Philip Carlo - The Ice Man

When the newly formed gang learned that there was a load of valuable jeans, they stole a cab. Richard dressed up as a truck driver, even donned a truckers-union cap, and drove the cab onto the lot, hooked up to the jean rig, and pulled away, making a point to wave to the security guard, who smiled and waved back. It all went like clockwork. Now all they had to do was get the rig to a buyer in Teaneck and get paid, and the job was done. Richard was pleased with how well the heist had gone. But he was still nervous: now, for the first time in his life, he had something to lose—a wife he loved and a child he would love, unconditionally. The plan was for John and Sean to follow Richard to the Teaneck warehouse, but to keep up with Richard they went through a light and were pulled over by a New Jersey state trooper. Richard drove on, apprehensive and unsure of this huge rig on the open road. He calmed himself, reminded himself to drive slowly, to not do anything to get pulled over. The rig and cab were stolen and he had a gun on him, a .38 revolver with a two-inch barrel. If a cop did pull him over for some reason, he’d kill him and continue on. He would not, he vowed, go to prison, be taken away from the only person he’d ever cared for… and his unborn child. This child he would love and cherish, make sure it wanted for nothing.

As Richard thought about the future, hoping no cops came along, he inadvertently cut off a red Chevy. There were young men in it. They pulled up alongside and began cursing him, calling him names, then pulled ahead of him and slowed, forcing him to jam on the heavy air brakes. Richard made a fist at them. They gave him the finger, a thing that always enraged Richard. They kept it up. He figured they were drunk and hoped they would leave him alone. But they continued forcing him to slow up and slam on the brakes. This went on for miles. Richard was concerned now that a state trooper would see him driving erratically and pull him over, and he’d have real trouble. He decided to pull over himself and stop, let the two jerks go on their way, which is what he did. But the car also stopped and backed up. Oh shit, Richard thought. All I’m trying to do is avoid trouble, but trouble won’t leave me alone.

Shaking his head, Richard got out of the cab, hoping his huge size would calm the situation, but the two guys got out of their car, cursing Richard. One had a cut-down bat.

“Look, fellas,” Richard said. “I don’t want no trouble here. Go on your way. I’m just trying to do a job here.”

“Fuck you, fuckin’ asshole!” said the guy with the bat, who kept coming at Richard.

“Fuck me, no, fuck you,” Richard said, and he pulled out the .38 and shot them both down. He walked up to them and put a bullet in each of their heads, wanting to be sure they were dead, could tell no tales. With that he calmly got back into the cab and pulled away. Without further incident he made it to the warehouse, received his end of the money, and went home.

Always tight-lipped, he said nothing to Sean and John about what had happened.

With the proceeds of the job, twelve thousand dollars, Richard bought a nicer car, a large color TV, and some things they needed for the house, and put a little something on the side. Barbara didn’t ask him where he got the money; she knew better than to question him… about anything. If he had something to say, he’d tell her.

Richard was pleased. He had put it on the line, made a score; he was a man, a good provider. He’d prevail.

He didn’t even think about the two men he’d killed. They were, for him, like two insects who had smashed up against the windshield; they were roadkill, nothing more. But he did get rid of the gun he’d used to do the job.

These two murders were never linked to Richard—no witnesses, no clues, just two men shot to death on the road.

As Barbara’s stomach grew, Richard tried to control his temper. He didn’t want to hurt her, cause her to lose another child. He didn’t want to become, he recently explained, what his father had been. When I get mad, I just see red and go off like a bomb. I didn’t like that about myself. Still don’t. I didn’t want to hurt Barbara. I loved Barbara. Problem was, I guess I was obsessed with her. After I… after I struck her or became abusive, I was always mad at myself. Real mad. I’d look in the mirror and I really didn’t like what I saw.

Richard still had the gambling bug inside him.

Wanting to parlay the money he had made in the hijacking into more, he went to a high-stakes card game in Paterson. When Richard arrived he had six thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills in his pocket. He had a golden winning streak for a few hours, but wound up losing the whole six grand. Mad at himself, he went back home. Barbara had no idea about the money he’d had and lost. In a foul, dark mood, he walked in the door. It was just getting light out, but Barbara knew better than to question her erratic husband. She made him some eggs. He said they were overcooked, threw them on the floor, and went to bed. Good riddance, thought Barbara.

Barbara’s aunt Sadie passed away. Her bad heart finally failed and she died peacefully in her sleep. Barbara was devastated. She’d been very close to Sadie. Richard had liked Sadie—he didn’t care for many people—and he attended the funeral with Barbara, dutifully sat there with the appropriate demeanor. When Barbara cried, he consoled her. He had never seen the way Italians openly express their grief, and he was taken aback by it. For Richard, death was just a natural process of nature—nothing to fall apart about. He seemed oddly removed and detached from the normal grief people experience after a loved one’s passing. It was a classic symptom of his psychotic personality: no empathy. Stanley Kuklinski had, very successfully, beaten that out of Richard. Richard had never seen Barbara so upset, not even when she had lost the baby the year before.

When, that evening, they had to go for the final eulogy by the parish priest, Father Casso, Barbara and Richard were late because he went somewhere and picked her up after the service began. She was upset. He couldn’t understand why.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked.

“That’s not the point. The point is to show the proper respect.”

He had no good answer, no point of reference, no real concept of this kind of respect.

Merrick Kuklinski was born in March 1964, a seemingly healthy baby girl. Barbara was overjoyed. She’d lost three children, and with Richard’s irrational explosions, who knew what could happen? Unlike the birth of the children he had with Linda, Richard viewed this child as a prized blessing, and he was very attentive to Barbara. He couldn’t have been more considerate about everything. Did she want something to drink, to eat? What could he get her? Barbara was beginning to think she had, in fact, married two distinctly different men, the good Richard and the bad Richard. When, she explained, he was the good Richard, he couldn’t have been nicer, more giving and considerate. When he was the bad Richard, he was the meanest bastard on the face of the earth….

When it was time for Merrick to come home, Richard proudly carried his little girl to the car, being ever so careful, a big smile about his high-cheekboned face. He’d wanted a little girl, and he had her. Strangely enough, he felt a male child would eventually have competed for Barbara’s affection, so he wanted only female children. At this point, he saw very little of the two boys he had with Linda. It was as though a different man had fathered them, not Richard. He felt no tie to those children as he did to Merrick.

When Merrick was brought home Barbara’s whole family came over to see her. Everyone was thrilled for Barbara, knowing that she’d lost three children in a row. Barbara’s Nana Carmella went to church to light candles, to thank God, sure he had intervened and blessed her granddaughter with a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Drinks were poured. Expansive toasts were made. Richard proudly gave out cigars, the beaming father. Life was good.