The Iceman Page 9

  Yes, yes. Sposato was going to die. No question about it. But not until Kuklinski took care of some business and made some money. Because that’s what it was all about, really. Making money. It was only the green that counted.

  Kuklinski clicked his thumbnail down the notches.

  Percy House.

  Barbara Deppner.

  Dominick Provenzano.

  John Sposato.

  He let out a long sigh of satisfaction. He felt better now. He didn’t think he was going to get that headache after all.

  A short knock came from the other side of the door. “Daddy? Dinner’s ready.” It was Merrick.

  “I’ll be right there, honey.”

  He tossed the knife back into the attaché case, shut the lid, closed the latches, and set it on the floor beside the desk. He switched off the desk lamp and left his office.

  The aroma of the baking lasagna filled the hallway. “Smells good,” he called out as he headed for the kitchen.

  He was hungry.

  SEVEN

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1986—11:55 A.M.

  The next day Richard Kuklinski sat at his desk and stared at the paper Dunkin’ Donuts napkin in his hand. Dominick Provenzano’s beeper number was written in ballpoint pen on the napkin. Kuklinski couldn’t decide whether he should call him or not. He wanted to get things rolling with Dominick, but he didn’t like going to people, coming right out and saying what he wanted. It made you seem desperate and put you in a weaker position. He preferred to have people come to him.

  But he needed the cyanide. Percy House and Barbara Deppner were out there somewhere. They could get in a jam and start talking again. They would tell stories about him just to save themselves. They’d cut another deal with the state, agree to give up a bigger fish in exchange for dropped charges. They’d do it, no question. That’s why Kuklinski needed the cyanide, and he shouldn’t wait on this. Dominick said he could get it.

  Kuklinski picked up the phone and punched out Dominick’s number. He waited for the tone that gave him the go-ahead to enter his own phone number into the system. After it sounded, he hesitated for a second, then punched out his number. He hung up the phone and waited.

  A half hour later the phone rang. He stared at it and let it ring a few times. He didn’t want to seem anxious.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Rich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dom.”

  “How ya doing?”

  “Good, good. Yourself?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “What’s up?”

  He glanced down at his briefcase on the floor. “Remember what we were talking about yesterday? The stuff we were talking about? The white stuff?”

  “Yeah?” Dominick sounded cautious.

  “Is it okay to talk?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m at a pay phone. How about you?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Oh.” Dominick sounded cautious again, and suspicious.

  “Listen, I was wondering. How much of that stuff could you get?”

  “How much do you need?”

  “A lot.”

  “How much is that, Rich? What’re we talking about here?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Dominick didn’t hesitate. “Let’s get together and we’ll figure out the when and where.”

  “Yeah, okay. Soon as I know my buyer is serious, we’ll get together.”

  “Whattaya mean, ‘serious’? You never done business with this buyer before?” Dominick sounded upset.

  “No, I’ve worked with the guy before. He knows I don’t like no bullshit, so he’s always been straight with me. When he knows for sure he can put the cash together, he’ll call me. Then I’ll call you.”

  “Oh.”

  “No sense our wasting our time for nothing, right? I like sure bets.”

  “Of course.” Dominick still sounded suspicious.

  “So you can get it?”

  “I told you, no problem. My guy’s good for it. All I need is two days’ notice. Okay?” Dominick seemed very confident of his source.

  “Soon as I know my buyer’s good for the money, I’ll call you.”

  “Great. I’ll give my guy a call to make sure he’s got stuff coming in. But don’t worry. This guy’s never run dry on me before.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay, Rich, you call me when you know something. I’ll be talking to you—”

  “How about that other stuff we talked about, Dom?” Kuklinski picked up the Dunkin’ Donuts napkin.

  “What stuff?”

  “The other stuff.”

  “Oh, the stuff for the rats?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m working on it. I got a call in to someone. I’m waiting to hear from him.”

  Kuklinski crumpled the napkin. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.”

  Dominick laughed. “My friend, when it comes to business, I do not forget.”

  Kuklinski smiled into the phone. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Okay, if you want to do this big order, you call me. Soon as I know about the other stuff, I’ll call you. Can I usually get you at this number? Three-eight-five—?”

  “Yeah. If I’m not here, the machine picks up.”

  “Okay then. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Right. Take it easy, Dom.”

  Dominick hung up on his end. Kuklinski laid his receiver back on the cradle. He looked out the window at the backyard. Bullshit, he thought.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the pay phone at “the store.” It rang twice.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Lenny DePrima there?”

  “Yeah, he’s here. Who’s this?”

  “Tell him it’s Rich.”

  “Who?”

  “Just tell him it’s Big Rich. He’ll know.”

  “ ‘Big Rich’? Okay.”

  He could hear the hubbub of “the store” coming through the line. Kuklinski picked up a pen, smoothed out the napkin, and drew a box around Dominick’s phone number. There were very few people he trusted in the world. Lenny DePrima was one of them. Lenny had always played straight with him, no bullshit.

  Someone finally came back to the phone. “Hello, Rich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Huh? Whattaya mean, big guy?”

  “This Dominick Provenzano—is he for real or what?”

  “Sure, he’s for real.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Hey, Rich, if he wasn’t for real, do you think I’d send him to you?”

  “Yeah, but how do you know he’s for real? What do you know about him?”

  “I know he’s connected.”

  “Yeah, right. Everybody’s connected these days.”

  “No, for real. I heard that from someone else. I sold Dominick some stuff myself. He’s always been good for it with me. I never had any problems with the guy.”

  “So you think he’s for real.”

  “Hey, his cash is green, and he keeps his promises. That’s about as real as he needs to be as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Yeah … I guess so.” He underlined Dominick’s phone number a few times. “As long as his cash is green, that’s all that counts.”

  DePrima laughed. “You can say that again, brother.”

  “All right, I just wanted to make sure before I got into anything with him.”

  “He’s okay, Rich. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Tell me something. You hear anything about Buck lately.” Buck was Percy House’s nickname.

  “Whatta’you, kidding? He knows better than to come around here, the bastard. I hope he’s got cancer, the fuck.”

  “Nobody’s seen him?”

  “Nah. State’s got him in protective custody. You know that. He won’t be coming around here no more. Not after what he
did.”

  Percy House had worn a wire for the police and got a kid in his own gang to admit on tape that he took part in a house robbery where a man was killed. The cops were dying to lock up somebody for that murder, and the kid was good enough. Thanks to Percy, he was serving a life sentence in Rahway now. Percy would rat on his own mother, Kuklinski felt. As for Barbara Deppner, she had helped Percy try to trap her own cousin Gary Smith into admitting to that murder, but Gary wouldn’t talk about it. These two were inhuman. They’d turn in their own families. Richard Kuklinski knew he had to take care of them before they did any more damage.

  “You still there, Rich?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Listen, don’t worry about Dom. He’s okay. And listen.”

  “What?”

  “If you find Buck, you let me know. I know a lotta people around here who’d love to pay him a visit. You know what I mean?”

  “I know. Take it easy, Lenny.”

  “Yeah, you, too, Rich.”

  He hung up the phone and swiveled his chair toward the window. Looking out through the Venetian blinds, he could see the two small concrete lions on the patio. He was thinking about Gary Smith. Percy House and Barbara Deppner had to go to sleep the same way Gary had gone to sleep. Maybe not as messy as Gary had been, but he wanted them to go the same way. He ran the edge of his hand over the crumpled napkin on the desktop. That’s why he needed the goddamn cyanide.

  EIGHT

  Thanksgiving 1982 had started out fine for Gary Smith. That morning while his wife, Veronica, prepared the turkey dinner in their kitchen in Highland Lakes, New Jersey, he and his six-year-old daughter, Melissa, cuddled on the couch in front of the TV to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Gary got a big kick out of his daughter’s excitement every time a new giant balloon creature filled the screen and she recognized the cartoon character.

  Melissa was growing up, and Gary’s feelings for her had changed. When she was younger, he’d pretty much taken her for granted. Veronica took care of the baby, and he worked—it was as simple as that. But Melissa wasn’t a baby anymore. She was a kid, someone he could talk to and share things with. He was really beginning to enjoy being a father.

  The house was warm with the smell of the roasting turkey by the time Percy House’s wife, Connie, and her children arrived early in the afternoon. While Connie helped Veronica in the kitchen, the kids ran around the house, giggling and screaming, having a great time. Gary beamed as he watched little Melissa mixing in and playing with the bigger kids. She was having a ball.

  Watching Melissa set Gary to thinking about his responsibilities again. For the past few months he’d been giving a lot of thought to this, and he’d pretty much made up his mind to quit Percy House’s gang and go straight. He’d been with Percy a long time, but it wasn’t like he was committed to being a crook for the rest of his life. He’d just sort of drifted into it about five years ago, when he couldn’t find a job and he really needed money. Working for Percy, stealing cars and robbing stores, just scraping by—that was okay when Melissa was a baby and all she needed to keep her happy was a bag of cookies and Bugs Bunny on the TV set. But things had changed. Being a two-bit thief just didn’t seem right anymore. It wouldn’t be fair to Melissa if he kept on doing what he was doing. She needed a more stable life. That’s why he wanted to go straight, and he intended to tell Percy that very day.

  But when Percy showed up later that afternoon with Danny Deppner, the other worker in the gang, Gary’s announcement did not get a warm reception. Percy scowled at him and just kept shaking his head. You don’t understand, he kept saying. It’s not that simple. You can’t quit, Gary.

  Danny sat on the couch, nodding like Howdy Doody, agreeing with everything Percy said. Danny didn’t dare disagree with Percy. He was scared shitless of Percy. Percy beat him up regularly. At one point he’d made Danny live in his basement and would throw pizza crusts down to him as if he were a dog. Percy had said that Danny needed an “attitude adjustment.” That was one way of putting it. Danny seemed to get a lot of “attitude adjustments” from Percy. Christ, Percy had even stolen Danny’s wife. Just started shacking up with Barbara and took her for himself, and Danny didn’t say boo. He didn’t dare. Well, Gary wasn’t Danny, and he didn’t want to have to put up with any of that shit anymore. All he wanted was to go straight, period.

  As the children ran around them, chasing each other through the living room, Gary tried to plead his case without begging. All he wanted to do was quit. Whatever they’d done together in the past was in the past. He’d never talk about it to anyone, never. He promised.

  But Percy kept shaking his big ugly head, telling Gary he didn’t understand, his face getting flushed, his growl getting louder. “You don’t get it, Gary. You don’t fucking get it, do you?”

  “Whattaya mean, I don’t get it?”

  “You can’t quit, Gary, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not gonna let you out, and Richie sure as hell ain’t gonna let you out either.”

  Gary’s stomach sank. Richie Kuklinski. He’d been trying not to think about Richie. He’d hoped that maybe he’d only have to deal with Percy, the foreman of the gang, not Richie, the boss. Richie didn’t come around all that much. He liked to keep his hands clean. That’s why Gary thought he might be able to avoid a confrontation with him. Percy he could deal with. Percy was a bully, and he liked to use his fists, but Gary wasn’t like Danny. He was a pretty big guy—six-two, 190 pounds—and he could stand up to Percy. Richie, on the other hand, was a real big son of a bitch, but that wasn’t what made him scary. When Percy got mad at you, he stayed mad until he blew up and burned himself out. When Richie got mad, his temper might explode, but then all of a sudden it would pass and he’d be real calm as if nothing had ever happened. But Gary knew that Richie never forgot; he just waited.

  By the time the women called everybody to the table, Gary didn’t have much of an appetite, though Percy and Danny ate like there was no tomorrow. Gary felt like he’d spent the last two hours talking to a brick wall. Later, after pumpkin pie and coffee, Percy took Gary out onto the porch and picked up the discussion where they’d left it, trying to make Gary understand in his blunt way why he couldn’t quit.

  Richie was already upset with him, Percy explained. All this talk about going legit for his daughter’s sake was getting on everybody’s nerves. What was he, getting soft? What would he do if the cops leaned on him? Was he gonna be a real upstanding citizen and tell them about everything he’d done with the gang? Is that what going straight was all about? He had to get his head right about this. They weren’t all gonna take a fall because Gary had decided he wanted to play Father Knows Best all of a sudden.

  Gary tried to make Percy understand that he wasn’t going to do that. He would never rat on anyone in a million years.

  But Percy kept shaking his head, saying that the best thing he could do would be to just be a good boy and do what he was told because Richie already had it in for him and you never get to strike three with Richie.

  Gary didn’t even have to ask what Richie had against him. He knew. Billy Cudnyg’s goddamn black Corvette.

  Richie had a thing for new Corvettes. They’d stolen a bunch of them that year for him. Usually they got them right off the lot from car dealerships. Percy would go in during the day and make like he wanted to buy one. He’d ask the salesman to see the bill of sale to see what the dealer was paying for the car so that they could negotiate. Usually salesmen had no problem with that. Except that Percy wasn’t interested in the price. He was interested in the eight-digit key number. Percy would stare at the sheet and memorize the number, then afterward he’d go to a locksmith and have a duplicate key made from that number. A couple of nights later either Danny or Gary would take the key, unlock the car, and drive it right off the lot, easy as that.

  But Cudnyg’s car was different. They didn’t steal that one. Billy Cudnyg, one of the guys who hung out at “the store,” owned it for r
eal. Richie had figured he could make a profit on both ends with that one. He and Cudnyg would split the insurance money when Cudnyg reported the car stolen, then Richie would sell the car to a guy he dealt with up in Connecticut and get about a quarter of the book price for it. When Cudnyg started having second thoughts about doing this, Richie convinced him it would all work out fine. Besides, as he pointed out to Cudnyg, he already had duplicate keys to the car because he’d rented it from the man a couple of times, so he could go ahead and steal it anyway and cut Cudnyg out completely. Billy Cudnyg had no choice but to go along with the scam.

  On December 21, 1981, the theft was staged at the Willowbrook Mall in Fairfield, New Jersey. The car ended up with Gary Smith, who was supposed to keep it hidden until Richie was ready to bring it up to Connecticut. Gary kept the car at his house for two weeks, but it was making him nervous, so he moved it around from place to place, wondering when the hell Richie would take it off his hands. By February he was running out of hiding places he could trust, so he left it with a woman he used to work for when he was a teenager. Unfortunately the police happened to spot the stolen car in her driveway. After checking the Vehicle Identification Number plate on the dashboard to confirm that it was indeed the stolen Corvette, they had it towed away.

  The car was returned to Billy Cudnyg. Kuklinski was furious when he found out about it. That was strike one against Gary. Three weeks later the car had to be stolen a second time. This time Kuklinski traded it to a man from Bloomfield, New Jersey, for a vintage 1964 Corvette coupe.

  Afterward everybody kept throwing it up to Gary, needling him about the black Corvette that had to be stolen twice, Richie warning him not to lose any more cars or else he’d be very sorry. Gary was getting sick of hearing this shit. It wasn’t his fault. If he had thought the cops would’ve spotted the car in that lady’s driveway, he would never have left it there, for chrissake. But they kept on his back about it, and that was when he started thinking that maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a thief. Maybe he ought to start thinking about getting into another line of work where the bosses weren’t like Percy and Richie.