane said, though in truth he didn’t want to take Ernest Volkman with him. Volkman had been one of the most disbelieving of Kane’s colleagues, had made wisecracks about Kane’s theory that Kuklinski was a serial, contract killer hiding in plain sight, had laughed the loudest.

  Nevertheless, Kane went and found him. He readily agreed to go confront Richard with him and together they set out to “rattle Richard’s cage.”

  By now it was late August of 1986. Richard had just returned from Zurich. He was planning to drive down to Georgia come nightfall. It was very hot and humid when New Jersey State detectives Pat Kane and Ernest Volkman pulled up in front of the Kuklinski residence. Richard’s car was in the driveway. Although it was nearly ninety degrees, both Kane and Volkman had to wear jackets and ties. This was mandated by the state police dress code. Kane was looking forward to this. For years now Richard Kuklinski had played a big part in his life, had taken on a larger-than-life omnipotence, and for the first time he was about to confront him—up close and personal. Not knowing what to expect, the two detectives stepped out of the air-conditioned black Plymouth, walked to the Kuklinski’s front door, and rang the bell. The family dog, Shaba, started to bark. It was a loud, bellowing bark. The inside door slowly opened. Suddenly, Richard was before them, his huge size completely filling the doorway.

  “What do you want?” asked Richard, looming in front of them. Kane was taken aback by how big he was. At six foot five, nearly three hundred pounds, Richard towered over them.

  The detectives showed their gold badges and introduced themselves.

  “Okay, what do you want?” Richard repeated, annoyed by their presence and the fact that they had the temerity to come knocking on his door unannounced. Nothing riled Richard more than uninvited people coming to the house…especially two grave-faced cops with obvious bad intentions. Richard was wearing tinted prescription sunglasses, so they couldn’t see his eyes, but they could feel the quiet animus coming from them like the August heat issuing from the sidewalks.

  “We are investigating several murders,” Kane said. “We’d like to talk with you about that.”

  “Yeah, well, talk,” said Richard.

  “Did you know either Louis Masgay, George Malliband, Paul Hoffman, Danny Deppner, or Gary Smith?” Kane asked.

  “Can’t say that I do,” Richard said, realizing now that this was the cop that had been investigating him all along, the cop that smelled the smoke but didn’t yet know where the fire was.

  “So you say you don’t know them?” Kane repeated, knowing Richard was lying.

  “Nope.”

  “How about Robert Pronge or Roy DeMeo. Did you know them?” Kane asked.

  Richard stared at them, taken aback to hear Kane mention DeMeo’s name. Richard had borrowed DeMeo’s car when he was using Richard’s van, and Richard figured—incorrectly—that the police had copied down the plate number of Roy’s car when it had been in front of the house. Richard had no idea until just recently that Freddie DiNome, one of DeMeo’s serial killers, had tied him to DeMeo.

  “I know you guys saw his car in front of my home. You know I know him,” Richard said.

  “You know anything about his murder?” Volkman asked.

  “It’s hot out here. Come on in,” Richard said, breaking the cardinal rule of the street: you never talk to cops.

  The Kuklinski house was nice and cool, clean and well appointed, neat and tidy. Barbara was out shopping. The kids were off with friends. Richard offered the detectives iced tea. They both declined. They’d never accept anything from Kuklinski out of fear of poison, no matter how thirsty they were. Richard sat in his easy chair as the detectives stiffly sat on the couch facing him. He kept his sunglasses on. Kane looked at a loving oil portrait of Richard and Barbara on the wall above his head.

  “I know nothing about the murder of Roy DeMeo,” Kuklinski said.

  “But you knew him?” Volkman asked.

  “Sure, I knew him. You guys know I knew him. Why don’t you like me, Mr. Kane?” Richard asked.

  “Who says I don’t like you?” Kane asked, surprised by the question. Truth was, Kane hated Richard. Kane truly believed Richard was evil, an agent of Satan himself.

  “I can see that…. It’s in your eyes,” Richard said matter-of-factly.

  “I don’t take any of my work personally,” Kane said. “For me you’re just work product. So you say you didn’t know Deppner, Masgay, or Smith?”

  “That’s right,” Richard said, daring Kane to prove he knew them. Kane, of course, had documentation that a call from Kuklinski’s home had been placed to the York Hotel, where Gary had been found under the bed, and he now reminded Richard of that phone call.

  “Really? I don’t know anything about that,” Richard said, caught off guard that Kane had so carefully scrutinized his phone calls. He didn’t like that. Now Richard knew for sure that this cop Pat Kane had been the thorn in his side for the last few years. A thorn he wanted removed. Richard stared at Kane with malice, though Kane could not see the disdain because Richard kept his shades on. They asked him a few more questions, to which they got evasive answers. Richard remained a gentleman, but he let them know he didn’t want to talk anymore. He stood up. They followed suit. He led them to the door. Kane couldn’t get over
how big he was.

  “Thanks for talking to us,” Kane said as he stepped back into the stifling, white August heat.

  “Anytime,” Richard said, closing the door.

  This really pissed Richard off. How dare these motherfuckers come around his house? How dare they knock on his door unannounced? Who the hell did they think they were?!

  Richard believed that if he got rid of Kane this whole thing would more than likely go away. The murders he was asking about were years old—yesterday’s news. If Kane was taken out of the equation, they’d stay old news.

  He would, he resolved, kill Kane. That was the answer. Of course. You have a problem, kill it. The solve-all remedy.

  It didn’t take Richard long to find out that Kane worked out of the Newton barracks. Richard borrowed a van from John Spasudo, went and staked out the barracks. He spotted Kane leaving the squat brick building after his shift and followed him. He had the cut-down Ruger rifle with him; he’d use it to do the job if the situation presented itself.

  When Kane left Richard’s house that day, he figured they’d done what they’d set out to do. Even now he didn’t truly comprehend how dangerous Richard was. He never thought Richard would really stalk him, kill him. Pat Kane was part of a culture in which police were not murdered. To kill a cop was, he knew, like sticking a pointed stick into a hornet’s nest. It just wasn’t worth the risk. But Richard was intent upon killing Kane. The question wasn’t if but how he should do it—make it overt, make it look like an accident, or maybe just make him disappear. He decided on the latter.

  Richard followed Kane to a nearby bar called the Wander Inn, a crowded blue-collar place. Kane began putting away drinks while standing at the bar. Richard actually walked in and watched Kane from a darkened corner. This, Richard thought, will be easy. The guy’s a lush. But it didn’t take long for Richard to figure out that Kane was drinking with cops; the place was filled with cops, and he slunk out the door unnoticed, like a giant, silent snake.