The Iceman (20 page)

“So what’s he done now, Dom?” Margaret Moore knew all about Richard Kuklinski.

“Nothing. That’s the whole problem. I think we’re losing him.”

“You think he’s on to you?”

“Nah, I don’t think that’s it.”

“You sure?”

“No, he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Well, don’t be a jerk. If he starts getting hinky on you, back out. Protect yourself first.”

“Don’t worry, Margie. It’s okay. He doesn’t know.”

“Hey, I know you. You’ll tough it out no matter what. Don’t be stupid. Remember, you don’t have me around anymore to keep you in line.”

Dominick laughed. “Don’t make me curse, Margie.” The muscles in his forehead were relaxed all of a sudden.

“So, Dom, you want me to put in a petition to let me help you out with this guy? You introduce me as the IRA girl and we’ll wrap this thing up quick, just like we used to.”

They both laughed, but they both knew it was more complicated than that. Kuklinski wasn’t some street punk with a few guns to sell, and this wasn’t the same kind of buy-bust situation that they had been used to. This was a homicide investigation. Dominick had been on this case a year and a half now, and it didn’t look like they were going to wrap it up soon because the state of New Jersey had first dibs on Kuklinski for murder. Selling illegal firearms was just a side dish at this feast. Dominick knew that his old partner would jump in to help him in a minute if she could, but Margaret Moore was a supervisor now, and supervisors were officially prohibited from returning to street duty.

“You getting good cooperation from the state?” she asked. She sounded like a protective mother.

“Oh, yeah, these guys are great. No complaint there. The guys from the Attorney General’s Office are top drawer.”

“So why isn’t this thing moving? What’s the problem?”

“We gotta get Kuklinski for the murders. I gotta get him to talk more on tape. Bobby Carroll’s running this show, and he says we keep going until we get enough on tape to nail Kuklinski in court for good.”

“Yeah, but, Dom, doesn’t he understand that Kuklinski is gonna fly the coop if you jerk him around too long?”

“He understands that.”

“Does he understand that it’s your life hanging out there on the line with this ape? Does he understand that?”

“Yes, Margie, he understands that.” Dominick was touched by the ferocity of her concern for him.

“Look, Dominick, I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Nobody understands what it’s like being out there by yourself on an undercover. No matter what these guys tell you to do, you do what you
have
to do. It’s
your
life that’s on the line, not theirs.”

Dominick stared out the sliding glass doors at the teeming rain in the floodlights out on the deck. “I know, Margie. Believe me. I know.”

At the Vince Lombardi Service Area, Dominick Polifrone stood just inside the glass doors at Roy Rogers, his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, holding his gun in the right pocket. The Nagra tape recorder concealed on his body was running. Three investigators from the state’s Organized Crime and Racketeering Bureau were at different booths in the fast-food restaurant, blending in. One of the three was Ron Donahue, who was hunched over a paper cup of tea, drinking it slowly and making it last. A fourth investigator was sitting in a stall in the men’s room, just in case. They were waiting for Richard Kuklinski.

Dominick had waited all day Monday for Kuklinski’s promised phone call, but it never came. Tuesday had passed, and there was still no word from him. Dominick was discouraged. He’d thought about calling Kuklinski himself, but he didn’t like that idea. The way Kuklinski had sounded the last time they talked, it was as if they’d never met. At this point, if Dominick called him, in effect they’d be starting all over again, clean slate, except Dominick would be in the weaker position because he’d be the one doing the pursuing. That, he didn’t want.
He’d decided to wait it out a little longer and see what would happen.

Then, that morning, Kuklinski finally beeped him, but when they’d talked, he was still cool and evasive. He was making excuses, telling Dominick that he’d lost his number and that’s why he hadn’t called sooner. Dominick said he wanted to meet him so they could discuss a few things, but Kuklinski tried to put him off, saying that he didn’t have the time because he was leaving for south Jersey in a little while. Dominick insisted, and Kuklinski finally agreed to meet him at the Vince Lombardi Service Area.

Dominick scanned the parking lot through the glass doors, then looked at his watch. He knew he was going to have to make the sales pitch of his life. Not hard sell, though. That would just send Kuklinski back into the bushes. No, he was going to have to be very subtle but also totally up front. He was going to have to appeal to the only thing that apparently turned the Iceman on: money.

The restaurant was visible in the reflection of the glass doors. Outside, it was cold and blustery. Dominick didn’t like the idea of meeting Kuklinski inside, but given the weather, he didn’t have much choice. For one thing, there were too many people inside. What if something happened and he had to pull his gun? Then there was the bathroom problem. What if Kuklinski wanted to go talk in the men’s room? It was an enclosed space. What if Kuklinski was on to Dominick and he’d decided to get rid of him with his cyanide spray? The man stationed in the toilet wouldn’t be much help in that case. That’s why Dominick had already decided that he would try to head off any suggestion that they go into the bathroom by saying he hadn’t had lunch yet and he was starved. Of course, the thought of eating with Kuklinski wasn’t very comforting either. All Dominick could think of was Gary Smith’s last hamburger. He was definitely going to make sure that he ordered the food and that it didn’t leave his sight. He was glad Ron Donahue was sitting there. Ronnie would watch for something like that,
and Ronnie wouldn’t hesitate if he saw Kuklinski trying to pull something.

At two o’clock on the nose Kuklinski arrived, this time in a different car, a red Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais. Dominick watched the big man cross the parking lot. He was wearing his gray leather bomber jacket and pressed jeans with a sharp crease down the leg. He was also wearing the dark glasses again. A bad sign. The members of the task force had agreed that these were his “motherfucker glasses.” Whenever he wore them, that was usually the attitude he had.

Kuklinski pushed through the glass doors. “Hey, Dom. What’s new?”

Dominick shook his hand. “You’re getting smaller and smaller, my friend. Whatta’you, on a diet?”

Kuklinski laughed, but Dominick could tell that it was forced.

“You want coffee? I haven’t had lunch. C’mon, let’s have something.”

“Not for me. You go ahead.”

They headed for the counter and stood in line together so Dominick could get something to eat.

“Those things I wanted, Rich. The five or ten? You know what I’m talking about? Can you get them for me?”

Kuklinski shrugged. “They’re down there if you want ’em. You go get ’em yourself, though. They’re in Delaware.” He kept his glasses on.

“And you know that he’s got ten?”

“Ten, twenty, thirty, whatever you want. But I don’t wanna transport them. If you want ’em, you go get ’em.”

Kuklinski was wearing his attitude like a fur coat. Dominick knew it was time to start his pitch.

“Tim explained to you that these pieces aren’t for the girl, didn’t he? This is a favor I’m doing for a wiseguy in New York. Small change. This isn’t the big one. That’s what I gotta talk to you about.”

Dominick got to the head of the line, and Kuklinski waited for him to order. Behind the counter a pimply kid in a paper hat punched out Dominick’s selections on the cash register, then went to fetch his order.

“My people are ready to buy. They said they don’t need samples. All they want is a list of what you can get.” Dominick lowered his voice. “I know they got at least five hundred grand to spend on ammo alone.”

Kuklinski didn’t answer. He was looking down at Dominick’s plastic tray as the kid behind the counter filled it: a carton of milk, a Coke, large fries, and a cheeseburger. As Dominick paid, Kuklinski went to find an empty booth at the far end of the room by the windows. Dominick carried his tray over to him, passing Ron Donahue sipping his tea. They didn’t look at each other.

At the table Dominick unwrapped his cheeseburger and took a bite. He wasn’t going to put it down until it was finished. Kuklinski sat there with his fingers linked on the tabletop, a stone face behind the dark glasses.

“My people are looking for grenades, machine guns, all that kind of shit. You know what I mean? We’re ready to put in our order.”

Kuklinski sucked on his teeth. “Yeah, I keep hearing about this big order, but my guy wants to know when. It’s getting embarrassing for me.”

“I’m giving you the order now. If Tim can handle it, we’re buying. Just get me a list of what he’s got.”

“Okay. I’ll get you one.” The big man sucked his teeth. “What’s your girl gonna do over there? Start a war? I wanna know so I can move outta the way a little bit.” Kuklinski was smiling. It seemed genuine.

“Rich, I don’t give a fuck what she’s gonna do with it. As long as her cash is green, that’s all I care about.”

“That’s all I care about, too. I just want to get you two guys
together and let you do your thing. I’m gonna step aside and stay out of it. All I want is my commission when it’s all over.”

“Of course.” Dominick stuck a straw in his soda and took a drink. “But right now I need those ten pieces. Tell me the truth now, can I get ’em right away? I promised this guy I would try.”

“You willing to go down to Delaware to get ’em?”

“No problem. I’ll pick ’em up. Wherever they are.”

Kuklinski took off his glasses. “Tim’s got ’em. They’re down there. If you’ll pick ’em up, there’s no problem.”

“Good. You make the arrangements and get back to me, tell me when and where. Okay?”

Kuklinski nodded. “Will do.”

Dominick stuffed a few french fries into his mouth.

“So what happened with your little Jewish friend?”

Dominick took a drink of soda and swallowed. “I wanted to talk to you about that. The kid says he may want to do two or maybe three keys now. Is it still possible to do what we talked about, you know, with the cyanide shit?”

“Dom, if you can get me a little bit of cyanide, I could take this kid out easy. Just walk up to him, spray it in his face, and he’ll never see the next fucking minute.”

“Guaranteed?”

“My friend, I’ve done it already. The kid will never know what hit him. Once it gets into his system, he’s done for. He’s gone.”

“What about his car and stuff? What do we do with it?”

Kuklinski shrugged. “What do you want to do with it? All I’m interested in is taking his money. Just leave him. Don’t touch nothing. You wanna move him, move him. But I don’t see it as a problem. Just leave him where he is. He’ll look like he’s sleeping.”

“That’s what I want. Whack him without any fucking problems. Then we got his cash, plus the coke I bring to the meet.”

“See that old guy sitting over there.” Kuklinski pointed with his glasses.

Dominick turned around in his seat. He was pointing at Ronnie Donahue. Dominick’s hand went to his lap, ready to go for the gun in his pocket. “Yeah. What about him?”

“I could walk by and—pssst—give him a little swish in the face, and I could walk right outta here and no one would even realize what happened to the guy. Except when someone asks him to get up and move. That’s when they’d realize he wasn’t with us anymore.”

Dominick relaxed and reached for his soda. “You know, I get offers for these kind of jobs in the city sometimes. Would you be willing to teach me how to use this stuff on somebody? What’s the best effect?”

“The best way is to hit ’im right in the nose with a spray so he inhales it. Once he inhales it, he’s done. There ain’t nothing he can do about it. Only thing is, you gotta be careful you’re not downwind, ’cause if
you
inhale it,
you’re
gone.”

Dominick nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“My friend, I’ve done it on a busy street where they thought the guy had a heart attack. I walked right up to him, made like I was sneezing into my handkerchief to protect myself, and sprayed him in the face. He tripped and fell, and everyone thought he had a heart attack. Later on they found out that that wasn’t what killed him. I’ve done it on the busiest street in the world. People all over the place.”

Dominick smiled and shook his head in amazement. He was trying to imagine what Bob Carroll’s face was going to look like when he heard this. This was pure gold.

“And the beautiful part is, when they find out it’s not an accident after all, they’re not gonna know what happened. Once they do the autopsy, they’re gonna know he sniffed something, but they’ll never figure out that he sniffed cyanide. Nobody sniffs fucking cyanide.”

“Right. Of course not.”

“If you gotta do a job, Dom, that’s the way to do it. Nice and neat. No mess.”

“You’re right. Nice and neat … nice and neat.”

Dominick looked down at the last bite of cheeseburger in his hand and the french fries spread out on the plastic tray, and he suddenly remembered the photos of Danny Deppner’s body. He wondered if that one had been “nice and neat,” too.

In the last days of 1982 Danny Deppner kept having the same nightmare: that Gary Smith wasn’t dead.

Deppner had watched Gary Smith eat the cyanide-laced hamburger that Richard Kuklinski had brought to the York Motel. He had seen Gary’s eyes “go goofy” as he fell back on the bed and clutched his throat. He was the one who had taken the lamp cord and finished the job, strangling Smith until he stopped struggling. He had rolled Smith’s lifeless body off the bed and helped Kuklinski get him into the bed frame, covering him with the box spring and mattress. But lying in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling in another motel room, Danny Deppner began to wonder: Could Gary still be alive?