by Philip Carlo
Like clockwork the mark, a burly, big-bellied Italian, left his apartment, made his way to the phone booth, and started talking animatedly, waving his free hand as if he were conducting an orchestra. Richard had been told to call Roy when he spotted the guy, which he now did. As usual, Richard used a phone booth, beeped in the number, and Roy called him back.
“You find him?” Roy asked.
“I’m looking at him right now. He’s on the phone. Loves to talk.”
“He’s talking to a guy I’m with right now.”
“You want me to move?”
“Hold off. We need to find out something first,” Roy said.
And every day for nearly a week, Richard was in position and would call Brooklyn as the mark talked up a storm, and was told “not yet.” Richard didn’t like all this hanging around, but he would do what the job called for. Several times a day he’d call home, make sure everything was okay—the concerned dad and husband just checking in.
Finally, Richard was given the green light. It was raining that day. He positioned the van where he knew the mark would walk, opened the side panel an inch or so, and waited. The mark had, Richard knew, broken the cardinal rule: he’d fallen into the same pattern every day, making Richard’s job that much easier. Sure enough the mark came walking toward the van, his mind preoccupied. Richard raised the .22 and waited for him to be in position, and when he was in the precise line of fire Richard pulled the trigger—a soft pop, hitting the mark in the side of the head, a little left of the temple. He went right down, brain-dead before he hit the wet pavement. Richard used a .22 Magnum hollow-point round, which entered the skull and bounced about inside the mark’s head, making instant mush of his brain.
Richard got behind the wheel and headed to LAX, pleased that this piece of work was finally done. He hadn’t liked having to hang around for several days. But he was a hunter and knew that with all hunting, patience was a prerequisite.
As always Richard got rid of the murder weapon on his way to the airport, and he soon boarded a flight back to Newark. He took a cab home and walked in the house in a good mood. He had been paid thirty grand for this job. The Los Angeles police knew nothing about Richard, and this murder was never linked to him.
Barbara was in the kitchen preparing dinner; the girls were setting the table; Dwayne was reading a book. Richard kissed everyone hello, got hugs and kisses from his children.
“How was your trip?” Barbara asked, having no idea what Richard had just done; she only knew he’d been in LA “on business.”
“Good,” he said, no more.
The family soon sat down for dinner, roast beef and potatoes, one of Richard’s favorites. He sliced the meat carefully, just so, not too thin, not too thick. The girls talked about school. Dwayne talked about the book he was reading. Richard, as always, sat quietly and listened.
Merrick was enrolled in the prestigious Devonshire Academy, an extremely expensive private school. Chris was enrolled in Holy Angels, also an expensive parochial school. That’s what Barbara wanted; that’s the way it was going to be. Barbara was, for the most part, oblivious of the costs, certainly of the chances Richard was taking to earn the kind of money needed for the private schools, and for all the trappings required to attend such schools.
Young Dwayne, Barbara had realized early on, was a gifted child, and she could not have been more proud of him. He had an IQ of 170 and loved to read; he’d much rather read a book than watch cartoons or play with toys. He loved the Golden Books series, quickly burned through them, and went on to the classics: The Jungle Book and Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities, Moby-Dick, Oliver Twist. Books fascinated him. Barbara would often catch him in bed, under the covers, with a book and a flashlight to read. She treated Dwayne as if he were royalty, and repeatedly let Richard know how smart Dwayne was; this, without any malice. She was just a proud mom effusively expressing herself. But Richard didn’t take it that way. Yes, Dwayne was his son, yes he was pleased the boy was obviously gifted—but he was still a male, and Richard didn’t want any other males stealing away Barbara’s attention. Richard inevitably became jealous of Dwayne and was, for the most part, standoffish and somewhat aloof from his last born, his own son, he readily admits.
Barbara did not want any more children with Richard. She already had serious misgivings, she says, that she had three children with him. She’d gotten a tubal ligation to make sure she could never become pregnant again. Richard was a very sexual man. The older he became the more he wanted to make love to Barbara, every day…sometimes twice a day, even more. She wasn’t always receptive to his overtures, which would immediately infuriate him, and he’d take her whether she wanted to or not. That was his nature. That’s what he did. This was a frequent source of friction between them because Richard would not take no, “I’m not in the mood,” for an answer. If she said, “I have a headache,” he’d say, “I don’t want to make love to your head.”
He’d even become violent with Barbara if she said no. He took it as rejection—a thing he would not tolerate, on any level for any reason. Even if she was menstruating, he didn’t care. For him it was irrelevant. Richard was obsessively loyal to Barbara, would never ever go with another woman, wouldn’t even think about it, he says, and thus he felt he had the God-given right to have his wife whenever the hell he pleased. He was, for the most part, a gentle, considerate lover; he never hurt her during sex, never wanted to bind her or dominate her or anything like that. He was conventional, indeed a bit puritanical, when it came to sex. Yet, he was hot-blooded like a dedicated Latin lover and often wanted to make love to Barbara.
Like all things, Barbara had to learn to accept this, make the best of it. But Richard always made sure she too was satisfied. In that way he was “quite considerate,” she recently revealed.
Because of financial pressures Richard was always looking for more ways to make more money. There was never enough money. But as word of Richard’s dedication, expertise, and efficiency spread, more and more people contacted him to do hits, and blood money came rolling in. He took pieces of work all over the country, indeed, the world. Wherever the Mafia had interests, did business, there was conflict, disagreements, backstabbing, the disrespecting of wives, girlfriends, daughters, there were people who had to die. Richard filled the bill. He traveled to Wisconsin, Florida, Hawaii, Maryland, North and South Carolina, Georgia, Las Vegas, Mississippi, Chicago, Arizona, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Wyoming, Indiana—all over the place—and killed people. Some he left where they dropped. Others disappeared forever…were buried, squashed in the trunks of cars, thrown down bottomless pits in Pennsylvania, fed to rats in Bucks County.
A man in Brooklyn owed the Bonanno family $140,000. Instead of paying he figured he’d go to the feds and talk, get the people he owed money to arrested. He had a garage. Richard was called there. The people owed the money were already there, waiting. They wanted to see it done, a skipper and four associates. Richard was given the nod. He knocked the guy down and, with a pistol equipped with a silencer, shot him in the arms, elbows, and knees, then in the genitals, drawing out the death for his customers to see and know and enjoy. After shooting him seven times, Richard tortured him with a knife, then finally slit his throat. Everyone was happy. Richard received twenty-five large. He liked to please his customers.
A guy in Tennessee owed money, would not pay. He had been given porn by the Gambinos and thumbed his nose at them; told his friends, “I ain’t payin’, fuck ’em.” Richard was sent to see him. He gave Richard checks that proved to be worthless. Richard threw him out a window—eight stories down.
A big heavy guy who was thought to be talking to the cops got into his car and drove off, listening to music as he went. Richard followed him on a motorcycle. He had a cut-down double-barrel shotgun with him, hidden in his leather jacket. The mark stopped at a red light. He began to light a fat cigar, looked at the large biker who had just pulled up next to him. He didn’t give him a second thought. A moment la
ter Richard pulled out the shotgun and let loose both barrels, holding it with his enormous hand, completely taking the mark’s head off. The light turned green. The motorcycle pulled away slowly, not in any hurry. No witnesses; no connection to Richard.
An Asian man in Honolulu also owed money, wouldn’t pay. He made excuses; he thought he was above reprisal. Richard was dispatched. His orders were “get the money or make him dead.” Richard met him in his room in a very expensive five-star hotel. No money. Plenty of lame excuses. Richard was fawning and excessively polite. They moved out on the terrace. “What a nice view,” said Richard, looking out at the wonderful vista.
“Yes, yes it’s lovely,” said the Asian, and before he knew it he was plummeting to the ground. A big, bloody, meaty thud, broken bones, smashed beyond recognition or repair. Richard calmly turned and left. Whenever he killed, he never hurried. This killing was thought of as a suicide by the authorities, as Richard knew it would be, he says.
Richard recently said, I felt I had no friends because I thought everyone was against me, always against me, no real ties to anyone. Rage, hate, that’s what I walked around with. That’s what I brought to the job. I used bats, tire irons, rope, wire, knives, guns, bow and arrow, ice picks, screwdrivers, poison, explosives, my hands, just to mention a few….
Interestingly, when Richard filled contracts he felt no animus toward the marks. Except the rapists. For him killing people was as easy as passing gas. He felt no empathy or sympathy or anything like that. Stanley Kuklinski had, quite successfully, beaten those things out of Richard many years ago…lifetimes ago.
Richard viewed himself as a champion gladiator in an arena of death, simply doing what was his calling in life. Richard had accepted—indeed grown to relish—that he was part of an elite underground society: people who killed for the sheer fun of it; people who killed for profit. What made Richard unique, however, was that he was doing both: he killed for both personal enjoyment and profit on an unprecedented scale, the police having no idea he even existed.
Richard was not averse to working with other killers. Sometimes the job called for that and he readily did it; but he always preferred to work alone. One such hit was of a man in Detroit, a union guy involved with the mob. The mark had a big mouth and a bigger ego, was always saying how he wasn’t scared of the mob, wasn’t scared of anyone, that he would do this and he would do that if they ever tried to make a move on him. This was a genuinely tough individual with tight, narrow lips and high cheekbones, thinning hair greased straight back. As well as having a big mouth, he had serious delusions of grandeur.
The order for the hit came from Tony P., a made man in the Genovese family who held court in Union City, New Jersey. At the behest of Russi Bufalino, temporary head of the Genovese family Tony P. was given the job of getting rid of this union guy.
Tony P. had known Richard since he was a kid back in Jersey City. He knew he could be trusted and would keep his mouth shut, so Tony P. made Richard part of a four-man hit team that included two brothers, Gabe and Sal, and a guy named Tommy. Of the four, Richard was the only one who was a bona fide professional killer, who had a doctorate in murder. Richard didn’t know who had to die and he didn’t particularly care. I could give a flying fuck less, he recently explained. The who and why is never any of my business.
It was July 29, 1975. Richard drove to Union City while it was still dark out and met the others. They got on Route 80 West and made their way toward Detroit, always staying within the speed limit. Richard sat in the backseat. Tony P. was with them. He was to lure the union guy to a lunch. Richard had a .22 auto with a silencer on it and a razor-sharp hunting knife. Both weapons were strapped to his massive calves. He also had a jawbreaker with him. The plan was to quickly snatch the mark. It would be Richard’s job to make sure this went smoothly, without a commotion, and to actually kill the mark, who had to then disappear “forever.” That was mandatory.
The drive to Detroit took almost ten hours. Everyone but the driver slept most of the way. Richard did not drive. When they arrived in Detroit it was already mid-morning, a hot, humid day. Quiet and stoic and serious—few words said—they checked into a hotel, freshened up, had a light breakfast. They had walkie-talkies with them they would use in the taking of the mark. Richard would have preferred to do this alone, but he accepted the fact that it had to be this way. Murder, he knew, can be a very complicated, political business.
A phone call came. They left and went to the parking lot of the Machus Red Fox restaurant in Bloomfield Hills, a well-to-do suburb of Detroit. As they pulled into the restaurant, a man who looked vaguely familiar to Richard was standing there waiting for them. Tony P. got out of the car. The two shook hands and talked for a minute, and the mark got back into the car with Tony P. He sat up front. He didn’t seem too happy. They started out. Richard was going to use a knife in a special way. He was just waiting for the nod from Tony P. After they’d gone a few miles, Richard was given the signal. He first knocked the mark unconscious with the jawbreaker. So there would be little blood, less of a mess, Richard pulled out the hunting knife, leaned forward, grabbed the mark’s wide chin, and pulled him up so he’d have access to the lower back of the mark’s head. Now Richard positioned the knife just at the base of his skull, slanted it upward, and with his unusual strength he thrust the knife directly into the mark’s brain. The man shook violently, became still; his last breath came as a rattle. Because of the upward motion directly into the brain, and the fact that Richard left the knife in his skull, there was little bleeding. They soon pulled over at a rest stop, put the mark in a body bag in the trunk. Richard agreed to take the body back to New Jersey. He would have preferred to dump it here, but they wanted it back in Jersey. The others were going to take a bus. Richard dropped them off at a bus depot and headed for Jersey. Now that the job was successfully done, he was relaxed and sang along with the radio as he went.
Back in New Jersey Richard went straight to a junkyard under the Pulaski Skyway in Kearny, just along the road to Newark. The junkyard was owned by a mob associate. Here the mark was placed into a black fifty-gallon drum. Gasoline was poured all over him. He was set on fire, and they let him burn for a half hour or so. The fetid stink of his burning flesh and organs and bones filled the air. The junkyard dog there was howling and salivating for some meat. They then sealed the drum carefully, welded it, and buried it there in the junkyard.
The job, for now, was done. Richard was paid forty thousand dollars, a good score. Before he left the junkyard, he made sure to wipe away any fingerprints he may have left in the car; couldn’t be too cautious. Though none of the hit team except Tony P. knew who Richard was or where he lived, he knew who they all were. They only knew him as “the Big Guy.”
Tired but pleased with how well the job had gone, Richard returned to Dumont, to his family. Dwayne had a new kite, and Richard showed him how to fly it. Barbara was in the pool with Chris and Merrick and some of their girlfriends. It was a very hot day and the cool pool was a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat. The family had a barbecue. Richard did all the cooking, gladly served up burgers and franks for the kids, steaks for the adults. “Well done or rare?” Richard always asked. He very much enjoyed doling out the meats the way people—even the kids—liked it. As the meat cooked he was reminded of the burning union guy.
Later on one of the brothers, Sal, began talking to the feds, and, because he might try to use this murder to get out of trouble on an unrelated problem, the drum was quickly dug up and placed in the trunk of a car that was smashed down to a four-by-two-foot cube of metal in a giant car compressor. It, along with hundreds of other compacted cars, was then sold to the Japanese as scrap metal and shipped off to Japan to be used in the making of new automobiles that would compete with Detroit carmakers’ products.
And that, according to Richard, is what happened to Teamsters Union boss Jimmy Hoffa.
He’s part of a car somewhere in Japan right now, Richard recently confided, a
slight smirk about his high-cheekboned face.
33
The Big Guy
Mob guys and their associates, allies, affiliates, and friends are, for the most part, a bitter, vengeful lot. They do not believe in letting bygones be bygones. Thus, Richard’s murder business flourished. The more he worked, the more successful his game, the more new contracts came rolling in from all over the country, then even overseas: in South America and Europe Richard murdered for profit.
More often than not the job required a quick murder, nothing elaborate. But Richard was killing so many people, he inevitably received special requests, as he refers to them.
A made man in New Jersey had a very lovely daughter, innocent and wide eyed, drop-dead gorgeous. She was nineteen. She started seeing an older guy, a particularly handsome fellow. The father tried to stop his daughter from seeing this older guy, an obvious playboy type with big white teeth and flashing dark eyes, an earring in his left ear, too good-looking for his own good.
In frustration the father took the boyfriend to the side and politely asked, “What’re your intentions regarding my daughter?”
“Intentions?” the playboy asked, perplexed. He had no idea the father was mobbed up.
“Yeah, we’d like to know, me and her mother.”
“Just to have some fun, you know.”
“Fun?” the father asked.
“Yeah, you know, fool around. Some fun!” the playboy volunteered, smiling his big toothy beguiling grin.
The father, a Sicilian, turned beet red, though he didn’t say another word.
Through some friends, this Sicilian father reached out to Richard, told him that he wanted the guy to disappear, but that first “he must suffer!”
