But DePrima wasn’t getting a free ride from the state for nothing Dominick had several informants who said they knew Richard Kuklinski and were working to get him an introduction, but DePrima was the one who claimed to be Kuklinski’s old buddy. When they first started leaning on DePrima, he had promised to introduce Dominick to Kuklinski and vouch for him, no problem. But in seventeen months Kuklinski hadn’t come into “the store” once, and whenever Dominick asked why, DePrima just shrugged and said Big Rich must be spooked or something. The state wanted to pack it in with Dominick and his informants and try something else. But Dominick had a feeling DePrima wasn’t giving this his best effort, and he was getting tired of the bullshit. He wanted that introduction, and he wanted it soon. DePrima had to start doing more.
Normally Dominick might have been more patient. He knew from experience that these things took time, that in deep cover it often took years to establish yourself. But this wasn’t a normal assignment. This one was different. It was a joint effort, state and federal, combining the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the New Jersey Attorney General’s Office, and the New Jersey State Police. A cooperative effort like this was almost unheard of in law enforcement, but Richard Kuklinski was a very unusual kind of criminal. He was deadly, crafty, and efficient, a mass murderer who set no pattern and left no traces. Everybody had had high hopes when Dominick started out on this undercover assignment, but now he was hearing rumblings from the state side. People were getting impatient and beginning to have doubts about Dominick’s ability to succeed.
Maybe if he hadn’t come into this operation with such a fanfare, they wouldn’t be so disappointed with his slow progress. Ed Denning and Alan Grieco, his old buddies from the Bergen County Homicide Unit, where Dominick had worked before he became a fed, had recommended him for the job. He could imagine the buildup they must have given him. Captain Denning, poker-faced, squinting behind the perpetual veil of cigar smoke, stating the facts as if they were carved in stone, and there must be something wrong with you that you didn’t already know this: Dominick Polifrone is the best, period. And Alan Grieco, he looked so honest and sincere he could sell snow to an Eskimo.
Dominick could just hear the two of them: “Oh, Dominick’s the guy you need for this job.” “Dominick put John Gotti’s little brother Vinny away—the one nobody ever hears about because Dominick put him away for a long, long time.” “Dominick? He’s got balls like a frigging elephant. One time he went undercover on location in New York where Frank Sinatra was making a movie and he busted some guy on the crew who was dealing coke.” “Dominick’s got a scrapbook full of wiseguys he’s put away over the years that would make Dick Tracy jealous.”
It was all true, of course, but Dominick knew how Grieco and Denning operated. They must have made him out to be Superman. And Grieco was his best friend. Three times a week he and Dominick went jogging together. No one could ever live up to whatever those two had said about him.
Of course, when you consider who they were giving their sales pitch to, the hype job wasn’t so surprising. Pat Kane of the state police had been dogging Kuklinski since 1980 and all by himself for most of that time. Catching Kuklinski had practically become his mission in life. So when a pharmacist in Bergen County was reported missing and the last person this man was supposed to have been with was Richard Kuklinski, Pat Kane made a beeline for the Bergen County Homicide Unit and asked that they not pursue this suspected homicide but leave it to the state police instead.
It never sits well with the locals when other agencies try to horn in on their territory, but when Captain Denning and Lieutenant Grieco heard about all the killings that were linked to Kuklinski, they decided not to argue with Detective Kane over jurisdiction. Wishing out loud, Kane said what they really needed to flush Kuklinski out was a good undercover man, and a single lightbulb went on over Denning’s and Grieco’s heads: Dominick Polifrone. If they got Dominick involved, they could cooperate with the state police and still keep it in the family, so to speak. Even though Dominick was a fed now, he was still one of them. They told Detective Kane that Dominick Polifrone was without a doubt the one man for this job, and when Kane objected that Dominick was a federal agent and probably couldn’t get involved in a homicide investigation like this, Denning puffed on his cigar and said one word: “Guns.” Selling guns was part of Kuklinski’s extensive criminal portfolio. As long as there were guns involved, an ATF agent could be brought in.
Pat Kane bought their pitch and called Dominick that very afternoon. It wasn’t long before Dominick was on the job as “Michael Dominick Provenzano.”
But that had been seventeen months ago, and even though certain people from the state might not be saying it out loud, Dominick could feel that they were getting antsy. Frankly so was he. In the past year and a half he’d heard a lot of stories about Kuklinski and the things he was supposed to have done, stories from both sides of the law. At “the store” they referred to him as “the one-man army” and “the devil himself.” If half of what Dominick had heard was true, these names were well deserved.
Dominick could understand Pat Kane’s relentless devotion to this case. There was something about Kuklinski that was so insidious, so arrogant. Kuklinski’s face had become the last thing Dominick pictured before he went to sleep at night, and it was right there staring at him when he woke up in the morning. There was no question about it anymore. The bastard had to go down; he had to. Everyone understood that. But even though Dominick hadn’t gotten the kind of results he’d hoped for at this point, no one else had gotten any closer to Kuklinski than he had. Besides, Dominick had put too much time into this to let the state pull the plug on him now. He could smell Kuklinski. He could feel his presence in everyone who’d ever met him. In his gut he knew Kuklinski. The introduction was only a matter of time.
Walter Kipner had moved over to the poker table to peddle his phony fives. He must have been desperate for a sale because he was handing out freebies now, inviting comparison with the real bills that were scattered on the table. Other bad guys flocked to the table, eager to get a free fin. Dominick noticed that DePrima was by himself. He decided to take advantage of the distraction.
“Hey, Lenny, what’s happening?” Dominick put his hand on the wall and corralled DePrima.
“Hey, Dom, che se dice?” DePrima made like he’d just noticed Dominick.
Dominick gave him a dirty look.
DePrima shrugged. “What can I tell you?” he said under his breath. “I’m doing what I can.”
“When, Lenny? When?”
“I’m trying, Dom. I’m trying. I’ve been calling the big guy up, just like I told you. I told him I got this guy here who’s looking for guns in quantity. I offered to set up a meet, the whole bit. But he ain’t biting.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand, Dom. You don’t push the Polack. Not unless you’re looking for big trouble.”
“Did you tell him I was okay?”
“Whattaya think? Of course, I said you were okay. I told him we did some deals before. I gave you my Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, Dom. I swear.”
“Did you tell him I was connected?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell him I had a customer who wanted to put in a big order? A real big order?”
DePrima nodded.
“Then what the fuck is this guy’s problem, Lenny?”
“Like I told you, Dom. You don’t push the Polack. He does what he does when he decides he’s gonna do it, and you do not ask why.”
Dominick glanced at the poker table. Kipner was throwing his fives around as if they were confetti. Everybody was getting a big kick out of it, especially the crooked cop. Dominick turned his gaze back to DePrima. “I think you’re jerking me around here, Lenny. You been bullshitting me from day one. You haven’t been calling him. You’re fulla shit. I’m gonna pull the fucking plug on this whole deal and let you take your chances with the—”
&nbs
p; The pay phone rang. DePrima reached for the receiver. “One minute, Dom. Just take it easy and calm down. Okay?”
If he weren’t undercover, Dominick would have made the little bullshitter eat the goddamn receiver.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” DePrima rolled his eyes to Dominick and nodded toward the phone. “You mean Dominick Provenzano? Yeah, he’s still coming around. Why?”
Dominick furrowed his brows. What kind of bullshit was this? Did DePrima really expect him to believe that this was Kuklinski on the phone?
“Well, yeah, he did tell me he could get anything you might want along those lines, Rich.” DePrima was looking Dom in the eye. He looked a little uneasy. “Yeah, sure, I believe him. I know guys who done stuff with him before. He’s solid.”
If that really was Kuklinski on the phone—and Dominick wasn’t convinced that it was—the fish was nipping at the hook. Dominick waited and listened. It was out of his hands now. It was all up to the fish.
“Hey, all I can tell you, Rich, is that he’s always done right by me. We made some good money together, and that’s all I give a shit about. You wanna meet him, you meet him. You want the guy’s fucking résumé, I can’t help you out.”
Dominick drummed his fingers against the wall, waiting for DePrima to get off the phone.
DePrima was shaking his head. “That I can’t tell you, Rich. He says he can get anything. I don’t know if he can or he can’t.” He looked at Dominick. “He’s here right now, Rich. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Dominick gave him an evil look. If this was some kind of bullshit stunt, he would make DePrima eat the phone.
“Well, it’s up to you, Rich. Whatever you want … Right … Okay. Take it easy.” DePrima hung up the phone.
“Who was that? Richie, I suppose.”
DePrima lowered his voice. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Dom. That was him. He wants to meet you. Right now. The Dunkin’ Donuts over by the Shop Rite. He says he needs something, and I told him you could get it for him.”
Dominick was suspicious, but he wanted to believe it. “So what’s he need?”
“Cyanide.”
FIVE
A warm breeze blew through the Shark’s open window as Dominick Polifrone cruised across the old steel girder bridge and crossed the river. The sun was peeking through gray clouds, and the sky was blue on the horizon as the rain tapered off. The hiss of tires on the wet blacktop came in through the open window, but Dominick was oblivious to the sound. He was thinking about Richard Kuklinski, focusing on his mark, trying not to outpsych himself for the meet, just trying to be himself. That was the key to good undercover work: Just be yourself.
Dominick had learned from experience that elaborate cover stories and aliases just get you into trouble on an undercover. You can’t hesitate when you’re in with bad guys. If it takes you a second to answer to your cover name, they may get suspicious. And bad guys seldom sit on their suspicions. You slip up once, you can get hurt. You slip up with the wrong people, it could mean your life.
That’s why Dominick Polifrone wasn’t that different from his cover, “Michael Dominick Provenzano.” He’d told the guys he’d met at “the store” that some of his wiseguy connections in the city knew him as Sonny, but he told everyone just to call him Dom.
The address on his driver’s license was a huge high rise in Fort Lee, and that, he’d say, was his girlfriend’s apartment, his goomata’s place.
Michael Dominick Provenzano was a tough kid from a lower-middle-class section of Hackensack, New Jersey. So was Dominick Polifrone.
Michael Dominick Provenzano ran numbers when he was a kid. So had Dominick Polifrone.
Dominick Polifrone might have ended up being just like Michael Dominick Provenzano if he hadn’t gotten a football scholarship to the University of Nebraska. Not that football or the Midwest turned his head around. Far from it. Dominick blew into Nebraska like an Italian-American twister. Coming from the East, he was easily the hippest guy on campus. He wore bell-bottoms before the farm kids even knew they were the fashion. Whenever he returned from school vacations, he brought back a suitcase full of the latest albums, stuff that wouldn’t be in the stores in Nebraska for weeks. If Dominick was cocky in Hackensack, he was a wild man in Nebraska. By his sophomore year trashing bars on Friday nights had become his weekly ritual, and spending the night in jail was starting to become part of that ritual. That’s when a sergeant on the Omaha police force took a special interest in this young pain in the ass from New Jersey and hauled him back to campus to have a little talk with Dominick’s coach. It was that meeting with the coach and the sergeant that turned Dominick’s head around. They put it to him straight: Either you calm down and start acting like a civilized human being or go back to Hackensack for good. The sergeant, however, felt that the warning by itself wasn’t enough, so he strongly suggested that Dominick drop his current major, physical education, and take up a new one, law enforcement. The coach concurred. That Saturday afternoon meeting in the coach’s office set Dominick’s life in a new direction.
He still raised hell now and then, and he continued to play football and box with a vengeance, winning the Southeast District Heavyweight Golden Gloves Championship in 1969. But in his mind he knew who he was now. The bad guy in training was gone. Dominick Polifrone thought of himself as one of the good guys now.
And that was what made him so outstanding as an undercover agent. He could talk like a bad guy, look like a bad guy, and act like a bad guy because that was all a part of him, but deep down he knew he was one of the good guys.
That’s why Dominick wasn’t concerned with his undercover image as he drove across that bridge, heading for the Dunkin’ Donuts. He knew he was convincing. What he was concerned about was meeting Richard Kuklinski by himself without any backups.
The situation had come down too fast to call in for help. Kuklinski was supposedly waiting for him. It was a five-minute drive to the doughnut shop from “the store.” If he took too long getting there, Kuklinski wouldn’t wait, he was sure of that. The guy was cautious to a fault. If anything made Kuklinski suspicious about Dominick, he would disappear, and Dominick could forget about ever meeting him again. That’s why this first meeting was important. Dominick would know in the first five minutes whether he could pull this off or not. The important thing was control. He was a bad guy, and he wanted something. No matter how much he wanted to get close to Kuklinski, he could not kowtow to him. It would destroy his credibility as a player. And if Kuklinski thought he was bullshit, he’d have nothing to do with him.
Dominick reached into his pocket and felt the butt of his gun, a Walther PPK 380 automatic. Despite the balmy temperature, Dominick wore the leather jacket. It was part of his undercover uniform and served to conceal the bulge of his weapon. Considering Kuklinski’s reputation, he planned to keep his hand in his pocket with his finger on the trigger.
Kuklinski was reputed to have taken part in dozens of murders, but the police had never been able to come up with enough evidence on any one crime to arrest him. Dominick had a gut feeling that the killings they knew about were only a fraction of Kuklinski’s total body count. From all indications he was just too proficient at killing.
Sometimes Kuklinski killed alone, and sometimes he brought help. Sometimes he worked as a killer for hire; sometimes the killings were his own doing. Sometimes it was business; sometimes it was just blind rage. He was known to have used weapons as small as a two-shot derringer and as large as a twelve-gauge shotgun. On at least two occasions he’d killed with hand grenades. He’d used baseball bats, tire irons, rope, wire, knives, ice picks, screwdrivers, even his bare hands when necessary. And for some reason that no one could quite figure out, he kept one of his victims frozen solid for over two years before he dumped the body, which earned him the nickname Iceman in New Jersey police circles after he became the prime suspect in that murder. But according to state police reports, one of Kuklinski’s favorite methods was cyanide poisoning.
Dominick knew from sixteen years of working undercover that you never take any criminal lightly, but Richard Kuklinski was unlike any other bad guy he’d ever encountered. He was not a demented serial killer; killing apparently did not satisfy any kind of psychosexual need for him. Sometimes he killed weeks apart; sometimes he waited years before taking his next victim. He didn’t smoke, drink, gamble, or womanize. He fitted no easy pattern, and there was no single word to describe what he was—except monster. Dominick let out a slow breath and took his hand out of his pocket.
A traffic light up ahead turned red, and Dominick quickly pulled the long black Lincoln into the left lane and stopped behind a white police car. He noticed the cop behind the wheel looking at him in his side mirror. Dominick glanced ahead at the Dunkin’ Donuts on the other side of the intersection. A paranoid chill crept through his stomach. What if these two cops decided to pull him over? He hadn’t signaled when he pulled into the left lane. What if he fitted the description of some other meatball they were looking for? Kuklinski was supposed to be waiting for him at the Dunkin’ Donuts. If Kuklinski saw the cops questioning him, he’d probably scram. Worse than that, it would lower Dominick in Kuklinski’s eyes, make him seem like a street hood, some jerk the cops could push around just for the hell of it. Kuklinski wasn’t interested in little guys, and Dominick had gone to great lengths to establish himself as someone with solid connections to the mob families in New York. After seventeen months of hard work, rubbing elbows with some of the worst scum imaginable, he didn’t want to blow his one chance to finally meet the Iceman, not like this.
The cop behind the wheel kept looking at him in the side mirror, and his partner was turning around now, staring at Dominick through the security grille that separated the unit’s front and back seats.
The Iceman: The True Story of a Cold-Blooded Killer Page 6