Philip Carlo - The Ice Man

“Excuse me, what’re you talking about?” Richard asked.

“Barbara—stay away from her.”

This also caught Richard completely off guard. He hadn’t even thought about making a pass at Barbara. She was not his type. He’d never even known a girl like her—a good girl from a nice family, as it were.

Always defiant, always a chip on his shoulder, Richard said: “You know, it’s a free country. People’re allowed to talk to whoever they please.”

“I see you talking to her again, you’re fired,” Goldfarb said.

This was like a stinging slap in Richard’s surprised face.

“Take this fuckin’ job and shove it up your pompous ass,” Richard said, making that soft clicking sound out of the left side of his mouth, his face flushing.

“Get off this property,” Goldfarb said, standing up.

If Goldfarb had known he was talking to a genuine, raging psychopath, he would surely never have taken such an aggressive tone. Richard killed people for less than this.

“You owe me money,” Richard said.

“Come back later today and you’ll get your money. Outta here.”

Richard stared at him long and hard. “I’ll be back,” Richard said and left.

Richard’s plan was to kill Goldfarb that very night. He was going to follow him home and beat him to death right at his front door. Who the fuck did he think he was? Nobody talked to Richard Kuklinski like that. Without knowing it, Goldfarb had signed his own death warrant.

At four o’clock Richard was back, looking for his money. As he was waiting for a check, Barbara came walking out of the offices to get herself a Coke from the machine. Richard now told her how he’d gotten fired for talking to her.

“What?” she said, not believing this, having difficulty even comprehending such a thing.

“I got fired because I was talking to you,” he repeated.

She felt terrible. The poor guy, she knew, hadn’t done anything out of line, had never even intimated he wanted to take her out. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll go talk to him right now. I’ll get your job back. This is outrageous.”

“That’s okay—forget about it. I didn’t want to work here anyway.”

“Jeez, I feel so bad.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“He says I look just like his daughter; I’m sure this is what it’s about.”

“To hell with him—the pig.”

“Would you like to have coffee later?” Barbara said, wanting to be nice to Richard because he’d got canned for talking to her, lost his livelihood because of her, she thought.

“Sure, yeah; I’d like that,” he said.

“Come back at five. I’ll meet you out front, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, liking the fact that Barbara wanted to stand up for him, was willing to meet him right out front. He soon got his check and left.

Had Barbara known who Richard really was, that he was a genuine wolf in sheep’s clothing, she would surely have run the other way, had absolutely nothing to do with him. As it was, she fixed herself after work, combed her hair, put on a little makeup, and went to meet Richard in front of the Swiftline Trucking Company.

Worst mistake I ever made, she would say many years later, still shaking her head in disbelief. I should’ve run for the hills, but instead I walked outside like a lamb to the slaughter.

Richard was tall and exceptionally handsome, shy and respectful, but he was not Barbara’s type, and he was too old for her. Still, they did go for coffee that windy fall day, had a nice talk. He opened doors for her, was truly the perfect gentleman, polite to the point of distraction, even too much of a gentleman. Barbara sensed—mistakenly—that she could readily control him, and she didn’t like that. She liked strong men, take-charge kind of men. Be that as it may, after their coffee, he made sure she got home okay. He insisted on taking her. He asked her if she’d like to go see a movie when they reached the home she shared with her mother and grandmother. Her aunt Sadie had moved out, now lived nearby with her husband, Harry.

“Sure, okay,” she said, as innocent and wide-eyed as a young fawn suddenly caught in the oncoming headlights of a speeding car. A car coming from hell driven by the devil himself.

That Saturday evening Richard showed up at Nana Carmella’s house. Shy and awkward, he met Barbara’s mom and grandmother. They thought he was nice enough, certainly tall and handsome, but he was too old for Barbara, and he wasn’t Italian. They went to a movie in nearby North Bergen, saw Godzilla and a few cartoons, one of which featured Casper the Friendly Ghost. Barbara offhandedly mentioned to Richard that she liked Casper. After the movie they went for pizza, sat and talked. Barbara still felt bad about Richard’s losing his job because of her.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and meant it.

Richard was completely taken by Barbara. He thought she was a perfect lady, all class, polite, well-spoken and very funny. She was always making wisecracks that made him laugh, no easy thing. Barbara had no romantic designs on Richard. She did think he was very attractive, had a lovely smile, engaging honey-colored eyes. But he was married, had kids… and he was too old for her; not her type.

He told her that his marriage was, in fact, on the rocks; that he barely ever saw his wife and kids; that he was getting divorced, which was essentially all true, and Barbara believed him, took him at his word. Why shouldn’t she? There was no reason for him to lie. Plus, lies and deceit had never played a part in her short life. They were foreign to her. When they left the pizza parlor, Richard made sure he opened the door, and he hurried to open the door for her when she got into his car, an old Chevy. In front of Nana Carmella’s house, he didn’t try to kiss her good night, was too shy. She thanked him for a nice evening and went inside, not sure she’d ever see him again.

As Richard made his way back to Jersey City, he couldn’t stop thinking of Barbara, her smile, her lovely eyes, how her dark hair contrasted with her fair skin. It was as if someone had put a spell on him, as if Cupid had shot him with an arrow, a particularly pointed arrow. Until then Richard had only known “bar women.” Women who were loose, whores and tramps, as he thought of them. He also met many married women who fucked like rabbits in heat when their husbands weren’t around, he says.

Richard had grown to think of most women—certainly his own mother—as whores. He would never forget his mother screwing the next-door neighbor, a slovenly guy with three kids, right in the middle of the afternoon. That image, her naked with her legs wide open, her feet up in the air, was seared into his strange mind.

But not Barbara; she was different; she was good and innocent and pure as the driven snow. He wanted her, he resolved. He’d move heaven and hell to get her. But how? he wondered. How could he get her to fall for him? He didn’t have much to offer her. This was a dilemma. Still, he wanted to own her, possess her, to make her his.

But how?

That night when Barbara went inside, her mother immediately started complaining about Richard: he was too old for her; he lived in Jersey City; he seemed rough around the edges; he was not Italian. Biggest sin of all. Nana Carmella had nothing to say. If Barbara liked him, he was fine with her. Aunt Sadie, however, would have much to say. She would hire a private detective to look into this Richard Kuklinski of Jersey City.

It was Sunday morning, an unusually cold fall day. Barbara liked to sleep late on Sundays. She was still sound asleep when her mother shook her and woke her up with some urgency.