The Ice Man: Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer

by Philip Carlo

  The leaders of the gang were James Coonan and Micky Featherstone, two stone-cold killers. Featherstone was a rather frail-looking guy, about 145 pounds, with little baby hands and a baby face, but he’d shoot someone in the head as readily as batting an eye. Coonan was just the opposite, broad shouldered, big boned, square jawed, red faced, with a bulbous nose; he had whitish blond hair in a military-style crew cut.

  DeMeo liked these guys because they were utterly ruthless. At DeMeo’s suggestion they began cutting up their victims and burying dismembered bodies in the abandoned train yards on the far reaches of the West Side of Manhattan.

  One afternoon when Richard went to drop off some money at the Gemini Lounge, DeMeo asked him to go up to Harlem with Freddie DiNome and see a black guy who owned a bar there. He owed DeMeo a lot of money and wasn’t paying it back as promised.

  “Big Guy, I want you to go see him and let him know he’s walking on thin fuckin’ ice here, okay?”

  “No problem,” Richard said. “Sure.”

  “You go pick up Eddie Mack. He knows the Muli, and he’s got brass balls, okay?”

  “Sure, Roy,” Richard said, and he and Freddie DiNome, an ugly guy with curly brown hair and a giant potato for a nose, left to go to the city. DiNome was a car freak who helped Roy give stolen cars legit makeovers. He had a pet chimpanzee who one day punched DiNome and knocked him out cold. Richard had no monetary interest in this business; he was just doing DeMeo a favor.

  These days DeMeo was very “up.” He was figuring he’d surely be made soon, the thing he had coveted since he was a little fat kid victimized by neighborhood bullies. For him, in a sense, being made was the holy grail and winning the lottery rolled into one.

  Eddie Mack was part of the Westies gang, a tough Irishman and another stone-cold killer. Richard liked the Westies, thought they had balls. But he also thought they were out of control, should be kept on leashes, indeed in cages. Be that as it may, he went to the city with DiNome and picked up Mack, a stocky guy with long blond hair, and together they went up to Harlem. The bar was on Third Avenue. Eddie said he’d go in and talk to the owner, said that they knew each other from jail.

  “I’ll go in with you,” Richard offered.

  “Nah, that’s okay,” Mack said, and got out of the car and went inside.

  As always, Richard was armed. He sat there wondering why the hell he’d been asked to come along if Mack didn’t want him to go in. Within minutes, however, there was a commotion inside, things breaking, a shot fired. Richard jumped out of the car and hurried inside. Just as he entered the place, he got struck in the forehead with a bat. He fell back but didn’t go down. Chirping birds moved before his eyes. The sidewalk spun. He drew a .38 derringer and began back in, pissed off. Eddie Mack came out. He was holding his stomach.

  “The fuckin’ nigga shot me,” he said.

  “Let’s go get ’im,” Richard said.

  “Forget it. There’s a whole fuckin’ tribe a them,” Mack said, getting back in the car. “The motherfuckers.”

  “What happened?” Freddie asked.

  “He got cute, I went after him, and one of them shot me in the side. It’s dark in there and all I saw was teeth and eyes. I ain’t laying down on this. Take me home. I got some serious heat—I wanna get it and come right fuckin’ back.”

  “Let’s go,” Richard said. They returned to Hell’s Kitchen. Freddie called Roy and told him what had happened, said they wanted to load up and go back. Cursing, DeMeo gave them the green light. Eddie Mack had an old steamer trunk filled with weapons—heavy-duty armaments he’d gotten from DeMeo. Richard chose a street sweeper, a twelve-gauge shotgun with a large round clip, like an old-fashioned tommy gun. Both DiNome and Mack grabbed Mac-10s, machine-gun pistols that fired thirty nine-millimeter rounds a second. Richard helped Mack put a bandage on the bullet hole, which was on his extreme left side, in line with his belly button, and off they went, straight back to the bar, and parked in front. Richard, his forehead all swollen, burst from the car, was the first in, and let loose with the shotgun. Soon both Freddie and Mack cut loose with the Mac-10s, and they literally blew the place apart and shot whoever was standing.

  Satisfied, they left and went back to Brooklyn, making jokes about how you couldn’t see the black guys in the dark bar. At the Gemini, DeMeo got a doctor he knew to treat Mack’s wound. The bullet had apparently passed right through his side. Freddie told everyone how Richard had gone in with the shotgun and let loose.

  “The Big Guy’s got elephant balls,” DeMeo proudly said.

  Richard now had a lump on his forehead the size of a navel orange. He also had a splitting headache. DeMeo thanked him a half dozen times and gave him a big basket filled with Italian delicacies. “Your wife’ll love this,” he said, and Richard went home, angry this whole thing had happened. He could have been killed, he knew, for nothing, a thing he had no stake in. He now had something else against DeMeo.

  Barbara’s eyes got wide when she saw Richard’s head. “What happened?” she asked, concerned.

  “I fell,” he said, nothing more. She prepared an ice bag for him. He took a few aspirin and sat in his easy chair in the family room and watched a Clint Eastwood movie and stewed. His favorite actors were, not surprisingly, Eastwood and Charles Bronson.

  Word quickly spread in mob circles how the Big Guy went up to Harlem and blew apart a bunch of “uppity niggers” that needed to be put in place, to be killed, and Richard was more in demand than ever. His murderous exploits were taking on legendary proportions; yet, still, few people even knew his real name.

  Also, stories of how he was feeding live people to ravenous rats were making the rounds, both amusing and appalling those who heard them.

  The Big Guy was much in demand.

  It began as an insignificant event on Bensonhurst’s Eighty-sixth Street. Nino Gaggi was sitting in his car, double-parked in front of the Hy Tulip, a popular Jewish deli just off Twentieth Avenue, under the West End elevated train. Gaggi was waiting for his brother Roy’s wife, Marie Gaggi. Marie was a dark-haired beauty with blue eyes. When she walked down the street most every man’s head turned. When Marie left the deli that day—February 14, 1975—a few neighborhood youths made some inappropriate comments, wolf whistled. Seeing this, Nino Gaggi leaped from his car with a hammer and started swinging it at the youths, looking to break some heads. From the old school, Nino Gaggi could not tolerate such disrespect. One of the teenagers was named Vincent Governara. He did not know who Nino was—a capo in the Gambino family—nor did Nino know who Governara was—an excellent boxer, a Golden Gloves champion. Governara, a wiry, muscular youth, ducked the hammer and hit Nino with a left hook, knocking Nino right down and breaking his nose.

  This was an insult Nino would never forget, and he vowed to kill Governara.

  Word quickly spread all over Bensonhurst that Gaggi wanted Governara, wanted blood. Vinnie Governara was known as Vinnie Mook because, mentally, he was not the swiftest guy, but he was a truly superb athlete, a great handball player and baseball player, as well as a champion boxer. He looked like an Italian Jerry Lewis, had a wide mouth. Vinnie Mook was also an excellent dancer. He’d go to the Hollywood Terrace on Eighteenth Avenue on Latin night and dance up a storm. He was such a good dancer that people always moved out of his way to give him room to tear up the dance floor. Vinnie was also a vicious fighter, would hit people with extremely fast combinations. He never lost a street fight. When Vinnie heard whom exactly he had hit, he left Brooklyn and went down to Florida. Vinnie had been born and raised in Bensonhurst and he well knew the consequences of punching out a made man: death.

  Vinnie Mook would end up playing an instrumental role in Roy DeMeo finally aquiring his much coveted button.

  Some months after Governara broke Nino’s nose he returned to the neighborhood, and his car was spotted parked on Bath Avenue, just a few blocks south of Eighty-sixth Street. Nino Gaggi had his nephew Dominick, a Vietnam War vet with Special Forces training,
rig up a concussion grenade to go off when Governara opened his car door. Roy DeMeo happily provided said grenade.

  However, when Governara opened the door, releasing the pin from the grenade, he didn’t close the door right away, and when the grenade went off most of the concussion escaped out of the open door. Still, the explosion broke Governara’s leg and threw him across Bath Avenue, a main thoroughfare running directly through Mafiaville.

  Needless to say, Governara again hightailed it out of Bensonhurst, went back to Florida, and wisely stayed away for a while—but not long enough; and when he returned to Bensonhurst his car was spotted on Twentieth Avenue and Eighty-fifth Street, just two blocks away, coincidentally, from the Hy Tulip where this all began.

  It was now June 12, 1976, the birthday of Dominick’s wife’s, Denise Montiglio. In the Gaggi house birthdays were always a big deal. Roy DeMeo happened to be there that day and he gave Denise—a beautiful neighborhood girl of Neopolitan extraction with long black hair and a big lovely smile—a diamond-studded watch. Denise was Nino’s niece by marriage, and Roy would do anything he could to please Nino, ingratiate himself with Nino.

  When word reached Nino that Vinnie Governara’s car had been seen on Twentieth Avenue, he, his nephew, and Roy DeMeo quickly left the house and Denise’s birthday party to go kill Vinnie Governara for a slight, a broken nose, made now some fifteen months ago. Nino’s nephew Dominick had dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones. He had seen a lot of action in Vietam, and since he’d returned he was quiet and sullen, and seemed to walk around with a dark storm cloud hanging over his head.

  Nino put on a ridiculous false mustache, and he, Dominick, and Roy drove over to Twentieth Avenue in Roy’s car and waited for Vinnie Governara. It was the middle of the afternoon, a Saturday. A lot of shoppers were out. None of that was going to stop Nino Gaggi from getting his revenge. This was, in fact, a stupid, very risky enterprise, killing a man in broad daylight near Eighty-sixth Street, but that wasn’t about to dissuade Nino. He was willing to sacrifice all he had to get even with Vinnie Governara, just a young man struggling to find his way in life with a good punch.

  Nino Gaggi didn’t have to wait long. They soon spotted Governara walking to his car, an old Plymouth, without a care in the world. Nino and Roy were soon behind him. Governara spotted them and began to run. Right there, in broad daylight, Roy and Nino took aim at the fleeing Governara and let loose a fusillade of .38 bullets, shooting Governara down. Dominick did not fire the .22 he had. As they were hurrying back to Roy’s car, bystanders began to chase them. Gaggi raised his .38. Everyone hit the ground. The killers quickly got into DeMeo’s car and off they went, making a clean getaway. Governara died of his wounds a few days later at Coney Island Hospital.

  Now, with newfound intensity, DeMeo petitioned Gaggi to talk to Paul Castellano about getting made. Gaggi promised Roy he would; he would see to it that DeMeo finally got straightened out, as they said.

  This incident with Governara and Nino Gaggi concerned Richard Kuklinski only because it would ultimately cause Roy DeMeo to become made, which meant that Richard made more money with DeMeo, and DeMeo sent more murder contracts Richard’s way.

  The next hit Richard performed for DeMeo was also in Los Angeles. The mark owed money to wiseguys, wasn’t paying, seemed to be daring the wiseguys to do something. DeMeo beeped Richard, they met at the diner near the Tappan Zee Bridge, Richard was given the contract, and he was on a plane back to LA the following day.

  This mark was very cagey. He knew people were looking for him and moved with caution. For days Richard staked out his home. He lived in a pink condo complex in Sherman Oaks. The two times Richard saw him, he couldn’t make a move. There were witnesses. Richard did not like hanging around to do a piece of work. The chance of something going wrong became greater by the hour. In frustration, Richard tried something he’d seen on a Bugs Bunny cartoon. He boldly went and knocked on the mark’s door. He could see light through the peephole and he put his eye up against it. When he saw the shadowy figure of the mark approach and reach the door, Richard put the barrel of a .38 up to the peephole, waited for the right moment, and fired, shooting the mark directly in the eye, instantly killing him.

  Another job well done, Richard went for a nice meal in West Hollywood, had a long walk, got a good night’s rest, and headed home, back to his family.

  Money kept rolling in, but no matter how much Richard earned, it never seemed to be enough. It went out, he recently said, faster than it came in.

  Richard was now filling, on the average, four to six contracts every month. He was a very busy, dedicated man, always scrupulously careful, always successful. He even began using poison to kill. He also began to gamble heavily again, not a good thing; old habits die hard.

  35

  Double Suck

  It was the spring of 1977, a time of rebirth and renewal, the end of the bitterly cold East Coast winter. All over Bensonhurst’s quiet tree-lined streets and avenues—this unassuming place with the world’s greatest concentration of serial murderers—green leaves and grass on small lawns returned. Birds chirped. Flowers bloomed. The sun shone. Kids returned to the streets and played boisterous games of stickball with cut-down broomsticks, Johnny on the Pony, and Cork-Cork-Ringalevio. Young girls jumped rope. Except for the mob rubouts that occasionally occurred here, Bensonhurst was a safe place, a good place to bring up children, okay for women and girls to walk about without worry.

  Because of Nino Gaggi’s constant campaigning, the never-ending lovely stacks of hundred-dollar bills DeMeo was sending to both Gaggi and Castellano, and the Vinnie Mook killing, Paul Castellano finally relented and agreed to make DeMeo. That spring Castellano was “opening the books” and allowing new members into the fold, and Roy DeMeo was one of them.

  For DeMeo this was like receiving a doctorate after a lifetime of earnest studying. It was the highlight of his life, what he had always wanted, a dream come true. As is the mandated custom, word went out to every made man in all the families that Roy DeMeo was being “straightened out,” and if anyone knew something about DeMeo that was reason for him not to be made, they had to speak up and let the Gambino people know. No one spoke against DeMeo’s induction.

  The simple though deadly serious ceremony was held in the finished basement of a Gambino lieutenant who lived on Bay Seventeenth Street in Benson-hurst. Castellano and Gaggi, DeMeo, and old-timer Jimmy Esposito were there. Gaggi, of course, was sponsoring DeMeo. The ceremony was made, a little blood was drawn from DeMeo’s finger, the oath was taken, all comically solemn. Gaggi and Castellano kissed DeMeo on both cheeks and gave him a big bear hug, and now Roy DeMeo was officially, formally, a made member of the Gambino crime family…a sgarrista.

  Afterward they went for an elaborate four-course meal at Tomasos on Eighty-sixth Street. After dinner there were toasts and more hugs and kisses, and Roy DeMeo headed back to the Gemini on the Belt Parkway—a made man.

  Now, he knew, many more doors would open to him. He would finally get the respect and fear he had always yearned for. Now he’d be able to move up the ladder. DeMeo had big, expansive plans that included having his own crew, being made a capo, and, perhaps, the eventual head of the family. Why not? As far as DeMeo was concerned, he had more on the ball than anyone else in the whole Gambino family or, for that matter, any other family. And, too, he was ruthless, a stone-cold killer, a very necessary attribute to ascend in organized crime in New York.

  By now DeMeo’s reputation for murder had spread far and wide; he was considered the undisputed assassin of the Gambino family, its lethal arm. No other Gambino crew (there were twenty altogether) even came near the extraordinary killing acumen of Roy DeMeo and his gang of serial killers. And Richard Kuklinski was always lurking in the background, like some supernatural, malevolent spirit ready to come out of the shadows and create chaos when DeMeo summoned him.

  Richard Kuklinski was Roy DeMeo’s Luca Brasi.

  Back at the Gemini Lounge that evenin
g there was another celebration. All DeMeo’s people were there. Bottles of expensive champagne were opened and numerous toasts were made. Glistening piles of cocaine were on the kitchen table for anyone who wanted to partake. Some loose women were brought in to entertain, put on a cunnilingus show, perform virtuoso blow jobs. AIDS was not an issue yet and the women happily swallowed all.

  Roy considered himself quite the ladies’ man, did not get along with his wife, was always horny, and tonight he got a doubleheader: two women sucking and licking his penis and testicles at the same time. “A double suck,” as the crew called it.

  Life was good. Life held much promise. Roy DeMeo was a very happy man. Roy DeMeo had been made. Roy DeMeo was at the top of Mount Everest. He came, he saw, he conquered.

  Drugs were just one of a host of problems that began to plague the Gemini crew. Henry Borelli, Chris Goldberg, Joey Testa, and Anthony Senter were all doing a lot of cocaine. Anthony Senter was becoming rail thin, paranoid, and unreliable. Because of their success so far, the Gemini crew came to believe nothing could ever hurt them—not the police, not the FBI, certainly not another Mafia crew or crime family. They were invincible. They were deadly. They were Murder Inc. and the Purple Gang all rolled into one, the kings of a mountain strewn with dismembered bodies.

  Roy DeMeo walked around—really swaggering now—as if he were ten feet tall, the king of Brooklyn, his egg-shaped head the size of a watermelon, filled with himself. With careless abandon he killed or had killed anyone that got in his way, anyone he believed might be a problem; anyone who disrespected him, whom he perceived as a threat, a source of dismay. He took no chances.

  “Dead men tell no tales,” he’d say. His answer to any concerns he had about someone was to kill him. Like Richard he acted as if he had the God-given right to kill human beings. Unlike Richard, however, Roy DeMeo had surrounded himself with a bunch of psychotic coked-up serial killers, which would prove to be a grave error in judgment.