The Ice Man: Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer

by Philip Carlo

  Then, sure enough, one of the bodyguards got up and walked out of the restaurant. It was Caesar Bonventre.

  It would be any moment. Richard prepared himself. He moved his feet to be in position to quickly stand. True, Richard was a huge man, but he had the quickness of a lithe cat—a giant pale-colored panther.

  The car pulled up right out front. Richard saw the assassins getting out. This was it. Time to do it. Richard immediately got up and, not hurrying, walked straight toward the patio, straight toward Galante, his eyes now riveted on the mark. All of Richard’s senses were heightened. He heard the front door open. Galante now saw Richard coming; they locked eyes. Galante immediately knew what was up, clearly saw his own death fast approaching. He knew the dance; he knew the look; he knew the beats, the steps, the body language. He began to stand. Richard pulled out two guns, the .357s, aimed, and fired repeatedly, emptying the guns in seconds; he hit Galante and shot Coppola too. Richard turned, and the hit team immediately let loose on Galante, one with a shotgun. It was deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. Richard grabbed his newspaper and walked out of the restaurant, the sounds of all the shots ringing in his ears. The car was there. He walked to it and got in, and off they slowly went.

  “How’d it go?” Roy asked, his face all creased with curiosity.

  “Like fuckin’ clockwork,” Richard said.

  “You’re the best, Big Guy.”

  Richard went straight back to the city. He was pleased at how well it had gone; it really had been like clockwork—perfect. He and Roy went to a Little Italy outdoor café and ordered coffees, and Richard told him all the details—how Galante saw him coming and right off the bat knew what was up. Roy shook his hand several times. He was as happy as a kid on Christmas morning. The two walked back to Richard’s office. Roy hugged him and kissed him, and they made plans to meet soon. Richard went up to the war room. Pleased, he felt as though he had just run a grueling marathon race and come in first. He planned to stay in the office, in the city, for a few days. He would not go home until he was sure it was truly over and done. For all he knew someone would now come looking to kill him, to silence him, to close the door on what had happened. Italians, mob guys, had very funny ways when it came to murder. Nothing was simple. There were all kinds of protocols and backstabbing. He loaded a shotgun he had, put it on his desk, and waited, tight…unsure. He trusted no one—certainly not Roy DeMeo.

  Would DeMeo now look to kill him, he wondered, send people to take him out? Silence him. Let ’em try, he thought.

  He called Barbara. She was making sandwiches for herself and the children, who were playing in the pool. He told her he’d be home in “a few days.” Again, they talked about their planned trip to Disney World, hung up. Richard put on the TV and watched a news bulletin about the hit, wondering if an adult was keeping an eye on the kids as they played in the pool.

  A news photographer somehow managed to get up on a roof overlooking the patio where Galante had been killed and took pictures of his corpse. Oddly, Galante still had the cigar he’d been smoking sticking out of his mouth; it had wedged itself into his mouth, which hung open now as if his jaw had come undone. His glasses were askew. Blood pooled around him in a glistening red puddle that drew flies. The stink of a dead body in the July heat filled the air; mixed with the lovely smell of fresh baked bread, it was an odd odor. When detectives back there saw the photographer, they yelled at him to get lost. “Get the hell outta there!” one called.

  The following day, however, one of those pictures appeared, not surprisingly, on the front page of all New York papers—on papers across the country—there was the terrible badass Carmine Galante dead as a doorstop with this ridiculous cigar sticking out of his slick mouth. Mafia families everywhere celebrated. A barbed thorn in their collective side had been removed, a cancer had been cut away; he was history; good riddance.

  Carmine Galante hadn’t shown anyone the proper respect, indeed any respect, and he not only got what he deserved, but the whole world got to see him in that compromising, embarrassing position, as if he were dog shit left on the sidewalk.

  Toasts were made all over Mafiadom. Made men shook hands, congratulated one another, patted one another on the back as if there had been a marriage, as if one of their children had just graduated college with high honors.

  “The prick got what the fuck he deserved,” Paul Castellano decreed in his Veterans and Friends Club on Eighty-Sixth Street. When Richard saw the extraordinary photograph of Galante with the cigar sticking out of his mouth, he smiled, thinking: The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Several days later Richard went to see DeMeo, and Roy was again all hugs and kisses and smiles. Richard had enhanced his rep in the world of organized crime. Because of Richard, DeMeo had newfound respect. He was finally being recognized for his unusual talent. He was sure he’d be promoted soon. Paul Castellano would certainly reward him generously. How could he not? As they often did, Richard and DeMeo went out for a meal—to Rao’s in Manhattan—and Richard again told DeMeo all the intricate details of how flawlessly the hit had gone down. Richard had never seen DeMeo so pleased. It looked as if he were going to jump on the table and do a jig any moment.

  “Big Guy,” DeMeo said, “we owe you! I’m going to make sure you earn seriously!”

  Now another Gambino captain walked in: Sammy Gravano out of Bensonhurst, known as Sammy the Bull. He was with an attractive blonde and another couple. DeMeo and he nodded to each other. Gravano took a table in the back of the small place. Richard knew who Gravano was and wondered if his being there was only coincidence. In fact, Gravano was there just to eat and have a good time. He would, however, play a large part in Richard’s life in years to come. He too would play a large part in the murder of a capo di tutti.

  DeMeo discreetly slid a sealed envelope filled with money over to Richard. “For a job well done,” DeMeo said.

  “Roy,” Richard said, “I don’t want anything. This one is a favor. Tell the big guy [Castellano] and the others that…Truth is, it was my pleasure,” Richard said, quite the diplomat—a very smart move, this.

  “You’re the best! you’re the fuckin’ best,” DeMeo said in little more than a whisper.

  After a delicious feast—this place served excellent homemade Neapolitan Italian food—coffee, and after-dinner drinks, DeMeo offered to take Richard to a special cathouse and have four women do him at one time.

  “All beautiful babes—like model beautiful, I swear!” DeMeo swore.

  Richard declined. “The only woman I sleep with is my wife,” he said. And soon he was on his way back home. Richard felt at the top of his game, as if he had the world by the balls. He knew he should be earning big now.

  As usual, Richard did not drive straight home; he doubled back, took turns, pulled off the parkway and waited, making sure he wasn’t being followed. He still wasn’t certain how all this would play out in the end. He figured he was still in danger if there was some kind of Italian double-cross in the wind. He still suspected DeMeo might have him killed; he didn’t trust DeMeo, didn’t consider him a friend. The only friends he had, Richard figured, were Barbara and his weapons. They never lied. They never cheated. They were always there when he wanted them, ready to do his bidding.

  Little did Richard know how much Barbara had grown to resent him. She did her best to act as though it was all over when a tirade stopped, but it wasn’t. When Richard arrived home, he took Barbara in his powerful arms and made love to her.

  The next day the Kuklinski family left for Florida. As always they stopped for a nice lunch on the drive down. The man who had just blown away Carmine Galante was in the car with his family on the way to Florida singing a Beatles song—“I Want to Hold Your Hand”—with his children, not a care in the world.

  They stopped in a good hotel, the kids played in the pool, they had a nice leisurely dinner, and in the morning they drove straight on to Florida. On the way they bought fireworks at a shack along the way, some Roman candles,
rockets, and ash cans to amuse the children. Richard seemed to be in a good mood, and Barbara was pleased, as were Chris and Merrick.

  Neither Richard nor Barbara had found out anything about what Chris had done with the man in the van. For a while after it happened, Chris had felt bad…dirty, was troubled by it. But all that had changed. Now she felt stronger because of it; she had asserted her own individuality in the strongest way she could and was glad she’d done it.

  When the family arrived in Florida they went straight to Al Pedrici’s home. As always Al was very pleased to see Barbara and his grandchildren.

  The kids, of course, wanted to go out fishing on Al’s boat, and he was happy to accommodate them. He had the boat all gassed up already and bait and soda on board. As usual Barbara declined to go, and Richard and the kids hopped on board and off they went. Al commented to Richard about the picture of Galante on the front page of all the Florida papers. Richard acted as though he were as surprised by it as everyone else.

  As per Barbara’s instructions, Richard made sure he put sunblock on himself, Chris, and Merrick. Dwayne didn’t need any sunblock. He had the dark skin of a Mediterranean boy and didn’t sunburn like his dad and sisters. They started catching snappers and blowfish right away. They also hooked a small sand shark, which Al let go. Seeing the shark fleetingly reminded Richard of the rapist he had tortured and killed in Miami. Richard rarely thought of the people he murdered. It was almost as if someone else had done those things. In a very real sense there were two Richards. Even now, so many years later, when Richard talks about things he did he often says “we,” refers to himself in the plural. Rarely does he say “I.”

  After staying at Al’s home a few days, going out to the best restaurants each evening, Richard dropping hundred-dollar bills as if they were used tissues, the family went on to Disney World, and the kids had a ball. Funny how Richard so enjoyed Disney World. When he was there he was more like a big kid. It seemed he was making up for the childhood he’d never had. He’d go on all the fun rides and had a bigger smile than the children. The family stayed at Disney World six days, then headed back up to New Jersey, stopping in hotels as they went. It was a good vacation. Richard didn’t lose his temper once. Everyone had a great time. Still, it was good to be back home. Home sweet home.

  The following day was a Sunday and the family went to church. Barbara made sure of that. Richard was an usher at the church, dutifully helped with the collections. He didn’t at all believe in the Catholic Church or its teachings. He came and was an usher to please Barbara. He recently explained, The church was all full of shit. A bunch of lying, money-hungry, hypocritical bastards. I used to see priests I knew in peep shows over on Eighth Avenue, in the shops I sold porn to.

  As the summer was coming to a close and autumn was approaching, Richard spent more and more time with Robert Pronge. He was fascinated with the unique methods Pronge had invented, developed, and perfected to kill people. But the more Richard grew to know Pronge, the more he began to think that Pronge was a sick motherfucker, as he put it—certainly an interesting characterization coming from him.

  Pronge had a piece of work to do in Queens. He used his Mister Softee truck to scope out the mark’s house. Intrigued, Richard went along with him to observe. Pronge pulled up right in front of the mark’s house and actually sold ice cream to the mark’s children. Later that night Pronge—with Richard still tagging along—went back to the mark’s home, opened the mark’s car with a master key he had, and planted a fragmentation grenade right under the front seat.

  In the morning, now in Pronge’s car, Pronge and Richard watched the mark get into his car and pull away. They followed him. Pronge had the triggering device in his hand. He had many good opportunities to set it off, but he waited, clearly enjoying toying with the mark’s life, which troubled Richard. He seemed to enjoy too much having control over when and where he died. Richard kept asking him to do it; he wanted to see how the grenade worked and to get this over with, but Pronge kept drawing it out, as if it were good sex he didn’t want to end. Richard began to wonder about Pronge’s sanity.

  Finally, after two hours of following the mark around, Pronge set off the grenade, and boy did it work well. It not only killed the mark, but blew the lower half of his body apart. Richard was impressed. He bought four of the radio-activated grenades from Pronge.

  The police had no idea who had blown up the man, or why. There was, of course, no connection between Pronge and the victim.

  Richard, in turn, took Pronge on a job. Together they abducted the mark from a parking lot using Richard’s animal-tranquilizer dart. This was a situation where the order was for the mark to suffer, to be tortured, and Richard took him to the caves in Bucks County, and Pronge watched Richard prepare the mark for the rats, set up the camera, the lights, the motion detector.

  Pronge thought all this was just great, the best idea since the wheel. “Fucking excellent!” he exclaimed.

  When Pronge and Richard returned the next day, Pronge’s eyes got all wide and he couldn’t get over Richard’s “great fuckin’ idea,” as he called it: the rats had eaten the man alive, and Richard had it on tape. Wide-eyed, Pronge watched the tape and kept congratulating Richard on his “great idea.”

  On another job Pronge had, the mark never left his apartment. Pronge asked Richard what he’d do. Richard told him to go knock on the guy’s door and shoot him with a .357 when he saw the mark approach through the peephole. Pronge tried it and it worked like a well-oiled clock.

  For one of the few times in his life, other than Phil Solimene, Richard had a friend…someone he had much in common with; but that wouldn’t last long.

  Richard’s daughter Chris was troubled. After witnessing her father’s temper tantrums and sudden violence against Barbara and their home, she had lost part of her individuality, who she was; and to get that back, to feel whole again, like a complete person in charge of her own life, her destiny, she let boys take advantage of her. Actually, she says, she was using them. She came to think that if she did what she wanted that way, romantically, she was asserting her individuality, taking charge of her life, controlling her destiny. She became very popular in school, was voted most popular girl in class two years running, and it was, she recently explained, because she was having relations with most every boy in school, amused by the memories, laughing about it now.

  Interestingly, it would seem that Merrick would be doing such things, not Chris. Merrick dressed wildly. Merrick had friends her mom and dad didn’t approve of. Merrick had a very giving nature, was all about peace and love. But Merrick was a prude about sex. She wouldn’t let a boy so much as touch her that way. It became, for Chris, like a dangerous game she played with herself. She’d let boys come over to the house and “fool around” with them in her lower-level bedroom—while Richard was home!

  If Richard had known what she was doing, he would have gone absolutely bananas. He was very conservative about sex—even though he was now thought of as the porn king of New York—and if he had known his young daughter was having relations right there in the house, he would’ve exploded.

  Chris was not enjoying any of these liaisons. She was doing these things to get back at her father the only way she knew how—with her body. As time went by and Chris started hanging out with boys who could drive, she’d actually have relations in cars and vans parked right out in front of the house.

  Richard, of course, didn’t realize what was going on, because he just never in a million years would suspect his daughter Chris, Little Miss Goody Two-shoes, of all this flagrante delicto right in front of and even in the house. Ironically, Richard thought Merrick might be fooling around, and he actually followed Merrick, went to parties and dances she attended.

  Merrick recently explained: My dad would suddenly just show up. I’d be, you know, at a party and he suddenly would be there, looking at me. He used to hide behind trees and bushes and watch me. I only saw him if he wanted me to. He had this…this kind o
f amazing ability to blend, to not be seen if he didn’t want to. He was like a ghost. I never did anything I shouldn’t because I never knew where my father was.

  Of course, Merrick had no way of knowing that her father stalked people all the time, that he was a professional stalker. Considering Richard’s huge size, he did have an amazing ability to not be seen if he didn’t want to be.

  Yet, he never knew his daughter Chris was voted most popular girl in school because most of the boys had relations with her.

  39

  Off the Record

  This was a very delicate, dangerous business for a whole host of reasons.

  Nino Gaggi and Roy DeMeo found a great cocaine connection: two Brazilian brothers who were processing coca leaves from Bolivia into pure, high-grade cocaine. The brothers had apparently found a German scientist to expertly refine the coca leaves into a highly desirable product, called “mother-of-pearl” because of its unique luminous, bluish-pink tint.

  The problem was drug dealing was a no-no for made men, forbidden by the Mafia commission. Carmine Galante had been killed because of it. Yet, most captains were involved with it in one way or another—“off the record,” as they referred to it. There was just too much money to be made, so the rank and file of all the families across the country had their greedy, gluttonous fingers in this highly profitable business.