Christ Almighty, not now. Dominick glanced at the orange, pink, and white Dunkin’ Donuts sign across the intersection. He stared at the unit’s brake lights.
Please.
Dominick considered going around them, but that could have been what they were waiting for. Maybe they wanted to get a look at his profile as he passed, then they could pull him over. Goddammit. He knew he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here acting suspicious.
But just as he was about to go around the cruiser, its brake lights suddenly blinked off and it started to move forward. Dominick let out a long breath as he pressed the accelerator and went through the intersection. He switched on his left directional. The doughnut shop was just ahead.
There were only three vehicles in the Dunkin’ Donut’s small parking lot: a black Toyota pickup truck with hot pink Oakley windshield wipers, a beige VW Rabbit with a bashed-in fender, and a blue Chevy Camaro, at least six or seven years old. Dominick pulled up next to the Camaro. From what he knew about Kuklinski’s size, Dominick had a feeling his target wouldn’t be coming in an imported compact.
Dominick cut the engine and looked to his right. A large, heavyset man was sitting behind the wheel of the Camaro, perusing the newspaper propped on the steering wheel. He was bald except for the longish gray hair on the sides, which was carefully combed up and over his ears. He wore a trim full beard and mustache, mostly gray now, though his dirty blond coloring was still in evidence. Oversize windowpane sunglasses covered his eyes. The man turned his head slowly and looked at Dominick. Dominick knew the face very well from the dozens of surveillance photographs he’d seen. It was him, the Iceman.
Dominick had to force himself from putting his hand in his pocket. The Iceman was sizing him up, and Dominick knew it, but he met Kuklinski’s gaze with his own unconcerned stare. He had to establish control right off the bat, before they even exchanged a single word. You give a guy like Kuklinski the upper hand and he’ll eat you alive.
Kuklinski closed his newspaper, folded it in half, and got out of the car. Dominick opened his door and got out of the Lincoln, and it was only then, looking over the roof of his car, that he realized just how big Kuklinski really was. At six feet even, Dominick had certainly never thought of himself as small or even medium, but compared with Richard Kuklinski, a thoroughbred would have looked small. The physical descriptions in the reports didn’t do the man justice. “Six-four, 270 lbs” didn’t convey the whole truth of the matter. The man wasn’t just big, he was BIG.
“Richie?” Dominick asked.
Kuklinski nodded, no expression. He put the newspaper under his arm. “You wanna coffee?”
“Sure.”
Kuklinski walked around the back of the Shark and extended his hand to Dominick.
Dominick shook his hand, deliberately keeping his face expressionless so his true feelings didn’t show. He was shaking the hand of a killer, a hand that had taken many, many lives. He had been prepared for a bully’s grip, but instead it was disarmingly gentle.
“They call you Dom?” The Iceman’s voice matched his handshake, soft and low, almost lilting.
“Yeah. Dom. I go by my middle name.”
Kuklinski nodded as if he were thinking something over. “Call me Rich.”
Dominick nodded. “Okay.”
They walked into the Dunkin’ Donuts together in silence. The place was dead. A young black girl in a beige gingham waitress uniform was rearranging doughnuts on the large metal trays that lined the back wall. A Hispanic kid in ripped jeans and high tops, cat scratches shaved into the scalp on the sides of his head, was devouring a huge honey-dip doughnut, sipping soda from a wax cup. The faint sound of easy-listening music drifted out from the back room.
Kuklinski nodded toward the seats at the far end of the counter, away from the waitress and the Hispanic kid. He wanted privacy. So would “Michael Dominick Provenzano.”
The waitress came over as they sat down. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Two coffees,” Dominick said. He looked at Kuklinski. “You wanna doughnut or anything?”
Kuklinski spoke to the waitress. “I’ll have a cinammon bun if you’ve got one.”
The girl nodded, then turned to Dominick. “Anything for you, sir?”
Dominick thought about it for a second, but then shook his head no. Normally he would have ordered a plain doughnut or a cruller, something small, but seeing Kuklinski’s girth changed his mind. Dominick tried to stay fit. He jogged every day he could and worked out regularly, but when he didn’t watch himself, he could put on ten pounds overnight, it seemed, and undercover work was not conducive to healthy habits. Bad guys like Michael Dominick Provenzano tend to spend ninety percent of their time hanging out, drinking coffee, eating crap, talking shit.
Dominick watched Kuklinski sitting there, quietly waiting for his coffee. With that sculpted beard of his, he looked like an evil duke from some mythical kingdom calmly contemplating his next murderous plot. Dominick knew not to say what was on his mind just yet. It wasn’t the way bad guys operated. They had to feel each other out first, circle each other like boxers in the first round. They had to talk shit first.
“So you keeping busy, Rich?”
Kuklinski nodded. “Yeah. I do what I can. How about you?”
“Yeah, I’m doing all right. Can always do better, though. I know I ain’t gonna hit the lottery, so I gotta make it myself. You know what I mean?”
“Yup.”
Kuklinski’s newspaper was folded on the counter by his elbow. He seemed to be reading it, not really paying attention to Dominick. The waitress returned with two mugs of coffee and a cinnamon bun the size of a saucer. Kuklinski peeled the tops off two plastic containers of half-and-half and poured them into his coffee. Dominick stirred in one container and took a sip from his mug.
Kuklinski nodded toward the plate glass window behind them to the Shark. “How do you like the Lincoln?”
“It’s nice. I used to have an Eldorado, but I like this one better. Better ride with the Lincoln.”
Kuklinski bit into his cinnamon bun. “You’re right. Lincoln’s a nice car. Nice and roomy up front.”
They talked cars for a while, comparing different models, wondering why really rich people were abandoning the Caddys and Lincolns for Mercedeses, reminiscing about good cars they’d had in the past. It was all very friendly, and it gave Dominick a chance to ease into his undercover role with his target, but they were just talking shit, still circling each other. Finally Dominick decided it was time to get down to business. He saw an opportunity to steer the conversation into it.
“You know, Rich, one car I could never get used to was the Corvette. The Stingray, you know what I mean? I always feel like I’m sitting on the floor in those damn things. I know Lenny’s got one, and he says he loves it, but I dunno … It’s not for me.”
Kuklinski didn’t say anything for a moment, just chewed and sipped his coffee. “Corvette’s not a bad car.”
Dominick knew from the state police reports that Kuklinski had driven Corvettes in the past, stolen vehicles. That was probably why he wasn’t anxious to share his enthusiasm for that particular model. He wasn’t sure about Dominick yet. Dominick had to keep talking and hope that he could find some common ground with Kuklinski, something that would gain a little bit of his trust and open the door for him. He decided to push a little farther.
“Yeah, that Lenny, he’s something else, isn’t he?”
“Yeah … He’s something else.” Kuklinski was distracted, staring down at his newspaper again.
Dominick knew that if he didn’t connect with Kuklinski soon, he might as well pack in the whole thing. He had to make Kuklinski warm up to him, just a little bit, but now he felt stuck. He thought Kuklinski would respond to his mentioning Lenny DePrima. Kuklinski supposedly trusted DePrima.
Dominick took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t want to keep bringing up DePrima’s name. He was afraid that if he kept harping on DePrima, Kuklins
ki would think he was a nobody showing off the only real contact he had. Kuklinski wasn’t interested in wannabes. If Dominick smelled like bullshit, Kuklinski would just walk away and have nothing to do with him, ever. Dominick needed to connect with this guy, but he had to be careful.
Just to keep the ball rolling, Dominick was about to bring up the New York Giants, who had beaten the Steelers in an exhibition game that Sunday, ask if Kuklinski was a fan, anything to jump-start the conversation. But then Kuklinski took off his sunglasses and looked Dominick in the eye. Dominick met his gaze. He couldn’t come off as submissive in any way, or Kuklinski would pick up on it like a bloodhound. Dominick already intended to grab the check when the waitress brought it. It would be his treat.
“I hear you got some connections, Dom.” Kuklinski was still staring at him.
“Yeah. I got a few connections.” Dominick sipped his coffee, but his eyes never left Kuklinski’s.
Kuklinski lowered his voice. “Can you get the white stuff?”
Dominick paused, sizing him up for effect. “We talking about the cheap white stuff or the expensive kind?” Cocaine or heroin?
“The cheaper one.”
Dominick shrugged. “Maybe. How much you want?”
Kuklinski stuck out his bottom lip and tilted his head. “Ten. Maybe more later.”
“Yeah, sure. I can do that.”
“How much per?”
Dominick stroked his mustache and thought about it. “Thirty-one five.” Thirty-one thousand five hundred dollars a kilo.
Kuklinski nodded and sipped his coffee as he thought about it. “Kinda steep, Dom. I know a guy, I think I can get it for between twenty-five and thirty.”
“So get it from him and don’t waste my time,” Dominick snapped back. He wasn’t about to dicker with Kuklinski because he didn’t want Kuklinski to think he needed the sale. He had to establish his control over the situation, even if he had to risk turning Kuklinski off for good. This had always been Dominick’s strict personal policy.
Kuklinski tore off a piece of his cinnamon bun and put it in his mouth. He seemed unperturbed by Dominick’s attitude. “How about cyanide?” he asked.
“What?” Dominick’s heart stopped. He wished to hell he were wearing a wire.
“Cyanide. Can you get any?”
“Whatta’you, funny? You need cyanide, go to a hardware store, get some rat poison. They got all the fucking cyanide you want.”
Kuklinski shook his head. “Not that stuff. I need pure cyanide. Lab quality. The kind of stuff they make you sign for when you try to buy it.”
“Whattaya need that for?”
“Something personal I gotta take care of.”
Dominick shrugged as if it didn’t make one bit of difference to him what Kuklinski wanted to do with pure cyanide, but inside, he couldn’t believe Kuklinski had come right out and asked for the poison on their very first meeting. Kuklinski was a suspect in several cyanide poisonings. It was supposed to be one of his favorite methods of killing. Dominick never expected to get this lucky, not this fast. But immediately he was suspicious. Why was Kuklinski asking him for cyanide? They’d just met. And why couldn’t Kuklinski get it for himself? From all indications he’d never had any trouble getting it before. Was he really that desperate for the poison? And who did he plan to use it on?
“So can you get it for me, Dom?”
“Yeah, sure. I know a guy. I’m pretty sure he can get it. How much you need?”
“Not much. You don’t need a whole lot of that stuff.”
“A little dab’ll do ya, huh?”
“Yup.” Kuklinski tore off another piece of his cinnamon bun. “Tell you what, Dom. You see if you can get me that stuff, and in the meantime, I’ll take ten of the white stuff off your hands.”
“At what price?”
“What you told me. Thirty-one five.”
“I thought you could get it for twenty-five.”
“Yeah, I could maybe, but that guy’s a jerk-off. He’s not that careful about his business. I don’t like people who aren’t careful. You know what I’m saying?”
“Absolutely. Guys like that you don’t need. They’re fucking liabilities.”
“Exactly.”
Dominick signaled to the waitress that he wanted a refill. “Listen, Rich. Maybe there’s something you can help me with.” He leaned closer to Kuklinski and lowered his voice. “I got a buyer who’s looking for heavy steel. Not street stuff. Military grade. Machine guns, grenades, rocket launchers, that kind of stuff. Silencers, too. Small-caliber guns fitted with silencers.”
“You’re looking for hit kits.”
“Right. Hit kits and heavy steel.”
Kuklinski raised his eyebrows. “What’s your buyer wanna do? Take over a country?”
Dominick glared at him. “Never mind about my buyer.”
“Hey, don’t get hot. I don’t wanna know who your buyer is. I would never try to go around you and cut you out. I don’t work that way.”
“Good. So can you help me out here?” Dominick was both relieved and grateful that Kuklinski hadn’t been turned off by his quick temper. Kuklinski’s question was out of line, and he’d realized that after he’d said it. Dominick’s response was totally appropriate.
“Just tell me this, Dom. Does your buyer want this merchandise delivered, or would he be willing to pick it up?”
“Gotta be delivered. To New York.” Dominick already had a cover story prepared. He was buying for the Irish Republican Army, and his usual sources couldn’t get him what his customer wanted in the quantity they needed. But he wasn’t going to tell Kuklinski that right away. At this point it was none of Kuklinski’s business.
“Hmm …” Kuklinski stroked his beard. “Gotta be delivered to New York. That might make it a little hard.”
“It won’t be staying in New York. It’s going somewhere else.”
“But they can’t pick it up? Say, in Delaware?”
Dominick shook his head. “They won’t go for it. I know these people. It’s gotta be delivered or there’s no deal.”
“They good customers?”
“The best. They pay top dollar, and they don’t dick around. You get ’em what they want, and they pay on the line. No bullshit with these people.”
“They sound like good customers.”
“Like I said, the best. If you can get me the right kind of stuff—military stuff, I’m talking—you can make a lot of money off these people. We both can.”
Kuklinski laughed. “Can’t argue with that, brother.”
“I can almost guarantee it. I’m not talking about small quantities here. This’ll be a big order. Big.” Dominick knew that the bait had to be enticing or Kuklinski wouldn’t bite.
“Lemme just ask you this. These people from New York, your customers, they connected?”
Dominick shook his head. “I buy for the wiseguys now and then, too. But this is different. This has nothing to do with the families.”
Kuklinski nodded, sucking his teeth. “I think I can get what you want. I’ll have to make a few calls to see what’s around. I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay, fine. But don’t take too long. They don’t like to wait around, these people. They find a better deal, forget about it, they’re gone.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something. Just tell me how I can get in touch with you.”
Dom pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote down a phone number on a paper napkin. “Here. This is my beeper number. You put your number in the system, and I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”
“Great.”
“Now like I said, you come up with the right merchandise and we could make a lot of do-re-mi with these people. Believe me.”
“I believe you, Dom. But don’t forget about those things I want.”
“I won’t forget. I got a good memory, Rich. Ten of the white stuff and the rat poison.”
“Pure. I need it pure.”
“I gotcha, Rich. Don’t worry.”
The waitress came over then, carrying a Pyrex pot of coffee. She refilled the mugs without asking.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dominick said to her. “Hey, Rich, you want another bun? Go ’head, I’m buying.”
A slow grin spread under Kuklinski’s mustache as he looked at Dominick. “Sure. Why not?”
SIX
Though it has a population of eighteen thousand, Dumont is practically a quaint village by northern New Jersey standards and one of the more modest communities in generally expensive Bergen County. Dumont is a town of simple saltbox Cape Cods and center-hall Colonials on winding streets lined with mature maples and sycamores, the trees that shed their brown paper bark as well as their leaves. A bedroom community for New York City and Newark, Dumont is a poor cousin to its more elegant neighbors, towns like Cresskill, Demarest, Alpine, and stately Englewood Cliffs, which borders the Hudson River and is noted for its proud old mansions on expansive rolling lawns. The residents of Dumont are an even mix of blue collar and middle-management white collar. However, there was one resident of this middle-class suburb who did not fit the local demographics: Richard Kuklinski.
Kuklinski was preoccupied as he drove the blue Camaro through the center of town later that afternoon. His brow was furrowed as he sailed up Washington Avenue and past St. Michael’s Catholic School, then took the next left, heading for Sunset Street. The houses he swept past were as solid and respectable as the town itself, but over the years additions and modern flourishes had sprung up here and there like mushrooms: skylights, brick walkways, expanded decks, sun-rooms, central air-conditioning units—items that reflected spurts in the various owners’ personal finances. Turning onto Sunset Street, Kuklinski guided the blue Chevy into the driveway of number 169, a neat split-level with a cedar shake facade and a custom-made twenty-five-hundred-dollar carved mahogany door. He turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. He was sorting through the details, considering the possibilities, trying to figure out how Dominick Provenzano could fit into his plans.
The Iceman Page 7
