The Iceman: The True Story of a Cold-Blooded Killer

by Anthony Bruno

  “This isn’t funny, Bobby. What if he really does shoot me?”

  “So you’ll wear a vest.”

  “What if he shoots me in the head?”

  Dominick waved him off. “Smith, you worry too much. Look at it this way. If he kills you indoors, we’ll just carry you out in a rug. But if we do it at Lombardi, he’s gonna stick you in a barrel, and face it, who wants to be stuck in a barrel? Remember what happened with that guy he did in Jersey City.”

  “You mean Malliband?”

  “Yeah, Malliband.”

  Paul Smith looked disgusted with the bunch of them. “At least I’ll fit,” he grumbled.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  George W. Malliband, Jr., made a big mistake, and at the time he probably didn’t even realize it. He showed up at Richard Kuklinski’s house unannounced.

  It was a hot summer Sunday afternoon in the late seventies, and the Kuklinskis were having a barbecue in their backyard in Dumont. The kids had some of their friends over, and Barbara’s mother was there, presiding over the plenty at the picnic table, urging everyone to eat. Barbara kept going in and out of the house to fetch things while Richard tended to the grill, flipping hamburgers and turning the hot dogs.

  Richard Kuklinski was relaxed that day, enjoying himself. He liked it when his family was all together, doing something together as a family. Moving back from the rising smoke, he watched the flames lick the sizzling burgers as fat dripped onto the burning coals. Another couple of minutes and the burgers would be done. He opened up a package of buns to toast on the grill just before he took the meat off.

  But just as he started to separate the buns, his mother-in-law came over and grabbed him by the sleeve. She looked upset. There was a big man standing on the grass at the side of the house, staring at them, she said. She’d asked the man what he wanted, but he said he had to talk to “Richie.”

  Kuklinski looked up and squinted against the smoke. George Malliband was at the edge of the yard, waving him over. The three-hundred-pound, six-foot-three man wore metal-rim glasses and a bushy mustache. From the look of horror on Kuklinski’s mother-in-law’s face, it was as if the Blob had suddenly arrived for lunch.

  Kuklinski’s mood turned black. He shoved the bag of hamburger buns into his mother-in-law’s hands and ordered her to watch the grill while he took care of the intruder. He strode toward Malliband, slow but purposeful. Malliband had a hell of a lot of nerve coming to his house.

  But before he said a word to Malliband, he managed to put a clamp on his rage. He was furious that Malliband, a wheeler-dealer from central Pennsylvania whose main source of income was pornography, had shown up without an invitation and barged in on a family cookout. He regretted that he’d ever brought Malliband home that one time. He was just trying to be social, but that was a big mistake. He swore he’d never do that again with anybody.

  But Kuklinski didn’t show his anger to Malliband. He could only blame himself, really. Apparently he hadn’t made it clear enough that he did not like having his family exposed to his business associates. He didn’t say anything at the time, but in the back of his mind this unwelcomed visit would be a permanent black mark against Malliband. It was the kind of thing he would never forget.

  Years later, at two o’clock in the afternoon on February 1, 1980, Richard Kuklinski was at George Malliband’s house in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania. It was Malliband’s forty-second birthday, but they weren’t sticking around to celebrate. They had business to attend to in New York—serious business.

  George Malliband was in big trouble. He’d borrowed money from Roy DeMeo, and he’d fallen way behind in his weekly “vig” payments. The mobster did not like deadbeats. They were bad for business, and they made you look bad. He demanded that Malliband come to Brooklyn to see him. Since Richard Kuklinski was the one who had vouched for Malliband, he was responsible for him, and he was going to make sure that Malliband made that appointment.

  That evening, when they arrived at DeMeo’s hangout, the Gemini Lounge in Canarsie, Roy wasted no time with niceties. Eight of DeMeo’s men hustled Malliband and Kuklinski through the back hallway into Cousin Dracula’s apartment. They sat Malliband down at the kitchen table, and DeMeo put it to him straight.

  “You owe me a lotta fucking money,” DeMeo yelled. “You owe money to Las Vegas, too. And you owe money to Altoona. You owe all over the place. How you gonna fucking pay all this, George? Huh?”

  Malliband was sweating. “Don’t worry, Roy. I’m good for it.”

  “Is he?” DeMeo’s hot glare turned to Kuklinski.

  Kuklinski was taken by surprise. “I—I dunno, Roy—”

  “Well, you fucking better know. You brought this fucking mutt to me and told me he was okay. You knew what was going on with him, and you never said nothing to nobody. I hold you responsible, Polack. If I don’t get my money in three days, it’s gonna be your problem. You understand? Now get the fuck outta here, and don’t come back unless you got the green.”

  As they drove back to New Jersey, Malliband was frantic. He had loan sharks coming at him from all directions. He definitely didn’t have enough money to pay up, and he was beyond the point of placating DeMeo with a partial payment. He didn’t know what to do. He pleaded with Kuklinski to think of something. “You gotta help me, Rich. You gotta!”

  Kuklinski glanced at him sideways as he drove. “Why do I have to help you? I didn’t help you lose the money, did I?”

  “Hey, c’mon, Rich. You gotta help me. I’m desperate. These guys’ll fucking kill me.”

  “You’re damn right they’ll kill you.”

  Malliband slapped the dashboard in frustration. “Goddammit, don’t say it like you’re not involved here. You got me in with DeMeo. You’re part of this. He said so himself. You gotta help me.”

  “I don’t gotta do anything, my friend.” Kuklinski gripped the wheel tighter. He hated when people told him what to do.

  Malliband’s eyes were wild with fear. “Listen, Rich. You gotta help me. I’m telling you. I know where you live. You know I do.”

  Kuklinski’s vision blurred. “What? What’re you saying here? You telling me you’re gonna hurt my family?”

  “If you don’t help me out.”

  Kuklinski fell silent, and his black mood filled the cab of the van like a toxic gas. Malliband’s nervous chatter eventually tapered off, and he stared out the passenger side window, lost in thought, biting his fingernails. After a long stretch of tense quiet Malliband was startled back to the present when the van suddenly pulled to a stop. The street outside his window was dark and deserted.

  George Malliband frowned at the unfamiliar setting. “What’re we doing here?” he asked.

  Kuklinski didn’t answer. He pulled a .38 revolver out of his coat pocket and pumped five bullets into the left side of Malliband’s chest. The explosions were deafening inside the van. The muzzle flashes left spots in front of Kuklinski’s eyes. He stared down at Malliband’s body slumped over the dashboard. His ears were ringing. He thought back to that cookout at his house years before when George Malliband had the gall to walk onto his property without an invitation.

  The next day Kuklinski delivered an attaché case containing fifty thousand dollars in cash to Roy DeMeo to settle Malliband’s debt. He was no longer responsible for the man.

  * * *

  On February 5, 1980, at 10:55 A.M., the owner of the Chemitex Coated Corporation opened the rear door of the plant at 3 Hope Street in Jersey City. At the bottom of the palisades that overlooked the building, he noticed a dented steel drum turned over on its side. From where he was standing, the man couldn’t quite make out what was inside the barrel, but it looked very peculiar. Walking closer, he saw what he thought he had seen: a pair of legs, one of them bloody and hacked.

  The barrel had been rolled off the cliffs some sixty feet above. The lid had popped off when it hit bottom. The police determined that the victim—a three-hundred-pound middle-aged white male—hadn’t quite fit into the
fifty-five-gallon steel drum headfirst, so the killer cut the tendons on the back of the last leg in order to snap the knee and bend it forward, forcing him in.

  Apparently George Malliband never got it. He’d made the same mistake twice, and he never even realized it. Nobody threatens Richard Kuklinski’s family and gets away with it.

  TWENTY NINE

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1986—LATE AFTERNOON

  If you put a ten-gallon hat on James “Hoss” DiVita, he would be a dead ringer for Dan Blocker, the actor who had played Hoss on the old television western Bonanza. But unlike the stalwart TV character, Hoss DiVita was given to grand Neapolitan gesturing. His face could switch from joviality to utter dejection, like a clown-faced Pagliacci. Perhaps, it was this comic quality that appealed to Richard Kuklinski because he had been doing business with DiVita for a long time, getting Hoss stolen cars, which he then fenced for Kuklinski. Or maybe it was just that Hoss DiVita always seemed to have what he needed. That was certainly why Kuklinski had traveled all the way up to DiVita’s home in New London, Connecticut, that day. He needed a van, and the first person he thought of was Hoss DiVita. Hoss specialized in vehicles.

  Kuklinski had called Hoss earlier that day and asked him to pick him up at a shopping center in New London. When they got back to the house, Hoss’s wife had company over, so they went to the back room where Hoss stored the merchandise for his “wholesale business.” Hoss closed the door for privacy. Kuklinski was in a strange, pensive mood, and Hoss came right out and asked what was bothering him.

  Kuklinski leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “My friend,” he said softly, “in this life you never set a pattern.”

  Hoss looked concerned. “What’sa matter, Rich? You got trouble with the …?”

  Kuklinski smiled and shrugged. “I’m feeling a little heat, yeah. I have to have my car checked for bugs every day. That’s why I didn’t drive up here.”

  “Oh … I’m sorry to hear that.” Hoss decided not to ask how Kuklinski got to New London. He knew better than to ask nosy questions. “So what can I do for you, Rich?”

  “I need a van. You said you had one.”

  “Yeah, I got one.” Hoss went to the window and lifted the dusty shade. He pointed into the backyard. “That one, over there.”

  Kuklinski moved to the window and peered at the van parked next to the garage. He let out a long sigh. The damn thing had too many windows.

  “That one’s no good. I need one with no windows.”

  Hoss rubbed his chin. “I might be able to get you one, Rich. How soon do you need it?”

  “Today.” Kuklinski had talked to Dominick that morning. Dominick would be bringing the rich Jewish kid to the Lombardi Service Area tomorrow morning to do the coke deal. He’d promised to be there with a van.

  “Jeez, Rich, you should’ve told me. I don’t know where to get one that fast.”

  “I’ve got cash, Hoss.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have a van with no windows. Getting one’s gonna take a little time. I mean—”

  The phone in the next room rang then, and Hoss frowned at all the noise coming from the front rooms. “Hang on, Rich.” He went into the next room to pick it up.

  “Rich? It’s for you.”

  Kuklinski poked his head into the den. Hoss was holding out the receiver, the cord stretching to a phone on an end table by the couch. “Who is it?” Kuklinski asked.

  Hoss shrugged. “He says his name is Tim.”

  Sposato. Kuklinski took the phone, and Hoss left, closing the door behind him. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. John.”

  “What’s wrong?” Kuklinski didn’t like the sound of his voice.

  “You find a van?” Sposato asked.

  “No. How about you?”

  “Well,” Sposato started, “I got a problem. See, I don’t have any money, not even to rent one. I’m broke.”

  Kuklinski clenched his jaw and felt his face and neck getting hot. He’d told Sposato last week to start looking for a van. But he held his temper and didn’t say a word, just breathed into the phone and let the bastard think about what he’d just said.

  “Rich? You still there?”

  “Get me a van, John. I don’t care how. Just get it. And make sure it doesn’t have any windows. No windows.” He kept his voice calm and even. People took threats more seriously when there wasn’t any yelling.

  “But, Rich, you don’t understand. I can’t—”

  “Just get one. I’ll call you later.”

  Kuklinski hung up the phone. He didn’t want to give Sposato the last word with his sniveling bullshit. He wanted to leave him with something to think about.

  He went back into the storeroom, where Hoss was waiting for him.

  Hoss started shaking his head. “I’m real sorry I can’t help you with the van, Rich. Rich?”

  Kuklinski went to the window and stared out at the darkening sky. “You know, these days I feel like I’m in the middle of this big circle of people and everyone is disappearing around me. Pretty soon I’ll be the only one left standing.”

  Hoss made a face. “Wha’?”

  Kuklinski turned around and looked at him. “Never mind.”

  Hoss changed the subject. “You ever come by any Corvettes anymore, Rich?”

  “Nah. Those days are over.” He was staring out the window again.

  “That was nice when you used to get those. Got rid of those fast, no hanging around. Good money with those things.”

  Back in 1982, when Kuklinski had Percy House, Danny Deppner, and Gary Smith stealing brand-new Corvettes, Hoss DiVita fenced them for him. They usually got one quarter of the sticker price, about six thousand dollars. Hoss would get two thousand, and Kuklinski would take the rest. Sometimes Hoss went down to Kuklinski’s warehouse in North Bergen to pick up the cars, and sometimes Kuklinski drove them up to Connecticut.

  On one occasion Kuklinski had delivered a new white Corvette to DiVita. Danny Deppner drove the stolen sports car while he followed in his own car. They met Hoss at a diner in New London, and when they went inside, Hoss noticed that Deppner wouldn’t say boo in front of Kuklinski. He asked Kuklinski why his guy was so quiet, but Kuklinski didn’t really give him an answer. Hoss thought it was awfully strange that “the quiet guy” wouldn’t even smoke until Kuklinski gave him permission. When the waitress came to take their orders, “the quiet guy” didn’t do that for himself either. Kuklinski ordered for him.

  Six months later Kuklinski had met DiVita at the Dunkin’ Donuts across from Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. In the course of conversation, Hoss had asked about “the quiet guy.”

  “He’s gone,” Kuklinski had said. “He was running off at the mouth, so I had to take care of him.”

  In that same conversation over coffee and doughnuts, Kuklinski had mentioned to Hoss that there was a guy in protective custody who could mess him up, a possible “pointer.” He’d even mentioned the pointer’s first name, Percy. In hindsight, that wasn’t very smart.

  Kuklinski turned back from the window and stared at Hoss. He was thinking about that circle of people and how it was shrinking. Maybe he’d told Hoss too much.

  He glanced out the window at the van again. The wooden sash bars were like crosshairs in a rifle scope. Kuklinski had done a few jobs with rifles, but he always preferred small handguns—.22s, .25s., 380s. Big handguns like 9mms, .45s, and .357s were for intimidation. Small pieces were what you brought when you meant business. His favorite gun was a two-shot derringer loaded with dumdum bullets that expanded on impact and could rip a hole as big as a hubcap as it exited the body. When he was fully armed for a job, his weapons of choice were two derringers—one in each pocket—a larger gun in an ankle holster for backup, and his hunting knife in his belt.

  Kuklinski sucked his teeth as he squinted down an imaginary scope, taking aim at the van outside.

  “Is there anything else you need, Rich?”

  Kuklinski didn’t turn
around. “I don’t think so, Hoss.” He kept the windshield of the van in his crosshairs.

  THIRTY

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1986—8:45 A.M.

  It was cold and damp at the Vince Lombardi Service Area, and Dominick Polifrone’s feet were freezing as he stood by the bank of phone booths, waiting for Richard Kuklinski to arrive. He switched the white paper bag he was holding to his other hand so he could blow into his fingers. The bag contained the three egg sandwiches with lots of ketchup that he’d just bought at a diner on his way over here. In the left-hand pocket of his leather jacket was a brown paper bag containing the small brown glass vial of simulated cyanide. In his right-hand pocket was his gun. Concealed on his body were the Nagra tape recorder and a Kel transmitter. Dominick scanned the access roads that led to the parking lot, looking for the blue Camaro, the red Oldsmobile Calais, or the white Cadillac. His squinting gaze swept the rows of parked cars in the lot. Today was the day. They were ready to take him down.

  He hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. He was too pent up to sleep. Around midnight he called his old partner, Margaret Moore, at home.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I figured it was you.”

  “We’re gonna take him down tomorrow.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Be more careful.”

  Dominick chuckled.

  “Don’t laugh. Now I’m gonna be up all night worrying about you.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve got everything covered. Nothing will happen. I promise.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you how it went.” He was about to hang up.

  “Dominick?”

  “What?”

  “Seriously. Be careful.”

  Dominick didn’t like hearing the concern in her voice. He was sorry that he’d made her upset. “I’ll be careful, Margie. I promise.”