The Iceman Read online

  “Don’t worry about it. It’ll take me two and a half hours to get up there, my friend. That’s all.”

  Dominick laughed. “I hear you. There’s no rush on this thing, though, you know what I’m saying? The kid bounces around, goes away with his family sometimes, disappears for a while—”

  “He who hesitates is lost, my friend.”

  “You’re right about that, Rich.”

  “Gotta strike while the iron is hot.”

  “I hear you, I hear you. I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  “Okay. And how about the other thing with the girl?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear from her.”

  “Okay. You know how to find me.”

  “Right. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Take care now.”

  “Bye.”

  Kuklinski hung up and went back to his booth. The saucer was on top of his coffee cup. The waitress had poured him a fresh cup and covered it to keep it warm. He shook out two packets of sugar, ripped the tops, and poured them into the cup. He was thinking about the rich Jewish kid. Dominick had said the kid wanted two kilos of coke. The price would be sixty-five thousand. The kid would bring cash. They’d kill him, take his dough, and split it. That would give him another thirty-two five on top of whatever he and Sposato ripped off from Dominick with the bogus arms deal.

  Kuklinski brought the coffee cup to his lips and sipped as he looked out the window. He who hesitates is lost, he thought. He who hesitates …

  There was one time when he had hesitated, and he ended up regretting it. Back in the early seventies a guy who owed him money was telling people that he didn’t intend to pay up. Richard Kuklinski wasn’t about to let it get around that he sat back and allowed people to stiff him, so he paid the deadbeat an unexpected visit late one night at his office in midtown Manhattan. The man was very surprised to see him. He was more surprised to see Kuklinski’s .38. Kuklinski told him he’d done wrong, and there was no making up for it now. The man just fell apart.

  “Please, Rich, no. Please don’t do this. Please, God, don’t let this happen to me. Please! God, please make him listen. Please, God.”

  Kuklinski stood over the deadbeat as he fell to his knees. The man couldn’t walk he was so upset, crying and pleading, praying to God for mercy, promising God he’d do anything if He just helped him this one time.

  Kuklinski sneered down at him. “I tell you what,” he said. “If you believe so much in your fucking God, I’ll give you a half hour to pray to Him. We’ll see if He can do something for you. Okay?” He leaned on the desk and made himself comfortable, then looked at his watch and told the guy the clock was ticking.

  That was a mistake.

  The guy started to blubber something awful, crying and wailing and begging. It was pathetic. It was degrading. The guy couldn’t even get up he was such a mess. He tried to drag himself across the floor like some kind of cripple who’d lost his wheelchair. Eventually the guy shit his pants, literally. It was disgusting. Kuklinski never thought anyone could be this desperate. After a while he couldn’t take it anymore, so he just shot him and got it over with. He hauled the body down in the service elevator and threw him in a Dumpster. He never heard another word about the guy after that, but that one still haunted him. He shouldn’t have hesitated. He should’ve just shot him right away and kept it simple. Doing it that way, making the guy beg like that—it wasn’t worthy of Richard Kuklinski. It made him feel small, and he knew he was better than that. He learned a good lesson from that one, though: He who hesitates is lost.

  “More coffee, sir?” The waitress was hovering over the table, ready with the coffeepot.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Just the check.”

  “Yes, sir.” She scurried back behind the counter to tally up his check.

  He drained his cup and waited.

  SIXTEEN

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1986

  Ellen Polifrone was genuinely happy. Dominick could tell. His wife never complained when he was on assignment, but he knew it never thrilled her. He watched her from the dining-room table as she pulled a roast out of the oven. She was happy because tonight was a real occasion. Her husband was home for dinner for a change.

  Operation Iceman was turning out to be the longest undercover assignment Dominick had ever been on, nineteen months now, but Ellen knew very little about it. She had no idea who Richard Kuklinski was, and that was the way she wanted it. If she knew the details of her husband’s work, she’d go out of her mind worrying about him. As it was, whenever one of his cases broke and she read about it in the newspaper, she’d nearly have a fit. She would never sit by a window in a restaurant with Dominick anymore because she was afraid some Mafia assassin would try to get back at Dominick for something he’d done to the mob.

  Dominick watched her spear the steaming roast and put it on a serving platter. He’d known Ellen since high school, and he often said she was the one who kept him sane, but right now he was tempted to break their longtime understanding and tell her what was going on with the Kuklinski investigation. The strain was getting to him, and he really wanted to unload some of what he was feeling.

  Ellen looked at him over her shoulder as she carved the roast. “Call the kids, Dom. Everything’s ready.”

  Dominick stayed in his seat, clutching the glass of scotch in front of him. “Keri! Drew! Matt! Dinner’s ready. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Ellen rolled her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. She knew her husband had a lot on his mind. Whenever Dominick took a glass of scotch out onto the deck, lit up a cigar, and stared out at the trees, she knew something was bothering him, something about work. Lately it seemed like he was going out there a lot more than usual.

  “Hey!” Dominick suddenly erupted. “I said dinner’s ready. Get up here or forget about eating.”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Drew yelled up from the den. Drew, their second child and the older boy, was eleven years old, and his fresh mouth occasionally got him into trouble, especially with his father.

  Thirteen-year-old Keri, the oldest, wandered into the kitchen and asked her mother if there was anything she could do.

  Matt, the youngest, tripped into the dining room wearing a red satin cape, a matching cap with red horns that tied under his chin, and a pair of horn-rim glasses with a rubber nose and a black feather mustache. Halloween was still a week away, but the seven-year-old was so excited he tried on his costume every day and dreamed out loud about all the candy he’d get trick-or-treating. He sat down at the table and waited for his father to notice him.

  Dominick noticed, but the smile for his son was forced. The red satin horns on Matt’s head reminded him of one of the names they had for Richard Kuklinski at “the store”: the devil himself.

  Keri started putting out plates and silverware, and Ellen brought out the food, but Dominick wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about him again. That’s all he could think about these days, him, the devil himself. Kuklinski’s face was the last thing he saw when he closed his eyes at night and the first thing he saw when he opened them in the morning. He was afraid that they were losing him now.

  A week after he’d returned Kuklinski’s call at the diner in south Jersey, Dominick beeped Kuklinski, but it was Tim, Kuklinski’s arms supplier, who returned the call. He told Tim that he needed to talk to Richie about the IRA deal, and Tim said he’d give Richie the message. Later that day Kuklinski called him, and they discussed the possibility of getting five to ten more hit kits like the one Dominick had already bought. But Kuklinski seemed hesitant, insisting that his people wouldn’t sell these guns “piecemeal.” He was clearly looking for a bigger order, playing hard to get. Dominick didn’t accommodate him. This was what the girl wanted for now, he told Kuklinski, that’s all. He was sticking to his policy of not conceding anything to Kuklinski.

  But now he was beginning to have second thoughts about his strategy. Eleven days had gone by
with no word from Kuklinski. Then today, while he was raking leaves in the front yard, his beeper went off. He pulled it out of the waistband of his sweat pants and saw right away that it was Kuklinski’s home number.

  When he returned the call, Dominick could tell from Kuklinski’s voice that things had definitely changed. The Iceman was cool and noncommittal. Dominick reminded him that the “rich kid” rip-off was still on the table if Kuklinski was interested, and he suggested that they get together to discuss it. Kuklinski didn’t say he wasn’t interested, but he didn’t seem all that enthused about it. The conversation was short, but Dominick felt like he was pulling teeth the whole time, trying to jump-start the guy. Kuklinski promised to give him a call on Monday, but Dominick didn’t think he would. He was afraid that the Iceman had lost interest in him.

  Of course, in hindsight it made sense. Almost two months had gone by since they’d met, and the only money Kuklinski had made on this relationship was the eleven hundred Dominick had paid him for the one gun and silencer, which he probably had to split with Tim. This was small potatoes for Kuklinski. He probably thought he was wasting his time with Dominick.

  Dominick stroked his mustache. He should have put in a bigger order when he talked to him two weeks ago. Five to ten guns was nothing. He should have realized that. Same thing with the “rich kid” scheme. He should have been more definite about it. He should have given Kuklinski a tidbit he could taste to make him really hungry. Kuklinski probably thought he was a small-timer who was stalling him because he couldn’t come through with what he’d promised. Kuklinski thought he was bullshit.

  “Dominick? … Dominick?”

  “Huh?”

  Ellen gestured with her head. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Dominick looked down and suddenly realized there was a full plate in front of him—roast beef, string beans, baked potato, and a salad. Keri was in her seat, and Ellen was standing over Matt, cutting his meat for him. Drew’s place was empty.

  Dominick’s brows furrowed. “Where’s Drew?”

  Keri shrugged.

  Dominick exploded. “Drew, if you don’t get in here right now, you can forget about—”

  “I’m right here, Dad. You don’t have to yell.” Drew raced in through the kitchen and jumped into his chair. He was wearing his catcher’s mitt.

  Dominick pointed at the mitt. “Get rid of that thing. You don’t bring that to the table. What’s wrong with you?”

  Drew gave him an exasperated look and took off the mitt. He was about to pitch it into the living room when Ellen stopped him and saved him from his father’s temper. “Just put it under your chair, Drew.”

  Ellen sat down, and everyone dug in. Dominick sliced his roast beef and absently took a bite.

  Kuklinski thought he was bullshit. He knew it.

  Dominick took another bite. He didn’t even know what he was eating, he was so preoccupied.

  “Is it good?” Ellen asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The meat. Is it overdone?”

  “Oh … no. It’s good.… It’s very good.…”

  He was watching Matt in his devil costume buttering a roll. That reminded Dominick of something he always said to Kuklinski. “We gotta break bread over this, Rich. We gotta break bread.” He speared another piece of roast beef and shoved it in his mouth. But when were they gonna break bread? he wondered. When? There was no reason for Kuklinski to meet him, no incentive, no big bucks, no big score, nothing. They were stalling Kuklinski, and the bastard knew it.

  Dominick chewed and chewed, thinking about Kuklinski, and finally he realized that the roast beef didn’t have much taste.

  “Hey, Matt,” he said to the seven-year-old, “pass the fucking salt, will ya?”

  The little boy’s jaw dropped.

  “Daddy!”

  “Dominick!” Ellen scowled at him.

  Drew thought it was hilarious. “Oooo! What you said, Dad.”

  Dominick clenched his teeth and felt his face turning red. He was just about to scream at Drew when he caught himself. He turned to Matt and tenderly pushed the devil’s horns off his head. “I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean that.”

  The little boy looked up at his father, his shocked expression slowly fading. “It’s okay, Dad.” He looked at his mother. “We understand.”

  Dominick rubbed his face and let out a long sigh. “Sorry.”

  Later that evening, while Ellen and the kids were downstairs in the den watching TV, Dominick was pacing around the house, searching for something to do with himself. He had tried watching television with them, but he couldn’t concentrate on any of the programs. He thought about going out for a jog, but it was raining too hard. He wanted to go down to the gym, put on the gloves, and work on the heavy bag for a while, but this was the first Saturday night he’d been home in months. He couldn’t leave now. His best friend, Alan Grieco, was out for the evening. He’d already tried calling him. So Dominick sat at the kitchen table, staring at the phone, debating about whether or not he should call. His eye kept going back to the bottle of Chivas on the counter. Either he was going to make the call or have another drink and brood. He snapped up the phone and punched out the number.

  It rang five times before she answered. “Hello?”

  “Hey, how are things in Glocca Morra?”

  “Dominick!” The woman on the other end had a distinctly New York accent. She sounded both incredulous and scolding. “It’s Saturday night, Dominick. Get a life, will ya?”

  “I’m trying, Margie, I’m trying.”

  Margaret Moore was assistant special agent in charge of the ATF office in Philadelphia. She had started her career with the New York City Police Department, working in undercover narcotics, but in 1976, after two and a half years on the job, she had been laid off. She was then hired by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, where she was teamed with a brash special agent who was as Italian as she was Irish. Together they formed an act that was unique in undercover law enforcement: Dominick would pose as a connected guy in the market for guns; Margaret, with her blue eyes and strawberry blond hair, would be the “IRA girl,” his good customer who needed the guns. They were a very effective duo. Whenever they would go to meet a bad guy with guns to sell, Margaret would go off into a corner by herself and Dominick would do all the negotiating, going back and forth between the buyer and seller. In their biggest case together they recovered three thousand silencers from a mob gunrunner. Even though they weren’t partners anymore, they stayed in touch. But ever since Operation Iceman had started to heat up, it seemed like he’d been calling her every other night.

  “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. Sel
ling 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.”

  SEVENTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1986—1:50 P.M.

  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.