by Philip Carlo
For a second it appeared that Richard might clobber him, but Richard turned away, saying, “I knew it would come to this.”
“Don’t…don’t do that,” Barbara warned Dwayne. “Never do that!” He didn’t answer her, but no matter what—even if he died—Dwayne would not allow Richard to hurt his mother. Thus, the stage was set for a terrible tragedy, with dire Shakespearean implications.
In no time Richard and Robert Pronge became…friends. The more Richard learned about Pronge, the more he liked him…at first. In addition, Richard had been looking for an out-of-the-way garage he could rent; he needed a place to stash stolen items and sometimes kill people, and he wound up renting a garage near where Pronge kept his truck.
Pronge now told Richard he had a job that he had to do in Connecticut and invited Richard to come along. Pronge wanted to show Richard how well the cyanide spray worked. This was, he explained, something he had personally developed, and he was obviously proud of it.
The mark lived in a nice stone house on a quiet street. He went to work the same time every day and returned the same time every night. This kind of pattern made an assassin’s work relatively easy. Pronge parked about one hundred feet away from the mark’s home. He and Richard sat there, waiting for the mark to arrive home. There was, Pronge pointed out, no wind. “You cannot ever use this stuff in the wind—don’t forget that.”
When the mark pulled onto the block, Pronge slipped on a pair of gloves and boldly got out of the car, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
As the mark parked, Pronge was nearly to his car. The mark opened the car door and stepped out of the car, and at just that moment Pronge sprayed the man right in the face. Pronge turned and calmly walked back toward his car. He hadn’t taken ten steps when the mark fell over. He was soon dead.
Richard sat there quite amazed, impressed—not an easy task. Pronge got back in the car and off they went.
“Wow,” Richard said. “So he’s dead?”
“He is by now.”
“Smooth. Very smooth. I like it.”
“Just never use it in the wind if you are outdoors.”
“Of course,” Richard said, feeling close to his newfound friend, Robert Pronge, who had, before they left, put another license plate on his car with magnets. He now removed the bogus plate.
Richard had to have one of these cyanide sprays, and back at the garage where Pronge kept his Mister Softee truck, he showed Richard how to mix it and put it into the special spray bottle he had. Richard couldn’t wait to use it; he was a kid with a new toy.
But on the next job that came his way, he would not be able to use this unique killing tool. It would have to be done the old-fashioned way, with guns and bullets at close range. This would be the most important murder contract Richard had filled to date: the killing of the head of a Mafia family—a milestone in his bloody career.
38
Joe and Mary’s
Just how the Gambino family became involved in the murder of the notorious Carmine Galante is a long, convoluted story with many twists and turns, betrayals and colorful characters.
Carmine Galante was “one tough cocksucker,” as a rival boss put it. He was born in Riva Del Gotta, Sicily. As a young man he had thick, wavy black hair and the dark, fearless eyes of a predatory killer. Galante came up the Mafia ladder the hard way, gleefully breaking heads and killing people as he went. His early association with the Mafia began with Vito Genovese, who many say Mario Puzo used as a model for his immortal Don Vito Corleone.
The young Galante was a hit man for Genovese. When someone had to die, Genovese sent Galante. Genovese was a staunch Fascist, an ardent fan of Benito Mussolini, and Genovese ordered Galante to kill an Italian journalist, Carlo Tresca, who worked for Il Progresso and was an outspoken critic of Mussolini. Galante shot him four times, twice in the head, twice in the chest.
Eventually, however, Galante was inducted into the Bonanno crime family, not the Genovese clan. Joe Bonanno was a far less volatile and violent man than Genovese, but he used Galante to commit murder when necessary. In the early 1950s Joe Bonanno sent Galante to Montreal. Though Bonanno openly condemned dealing in drugs, he put Galante in charge of the Bonanno family’s Montreal rackets—extortion, shylocking—and Galante soon turned Montreal—with Bonanno’s silent blessing—into the main transit point for heroin coming out of Marseille, into America, instigating and encouraging the so-called French Connection. Thus Galante worked his way up in the Bonanno family, and by 1962 he was the underboss of the family. Thinking he was above the law, invisible (very much like Roy DeMeo), Galante ran afoul of the law, was arrested in Brooklyn for drug trafficking, and sent away for twenty years. While he was in prison a psychiatrist announced that Galante was a psychopath…no shit, Sherlock; and while in prison Galante methodically plotted and planned his ascension to the very top position of La Cosa Nostra: capo crimini/capo di tutti capi, the boss of bosses.
Tough as rusted nails, Galante picked fights with large black guys in prison, got in front of them on food lines, saying, “Get the fuck outta my way, nigger.” From prison Galante boldly let it be known that he planned to take charge of the Bonanno family, that he planned to be capo di tutti capi. By now Carlo Gambino was the boss of bosses, and Galante regularly told anyone who would listen how he would get rid of Gambino, that Gambino was afraid of his own shadow, that Carlo Gambino was a “spineless prick.”
No one looked forward to Galante’s release, least of all his own crime family, but he was let out of prison in the fall of 1974, having served twelve years. He never testified against anyone. He never tried to cut a deal. He kept his mouth shut and did his time. Not like the mob guys of today.
Now Galante was balding, wore large black plastic glasses, had a perpetual scowl about his hard face as if he’d been sucking on lemons all the years he’d been away. Bitter, angry, and very dangerous, Carmine Galante quickly managed to take charge of the Bonanno family. By now Joe Bonanno had effectively retired and lived in Tucson, and Galante quickly bullied the family leadership away from Rusty Rastelli.
Galante immediately plunged the family into heroin distribution. He believed that’s where the most money was, and that’s where he concentrated the family’s resources, energy, and power. This was the beginning of the end: Galante was recklessly leading the family down a ruinous road. He also began ordering the murders of other mob members who, he felt, were competing with his interest. In one year he had killed nine Genovese people (all made men) who dealt in drugs; it was painfully clear to anyone who looked that Carmine Galante would not stop killing until he completely dominated and controlled the exceedingly lucrative drug trade and the entire American Mafia. Yes, he and his family were making truckloads of money, but he was also writing his own death warrant.
Galante became so out of control, so greedy, so violent, that the heads of the other four families, as well as the powerful New Orleans boss Santo Trafficante, secretly met in Boca Raton, Florida, and decided that Galante had to go or he would eventually destroy La Cosa Nostra single-handedly.
Thus, with the full commission’s backing, the contract to kill Galante was issued. This was a first. The full commission had never ordered the death of a family head. It was now the summer of 1979.
Bonanno captains and people Galante trusted were contacted and told what was about to happen, and they agreed to do nothing (they actually had no choice). They would even cooperate in the hit.
It was decided that people from several families would be used. Genovese killers were tapped. Paul Castellano had committed the Gambino family, he sent Nino Gaggi to see Roy DeMeo, and Gaggi told DeMeo what was in the wind. DeMeo immediately suggested his premier killer—Richard Kuklinski—for the job. “He’s by far the best we got and no one will suspect him. He ain’t one of us. He’s off the map. I mean, we can put him right fuckin’ there close to Galante.”
Nino agreed and told Paul Castellano, and Paul gave the green light, the proverbial nod, and it was do
ne.
DeMeo soon called Richard, they met near the Tappan Zee Bridge, and DeMeo told Richard they wanted him to cap the head of a family: kill Carmine Galante. “He’s gotta go,” DeMeo said.
“No problem,” said Richard. He knew all about Galante, thought of him as a loudmouthed bully, and would gladly blow him away. “Be my pleasure.”
“Paul himself okayed you.”
“Really, I’m honored.”
“This will be very important for you, Big Guy. They’ll owe you huge after this.”
“Like I said, it’d be my pleasure,” Richard said. Galante was a notorious bully, and Richard had been a bully slayer ever since he killed Charley Lane back in the projects. He hated bullies, truly enjoyed killing them. Richard knew too that this would put him in good with all the families, that this was a sanctioned hit by the commission itself. For Richard this was the job of a lifetime, a homicide milestone.
It was now late June. The wheels that would result in Carmine Galante’s murder were oiled and inexorably turning. Galante, however, was not an easy man to take out. He was cunning and very dangerous, and he knew that a lot of people wanted him dead. He was a professional assassin himself and knew what to do and what not to do. He never adhered to any set routine. He always traveled armed. He always had two stone-faced bodyguards with him, Caesar Bonventre and Nino Coppola.
But Galante had no idea that his death had actually been sanctioned by the full Mafia commission, that bosses all over the country, in Philadelphia, California, Detroit—even Joe Bonanno—had given the nod that he had to go.
One of Galante’s bodyguards was also brought into the hit, and he readily agreed to help set up his boss. He really had no option: if he didn’t agree, his days would be numbered. By cooperating he assured his own ascension in the family; he’d have his own crews in no time.
The hit was going to go down in a restaurant on Knickerbocker Avenue in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn, a heavily Sicilian enclave. It was called Joe and Mary’s Italian-American Restaurant. They served real homemade Sicilian dishes. It was owned by Galante’s cousin Mary. For that reason Galante felt safe there and often had both lunch and dinner there.
On July 8, 1979, Richard met DeMeo at the Gemini, and they headed over to Bushwick for lunch. DeMeo wanted this to go down flawlessly. For him too it was the biggest job he’d ever taken part in and would guarantee his moving up quickly in the Gambino family. Both his reputation and his life were on the line. This was going to be an inside job, and DeMeo wanted Richard to see the layout, “the lay of the land,” as DeMeo told Richard that morning.
The restaurant was a small mom-and-pop affair. An inexpensive sign over the front door said:
JOE AND MARY’S ITALIAN-AMERICAN RESTAURANT—
SPECIAL ATTENTION TO TAKE OUT ORDERS
It had a large window from one end of the store to the other, a good twenty feet, with thin, inexpensive curtains covering the window. DeMeo and Richard entered, took a table, and ordered lunch. The food was good and cheap. The two men quietly ate, started with an antipasto, then shared some pasta, thinking about murder, sudden death in the afternoon. Richard then had veal and peppers, Roy a shrimp dish covered with hot marinara sauce. Richard did not like the setup at all. The place was small, long, and narrow, with one way in and one way out. In the back there was an outdoor patio with some tables, enclosed by three-story buildings. It was there, DeMeo said, that Galante liked to sit; he felt secure back there because he could see anyone coming his way in time to make a move; you had to walk the full length of the restaurant to reach the patio.
“It’s tight,” Richard said in little more than a whisper. “I don’t like it.”
“This,” Roy said, “is how it’s set up. See what you think. Keep an open mind here. His people will be with him when he comes in and while he eats. Two guys. One is with us. After they eat, our guy is going to excuse himself to make some calls. You’re going to be the inside guy. You’ll be having lunch when they come in. He’ll never suspect you. You obviously aren’t Italian, see. He always has a cigar after he eats. So you sit as close to the back as possible, facing the street, and order food. Our guys will pull up right out front, double-park, and get out of the car. You’ll be able to see them through the curtains. Because the place is long and narrow, he’ll be able to see them right off, and this guy will start shootin’ and ask questions later. That’s why there has to be a guy inside, in position—and that guy is you.”
Richard looked toward the street. Through the curtains he could easily see the sidewalk and Knickerbocker Avenue, people and cars passing; he heard the rumble of trucks, the sound of horns.
“So,” Roy continued, “soon as you see them, you move. Get up calm, real calm, walk toward the patio, and let him have it. Don’t give him the chance to reach for a piece. They’ll be right behind you, with shotguns. This cocksucker can’t live. He can’t survive this…What do you think?”
“It’s tight,” Richard repeated. “But doable.”
“You okay with it?”
“I’m okay with it. Just make sure the guys that come in know I’m on the team.”
“They’ll know. You should be firing at the scumbag when they first see you. When you’re done just turn and walk out. Don’t run. I’ll be in a car waiting for you; okay?”
“Okay. When?”
“Thursday, the twelfth. I’ll pick you up that morning. Say ten thirty. You gotta be here, you gotta be inside, sitting down, at twelve fifteen. Use something that’ll definitely do the job…maybe a .357.”
“Okay,” Richard said, calm, cool, collected, taking a drink of water, thinking the food was good.
July 11 Richard called Barbara from the war room and told her he wasn’t coming home, that he had business. As always, she said okay. Barbara never questioned Richard. He did what he wanted to do. By now she had come to realize that he was involved in “shady dealings,” and she readily accepted what he said. He had some Chinese food in nearby Chinatown, watched television in his war room, called Barbara to say good night, talked about the children, a planned trip for the family to go to Disney World. He went to sleep after watching the news and Johnny Carson’s monologue.
July 12 was a clear, typically hot, humid day. Richard showered and dressed for the day’s events. He put on plain green pants and an oversized short-sleeved shirt that would readily cover the three pistols he would bring to lunch. He went and had an omelet in a Greek coffee shop nearby, bought the three New York newspapers, took a walk, went back to the war room, and opened the safe. He would use the newspapers as props. Inside the safe he had an extensive collection of weapons. He chose two six-shot .357s and a .38 with a four-inch barrel. One of the .357s had a hair trigger. Richard had filed down the firing mechanism so the gun would go off with just the slightest pressure applied to the trigger. He put the guns in a black sports bag and went downstairs carrying the bag and newspapers. As planned, DeMeo picked him up on the corner of Spring and Lafayette. They barely spoke on the trip to Brooklyn. Richard was, as always before a hit, oddly calm; he knew he could very well be killed today, that any one of a number of things could go wrong and it would be over for him. However, this didn’t unduly trouble him. In an odd way, Richard Kuklinski had a death-wish, which would become stronger with each passing year. He listened to golden oldies as they went. Roy liked oldies too.
Richard was looking forward to confronting Galante. He knew this would be up close and personal—what he liked most. He knew too that Galante would definitely try to defend himself, that he had finely tuned killing instincts and skills. In a sense, Richard viewed this as his High Noon. He was Gary Cooper and he was going up against the baddest outlaw in town, a black-hearted bastard that had to die—that needed killing the way a rabid dog needs killing.
No, Richard was not nervous at all. Near Knickerbocker Avenue, Richard took the three guns from the bag and carefully stuck them in the waistband of his pants, in the position they needed to be. Roy said he’d be
out front when he came out, in front of the car that brought the two other shooters, whose job it was to do the coup de grâce.
“Make sure I don’t come out of there and I’m stuck.”
“I’ll be there!” DeMeo promised. They shook hands, kissed on each cheek. DeMeo wished him luck. Richard stepped from the car into the fierce mid-July sun. He was carrying a copy of The Daily News, a handy prop. Rubbery waves of heat rose from the ground in sinuous waves. Richard slowly walked to the restaurant, passing Italian cafés, pizza shops, Italian food stores with salamis and giant logs of provolone hanging in the window. The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the air. He opened the door and went inside. He took a table toward the rear, but not too far because he didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself. He greeted the waiter in a friendly manner, ordered some lunch, a meatball hero, something he could eat without using utensils. He didn’t want to leave prints on anything. He opened his paper and paid attention to it, looking down, acting as though he were reading something of great interest. His sandwich was served. It looked and smelled delicious. He didn’t, however, touch it. He’d wait.
Soon, Carmine Galante appeared at the door. Loud and gruff, he and his two guys entered and made their way straight to the rear patio. There was a long table already set up for them, adorned with a spanking new tablecloth. The patio was shaded by the surrounding buildings. Fawningly, waiters hurried to wait on Galante. Everyone knew who he was, and he was treated like the pope himself. Bottled water, wine, and food were hustled to the table. Still reading The Daily News, Richard now casually began to eat his sandwich. At one point he dropped the paper and, as he picked it up, turned for a brief moment and saw where Galante was seated. It was set in his mind. Now he kept his eyes on the street. The car with the other assassins could pull up at any moment. Richard slowly ate the meatball hero and read the paper, keeping his eyes on the street. DeMeo had told him one of the bodyguards was supposed to leave Galante at one point and that was when the hit team would show up; but he was thinking that they could come sooner. Calm and relaxed, feeling no anxiety—in his own element—Richard waited, eating slowly, reading the paper after each bite.
