The Iceman (16 page)

“Well, it won’t be a problem of exposure. I don’t intend to resell it to anybody. I’m intending to use it myself.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t
you
take it.”

Kuklinski laughed. “No, no, I don’t intend to. I just have a few problems I want to dispose of. I have some rats I want to get rid of.”

“Yeah? Why not use a fucking piece of iron to get rid of these fucking people? Why fuck around with cyanide?”

“Why be messy, Dom? You do it nice and clean with cyanide.”

“Lemme ask you something then. You do the same thing I do once in a while. But I always use steel. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I understand what you’re saying.”

“So what I’m asking is, would you be willing to do a—you know—a contract with me?”

“Dominick, if the price is right, I’ll talk to anybody.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“And you mean to tell me your way is nice and clean, and nothing fucking shows up?”

“Well, it may show, my friend, but it’s quiet, it’s not messy, it’s not as noisy—”

“Yeah, but how the fuck do you put it together, you know what I’m saying?”

“Well, there’s always a way. There’s a will, there’s a way, my friend.”

Dominick laughed. “All right, listen, we’ll have to talk about this sometime. It sounds interesting.”

“There’re even spray mists around.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. You put that stuff in a mist, you spray it in somebody’s face, and they go to sleep.”

“Fast? How long does it take?”

Kuklinski snapped his fingers. “About that fast.”

“No shit. I thought—you mean, you don’t have to put it in the guy’s drink, something like that?”

“Not necessary. That will work, too, but it’s very detectable that way.”

“Yeah?”

“You make it up as a mist. As soon as they inhale it, they’ve already had enough.”

“Just one squirt?”

“That’s all it takes.”

“Well, shit, if it’s that easy, Rich, there are definitely a couple of things we could get involved with, without any fucking problems. You know, as I said, contracts.”

“Can do it either way. If a guy wants it done with lead, then it could be lead. If the guy wants to prove a point and he wants steel, it could be done with steel. I’m not averse to guns, I’m not averse to knives, I’m not averse to, you know, whatever.”

“As long as he’s dead, that’s the bottom line, Rich.”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? If that’s what they want.”

“Your way sounds like a fucking James Bond movie, but if it works, then—”

“Dominick, I’ve done it all ways, whatever you’ve known or heard. There aren’t too many things I haven’t tried. I’ll try whatever sounds workable. Some guys want it done messy and they want it as proof of the pudding. They want it shown. So I’ll do it that way.”

“But your way, what you were telling me, with the cyanide—there’s no problem with that?”

“I don’t have a problem. I’m not saying it’s not detectable. I’m just saying it’s quiet and it’s fast.”

“In other words, you’ve done this before. You
know
there’s no problem?”

“Well, nobody’s going to give you proof of anything like that, my friend—”

“I’m not saying proof. I’m just asking if it’s really been done.”

“It’s been done.”

“This sounds interesting. We gotta fucking go for coffee, break bread over this thing. It sounds good.”

“Well, Dom, you know what they say. There’s more than one way to skin something.”

“I hear ya, I hear ya.”

“It all depends on how determined you are to get it done.”

They both laughed.

“As long as it gets done. Right, Rich?”

“As long as the guy who’s paying you gets it done the way he wants. It’s the finished product that they’re interested in. And I haven’t had any complaints because as you can see, I’m still around. If I had any complaints, I’m sure I wouldn’t be here.”

“I hear you, brother. I hear you. But getting back to the other stuff with Tim, what should we do? You wanna beep me or should I call you?”

“Why don’t you call me this weekend? But just in case I’m not at that other number, lemme give you my beeper number.”

“You got a beeper now, Rich?”

“Yeah. This number is for me and Tim. We both use it. Okay?”

“I understand.”

“Okay, the number is 1-800-402.…” Kuklinski gave Dominick the number, and Dominick repeated it back to him. “Now like I said, one of us will be carrying the beeper, either me or Tim.”

“Okay.”

Kuklinski looked out at Sposato, who was waiting by the car like a puppy desperate for a little attention. “Tim and I will work together on this. We work together pretty much on a lot of things.”

Sposato was grinning. If he had a tail, he would’ve been wagging it.

“All right, take care of yourself, Dom. Bye-bye.”

Sposato practically lunged as soon as Kuklinski hung up the phone. “He went for it, Rich? He really bought all that stuff I told him?”

Kuklinski stepped out of the booth and nodded. “Yup.”

“How much is he gonna buy, Rich? How much money will he bring?”

Kuklinski stared up at the sky. The sun was bright and warm on
his face. “Don’t know yet. Dom’s gotta talk to his buyer. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know. I just thought he would’ve told you something.… You know what I mean?”

Kuklinski didn’t answer. He took out his dark glasses and put them on so he could face the sun and soak up the warmth. The hook was in. Sposato had dollar signs in his eyes. He was ready to do anything to make this deal happen. Same thing with Dominick. He was eager to make this buy. Maybe not as eager as Sposato, but he’d get there. They all do. It never fails. They all want the easy buck, and they all get stupid. Just like the pharmacist.

He adjusted his glasses and soaked up the warm Indian summer sunshine. It felt nice. It was gonna be a nice day.

The pharmacist had thought of himself as a player, but he wasn’t. His name was Paul L. Hoffman, from Cliffside Park, New Jersey, and in 1982 he was fifty-one years old. He used to show up at “the store” now and then, looking for a deal on anything he could move in his drugstore, Farmacia San Jose in Union City. He bought a lot of hot perfume, especially Charlie, which was a popular item with his Hispanic customers.

The regulars at “the store” thought Hoffman was a pest, a bullshitter who tried to convince everyone that he was a big deal, a player, but he never brought in any merchandise to sell, he only bought. They tolerated him, though, because he always paid cash up front.

One day when he showed up at “the store,” Lenny DePrima pulled him aside and asked him if he knew anything about some little white pills called Tagamet. Hoffman explained that Tagamet was a prescription drug for ulcers. It was
the
ulcer medication; everybody who had ulcers took it. Tagamet was probably the most prescribed drug in America, Hoffman said. He asked why DePrima wanted to know. The fence said that he’d gotten one of those big plastic jars of it, a couple of thousand pills, and
some guy bought it off him right away, treated it like it was gold. When Hoffman found out how much DePrima had sold it for, his jaw dropped. It was a third of the price he had to pay for Tagamet legitimately. He begged DePrima to get him some, as much as he could get.

DePrima knew that the jar of Tagamet was just a one-time deal, something that just happened to come in with a bigger load. He didn’t have a connection who could get him more, but he didn’t tell Hoffman that. He figured he’d bust the pesky pharmacist’s balls a little, string him along and make him crazy. But it turned out that DePrima’s balls were the ones that were getting busted because Hoffman wouldn’t leave him alone about the Tagamet. He called every day, twice a day, stopped by just to remind DePrima that he was still interested and that he had cash on the barrelhead.

One day when Hoffman showed up at “the store,” Richard Kuklinski happened to be there. Disgusted with the pain-in-the-ass pharmacist, DePrima pointed across the room to Kuklinski and told Hoffman to go ask him about the Tagamet, hoping to get rid of him. He figured anyone with half a brain wouldn’t bother the guy they called the one-man army.

But DePrima was wrong. Hoffman went right over to Kuklinski. But he didn’t ask him outright. He tried to be clever about it. Knowing that Kuklinski sold pornography, Hoffman told him that he could get porno into Israel and suggested that they might go into a deal together. He bought five 8mm reels from Kuklinski to prove that he was serious. Kuklinski played along with him just to make the sale. He knew how DePrima felt about the guy. But neither one of them wanted to tell Hoffman to go take a hike because he always did have cash. Kuklinski gave Hoffman a phone number where he could be reached, figuring he might be able to sell anything to a character like this.

But Kuklinski hadn’t counted on Hoffman’s persistence. Over the next couple of months he called Kuklinski sixty-two times,
always wanting the same thing: “The Tagamet, Rich. Did you get it yet?” Kuklinski stopped returning his calls.

Then early on the morning of April 29, 1982, Hoffman called Kuklinski at home, and Kuklinski happened to pick up the phone. Hoffman told him he had to meet him right away. He sounded both desperate and testy. He said he was serious about this, that he wanted to get some Tagamet right away. He told Kuklinski to meet him at a diner on Bergen Boulevard in Cliffside Park. Hoffman said he’d be bringing cash, twenty-five thousand dollars.

Kuklinski didn’t like Hoffman’s attitude, but he held his tongue, remembering that the pharmacist always paid cash. But was the guy really stupid enough to carry twenty-five grand to a meeting where he wasn’t even sure there’d be any merchandise to buy? Hoffman was a real piece of work, more nerve than brain. He just might.

Kuklinski couldn’t believe it. The guy was practically begging for it.

He met Hoffman at the diner and told him it was all set up. His connection would be delivering some Tagamet to his garage in North Bergen. He told Hoffman to follow him in his car.

But as Kuklinski sat in his car, watching Hoffman go to his car in the rearview mirror, he started to have doubts. Who did this guy think he was kidding? He had a beat-up station wagon from the year one. He didn’t have any cash, not that much, not twenty-five grand.

But then again Kuklinski did know of a few guys with money who lived like paupers. So maybe Hoffman was telling the truth; maybe he did have the money. It was possible.

As soon as Hoffman got his old heap started, Kuklinski pulled out of the parking lot and headed for his garage on Newkirk Avenue near Seventieth Street in North Bergen, about two miles from the diner.

The garage was one of five that were tucked away behind a two-story building in an overpopulated, mixed commercial-residential
area. A steep, narrow driveway led down to a muddy courtyard that was too small for a car to make the sharp turn into Kuklinski’s garage without a lot of maneuvering. Kuklinski unlocked his garage and lifted the green overhead door. He pulled his car in, then let Hoffman back his old station wagon in. Hoffman turned off his engine, and Kuklinski walked up to his window and told him to get comfortable. It would take the guy with the Tagamet at least two hours to get here. He went over and closed the garage door then. He’d already made up his mind that he was going to kill the pharmacist.

Hoffman got out of his car and started yammering again. Talk, talk, talk—all this guy ever did was talk. He talked about his kids, his wife, his drugstore, his customers, anything and everything. He wanted to hear about Kuklinski’s family, and he kept asking questions about them. Kuklinski didn’t say much. His family was none of anybody’s business. He leaned against the trunk of his own car, his foot propped up on the bumper, watching the pharmacist go on and on like some kind of crazy mynah bird. Kuklinski just nodded and smiled, not even listening to what he said, thinking instead about the .25-caliber pistol in the pocket of his jacket. He’d just picked it up yesterday, hadn’t even fired it yet.

But as Hoffman kept talking, Kuklinski changed his mind again. This guy really was bullshit. He didn’t have any money. No way. And if he didn’t have any money, what good was killing him? Kuklinski figured he might have to beat the shit out of the guy to teach him a lesson, but why bother killing the little bastard?

But the pharmacist’s nonstop yakking got faster and more agitated then. Hoffman was getting huffy. He
needed
that Tagamet, he said, and he didn’t understand why it was taking so long. After they’d been there for about an hour, he asked if Richie had a phone in the garage. He had to call one of his employees to tell him to open up the drugstore because he was going to be late today.

Kuklinski shrugged and told him he didn’t have a phone here.
Hoffman said he’d have to go find one. Kuklinski felt the weight of the gun in his pocket as he watched Hoffman lift the garage door and let himself out to go find a pay phone. Here’s his chance to save himself a lot of pain and grief, Kuklinski thought. If he’s smart, he won’t come back.

But twenty minutes later Hoffman did come back, and he was all worked up now. He couldn’t find anyone to open up the drugstore, and now he was losing money sitting here, waiting. If he waited around much longer, the money he’d make on the hot Tagamet might not make up for the lost income from having the store closed. The guy was in a real state, telling Kuklinski that he didn’t want to wait around forever, that he wasn’t shitting around, that he was serious about this. He went to the back of his station wagon, pulled out his car keys, and opened the gate. He threw back the carpeting over the spare tire well. Wedged in around the spare were packets of dollar bills, tens and twenties bound with rubber bands. It looked like a lot of money.

Kuklinski moved closer and stared down at all the cash. Son of a bitch, he thought. The guy did have it.

“See, Rich? I got it,” Hoffman said, almost pleading. “You didn’t think I had it, did you? Well, I do have it. Now where’s the merchandise?”

Kuklinski pulled the gun out of his pocket and stuck it under the pharmacist’s chin. “There is no merchandise.”