The Ice Man: Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer

by Philip Carlo

  Both Chris and Barbara held Richard’s outbursts against him, would never forgive or forget what he did. But never Merrick. To this day, after all that has happened, Merrick does not have a bad word to say about her dad, holds nothing against him. He is her sunrise and sunset, and she will be there for him to the very end, no matter what, no matter where, come hell or high water. Richard was somewhat jealous of his son Dwayne, because of the attention he received from Barbara.

  He confided that he actually didn’t want a boy because he felt somewhere deep inside that he’d become competition for Barbara’s undivided attention, even for his daughters’ attention. Richard was jealous in the extreme of any other male.

  30

  Hit Man

  “Can you meet me at the diner on my side of the Tappan Zee Bridge?” Roy DeMeo asked.

  “Sure, be there in an hour,” said Richard, and he was soon on his way to meet Roy in his flashy new white Cadillac El Dorado. Roy and Richard had developed and perfected this simple clandestine way of talking. Roy would call Richard on his beeper and punch in the number of a Brooklyn phone booth, Richard would use a phone booth near his house to phone him back, and like this they managed to talk without fear of an FBI tap, a constant, very real concern among mob guys. Goodfellas were falling like flies because of the newly developed and cleverly applied Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act. All anyone had to do to be convicted of RICO and go to jail was talk about committing a crime, or conspire, as the statute says; no crime actually had to be committed.

  As Richard drove to his meeting with Roy, he wondered what piece of work he had. Since the day Richard had blown away the dog walker in the Village, he had undergone a radical metamorphosis; he had now totally committed himself to murder, to killing for profit.

  Cold, detached, and exceedingly calculating—sober now—Richard was about to embark on a violent journey that would leave scores of people dead, mangled, tortured, buried and burned alive, thrown into bottomless pits, fed while still alive to ravenous rats, fed to crabs along the abandoned piers of Manhattan’s West Side.

  Whatever murders Roy DeMeo was committing with his Brooklyn crew of serial killers, he kept his promise and never involved Richard in any of those. No, DeMeo would use Richard for special jobs, as he thought of them. DeMeo had become the premier assassin for the Gambino family. He was filling hits for them—and other families—left and right, several a week. His reputation as an efficient, brutal killer had grown to monumental proportions. Even the notorious Gotti brothers, Gene and John, steered clear of DeMeo and his serial killers. His bar, the Gemini Lounge, had aptly become known as “the Slaughterhouse.”

  Richard and Roy met at a busy diner near the Westchester side of the Tappan Zee Bridge. They greeted each other with a hug and kiss on the cheek, as is the Italian way. Roy chose this place because most people that went to a diner were on their way somewhere and probably wouldn’t come back, and this place was off the beaten path of mob guys; here, it was highly unlikely that anyone in “the life” would see them together. Their business was the business of murder—a serious life-and-death enterprise for all involved. There was no room for mistakes or oversight, for bad timing or miscalculations.

  “I got a piece of work for you,” DeMeo said. “Nothing fancy, just make sure it’s done quickly and that no one knows about it…got it?”

  “Got it.”

  DeMeo handed Richard a photograph with a Queens address on the back. “This is him. He always carries; be careful.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Richard said. Roy handed him an envelope. There was twenty thousand dollars cash in it. Nothing else had to be said. The less said the better. They hugged and kissed each other good-bye and went their separate ways.

  Still, in the back of his mind, Richard remembered the beating Roy had given him.

  The following day Richard was parked on a residential street in Queens, two blocks from Calvary Cemetery. The mark lived in a two-family redbrick house, on the ground level. He had, Richard quickly discerned, a pretty wife and two little boys. The fact that the mark had a family didn’t matter to Richard, had nothing to do with the job at hand, though he would not kill him in front of his family. After a time the mark left his house, got into his car, and drove off. Richard followed him to an outdoor four-level garage on Queens Boulevard and parked in the spot just next to the mark’s car. Richard first flattened the front left tire of the mark’s car; then he unlocked the trunk of his Caddy, sat in his car, and calmly waited for the mark to return. Richard had unusual patience in these situations. He could sit still for hours on end, his mind drifting all over the place, but never losing focus on the job. This time it didn’t take long for the mark to return, carrying packages. When he saw the flat, he grimaced, then opened the trunk of his car. The moment was perfect. Richard moved quickly, silently slid out of the car.

  “Got a flat?” Richard asked the mark, stopping and looking as if he cared, as if he were a concerned good Samaritan.

  “Yeah,” the mark said, and before he knew it Richard had a gun to his head and made him get in the trunk of the Caddy, on his stomach. Richard now handcuffed him, taped his mouth shut, and warned him to be quiet. He closed the trunk and drove out of the garage. He had a pistol under his seat and one in his pocket. If a cop pulled him over, he’d kill him—simple.

  Listening to country music, Richard made his way to the bottomless pits in Pennsylvania. When he arrived there, a desolate area he knew well, he pulled the mark from his car, marched him to a mine shaft, shot him once in the head, and let him drop down the gaping hole, which seemed to swallow up the hapless man. Richard casually disposed of him as if he were discarding a bag of trash. He turned, went back to his car, and drove home to his wife and children…just another guy returning home after a day’s work.

  It didn’t take long for people in organized crime to learn that Richard was available for hire, up and running and particularly reliable. The fact that he was non-Italian and could never be made was a plus because it enabled him to work for any of the seven East Coast crime families—the Pontis and the De Cavalcantes of New Jersey, and the Gambino, Lucchese, Colombo, Genovese, and Bonanno factions of New York—without conflict, problem, or needing to explain to anyone. He did not have to ask permission to fill a contract. He was a freelance agent, and was soon receiving contracts from skippers (captains) affiliated with different families.

  Richard carried out each hit with great care, with patience and cunning, never in a hurry. He didn’t tell anyone what he was doing, when or where or how; that was his business; he kept to himself. He didn’t hang out with mob guys and always went home to his family.

  Barbara had no idea where he was going when he left home. She learned not to question her mercurial, exceedingly moody husband. Barbara had learned to live with Richard, accept him for what he was, stoically tolerated his mood swings, his temper, even his abuse. She had, in reality, no other choice. As long as he didn’t hit her children, she accepted his abuse. It was blatantly obvious to Barbara, even now, that Richard resented Dwayne; he was not nearly as warm to him as he’d been to Merrick and Chris, and this greatly concerned Barbara. She knew that in a fit of rage, Richard could very well hurt Dwayne…accidentally break his neck…

  For Richard, killing by contract became a kind of life-and-death cat-and-mouse game, a lethal chess match that he was intent upon winning. He knew that if he was caught and exposed, he’d lose his family, truly the only thing in the world he’d ever cared about. Yet, Richard continued taking contracts and filling them. He would go talk to anyone, as he puts it. He figured if he was careful, meticulous, and sober, he could earn enough money to retire, buy a stately home on the beach somewhere, and live well, provide all his family needed. They would want for nothing.

  It didn’t, of course, work out that way.

  Through his new friend, partner, and crime associate, Roy DeMeo, Richard managed to secure all kinds of handguns, shotguns, and semi-
automatic .22 Magnum rifles, which Richard cut down—both the stock and the barrel—creating a perfect weapon with which to kill human beings at close range. Roy had an inexhaustible supply of armaments, which were regularly pillaged from Kennedy Airport, conveniently located a mere ten minutes from the Gemini Lounge.

  DeMeo had weapons all over the Slaughterhouse. He often held them, fondled and caressed them like a woman’s breast, as though they were warm, cute, cuddly teddy bears, not instruments of sudden death. A gun, in DeMeo’s hand, was a means to an end: dead people.

  One day when Richard went to the lounge to drop off money for Roy, his end of porn profits, Roy was all smiles and hugs and happy to see him. The usual group of serial killers was present, Anthony and Joey, Chris and Freddie DiNome, and Roy’s cousin Dracula. They all sat around the big round table and had steak and potatoes and homemade red wine. Off on the left there were weights and a heavy bag.

  Richard didn’t like any of these people, but he sat there like one of the boys, bantering and laughing and eating. Roy ate like a slob, talked with food in his mouth, a real gavone (an ill-mannered man).

  At the end of the meal, Roy’s mood suddenly changed—he was even more mercurial than Richard—and he picked up an Uzi with a long, ominous-looking silencer, a weapon that fires fifteen nine-millimeter parabellum rounds per second.

  “Beautiful fuckin’ piece,” he said, suddenly pointing the gun at Richard and chambering it, a sickening metallic sound—click-click.

  Everyone around the table quickly moved back, as if on cue, no one smiling or laughing or merry now. In the bat of the eye, Richard knew, his chest could be filled with gushing bullet holes. He stared at Roy curiously.

  “Why you coming at me like this, Roy? What the fuck?” he said.

  “I hear,” Roy said, “you’re saying shit about me.”

  “That’s bullshit. I have anything to say about you, I’ll say it to your face. Bring the motherfucker here who said that; I want to hear this for myself. It’s bullshit!” Richard said, getting hot. The Uzi still pointing at Richard’s wide chest, Roy stared at him with his black, white-shark eyes. Outwardly, Richard appeared tough and defiant, but inside he was all tight. He well knew Roy was a psychotic killer, that the Uzi could literally tear him apart in seconds. Roy’s finger was, he could see, actually on the trigger. The silence in the room—the Slaughterhouse—became thick and heavy. Stark images of the guy they had bled over the tub came to Richard.

  “Yeah, you would,” Roy finally said, lowering the Uzi. “You got balls, big guy. I know you got balls,” and he laughed this sickening hyenalike cackle he had, and everyone moved back to the table. The moment passed as quickly as it came. Roy put down the Uzi as if it never happened. Soon Roy and Richard moved outside. Roy sort of said he was sorry. Richard assured him of his friendship. The two hugged. Richard was soon on his way back to New Jersey. As he went, he cursed DeMeo under his breath; DeMeo had pulled a gun on him twice, bullied him—embarrassed him. All the way back to Dumont, Richard vowed to kill the prick.

  When Richard arrived home, Barbara immediately knew he was in a foul mood, and she and the girls steered clear of him. Barbara made sure Dwayne stayed in his room. Richard put on the television and watched a cowboy movie—his favorite—and seethed about Roy DeMeo. Yes, he would kill Roy; but he’d wait, he’d be patient; he’d do it when the right time came. Meanwhile, he’d use him.

  Just as Richard had thought, Barbara fussed constantly over their son. She couldn’t get enough of him, and Richard did outwardly resent little Dwayne. He never felt like that about his daughters, but he did about Dwayne. Barbara tried to play down Richard’s jealousy, but inside she worried that Richard might actually do something to hurt Dwayne; she worried that he’d explode over an inconsequential event and vent his anger on little Dwayne.

  “Hurt my son and you’re dead,” she told Richard on numerous occasions.

  If Barbara had known whom she was talking to, she would have, she says now, packed, grabbed her children, and run for the hills. Still, she knew no matter where she fled, he’d find her, he’d never let her go. She became so concerned about Dwayne that she began bringing him to her mother’s home for the weekend so he’d be “out of harm’s way,” as she put it.

  The porn distributor Paul Rothenberg, Tony Argrila’s partner, was becoming a problem. Rothenberg was an in-your-face guy, pushy, belligerent, and curt, a stocky individual with a potatolike nose. He had been arrested numerous times over the years for making and distributing pornography, which itself was not illegal, but Rothenberg pushed the envelope and sold bestiality films and films involving minors, heavy sadism—films in which blood was drawn, golden shower films—and was arrested for the distribution of these types of products.

  “If people didn’t want to see them, I couldn’t sell them,” he was fond of saying, and he went on selling these exceedingly hard-core, kinky productions, which were generating a lot of profit. The more perverse and kinky they were, the more they sold, indeed flew off shelves in stores across America.

  Richard had a hard-on for Rothenberg: he blamed him for his initial troubles with DeMeo and was biding his time to have revenge. Richard firmly, obsessively, believed in revenge. He could never turn the other cheek. That was as foreign to him as the moon. If someone did him a disservice, he didn’t feel complete until he hurt that person.

  The NYPD raided the film lab and confiscated truckloads of porn, valued by Rothenberg’s lawyer at a quarter of a million dollars. The NYPD well knew that organized crime had muscled into the porn business, and the police and District Attorney Robert Morgenthau were intent on exposing this insidious business. They were sure that the Gambino family was deeply involved—everyone on the street knew that—but they needed proof, tangible evidence that they could use in a court of law. No easy task, for someone would have to be willing to take the stand and point a finger.

  The police also confiscated Argrila and Rothenberg’s books, and there they found checks made out to Roy DeMeo, who had cashed the checks through the Borough of Brooklyn Credit Union, the first direct connection to the Gambino family.

  The cops suspected Roy had links to organized crime, but had no proof. Detectives began trailing DeMeo all over, though he often managed to lose them. “He was wily like a fox during the first days of hunting season,” an NYPD detective recently confided.

  Roy obviously knew that if Argrila and Rothenberg cooperated with the police, he’d be in trouble; not only him, but Nino Gaggi as well: Gaggi had been there the day Roy strong-armed Rothenberg. Roy knew he had to protect Gaggi at all costs: if Gaggi was busted because of this shakedown, Roy would be in deep shit, might very well have to be killed. Nino Gaggi had murdered people for a lot less.

  DeMeo didn’t think Tony Argrila would talk, but he didn’t trust Rothenberg. DeMeo contacted Rothenberg and took him for a nice dinner in an Italian restaurant in Flatbush, to feel him out, and he didn’t like what he felt. Roy, like many people who come from and were educated on the street, had an overly developed sense of danger, and he sensed that Paul Rothenberg couldn’t be trusted, that he was resentful of the money Roy had been shaking him down for; that he felt his, Rothenberg’s, troubles with the law were being disproportionately magnified because of Roy DeMeo. Acting like a concerned friend, Roy gave Rothenberg a few thousand cash to help pay his lawyers, saying he’d be there if, in fact, Rothenberg needed more money. For Rothenberg it was not about money. He’d always resented Roy, the beating he’d given him, and felt no kind of friendship or kinship at all with DeMeo.

  “He’s a fuckin’ punk and I ain’t taking any heat for him,” he told one of the girls who worked in the lab. When asked if he felt in danger he said, “I know too much for anyone to hurt me”—a fatal mistake in judgment. It didn’t take long for this quote to reach DeMeo.

  The Manhattan district attorney’s office office urged Rothenberg’s lawyer to convince his client that he should tell about how the Mafia was shaking him down.
The district attorney’s office didn’t give a flying fuck about the porn Rothenberg and Argrila were making and distributing: they wanted the mob; that’s where the headlines were, and all prosecutors in all places love headlines. A good example of this would, of course, be former federal prosecutor Rudolph Giuliani: “He never saw a camera he didn’t like” was a running joke among reporters covering Giuliani’s much publicized war against organized crime.

  There were several meetings between Rothenberg’s lawyer, Herb Kassner, and assistant DAs. DeMeo, who had extensive connections in the NYPD—i.e., crooked cops who sold him information—soon learned what was in the wind. He immediately called Richard to a meeting in Brooklyn.

  When Richard arrived, Nino Gaggi himself was there. He was wearing a short-sleeved yellow shirt and large aviator-type glasses. Introductions were made. What Roy wanted done, the murder of Rothenberg, he would not entrust to any of his guys. Rothenberg knew them all, and Roy wanted a professional to do this job. His guys were great for killing and dismembering in the Gemini apartment, but Roy knew better than to involve them in a job that required finesse, careful planning…discretion.