After lunch that day Richard was busy on the phones, talking with John Spasudo and Remi. More problems had come up because of the Zurich bank official’s former associates, and Remi was concerned. All these “business calls,” Richard made from phone booths all over Dumont. The calls made Richard late for his meeting with Polifrone. He beeped Polifrone a half hour after he was supposed to be there, and Dominick called him right back; Richard apologized, said he was on the way, and hurried from his home, carrying a bag containing the hit kit. Richard was planning to use the .22 and silencer; clearly an assassin’s weapon, to bait Polifrone further into a bigger sale of such guns. Instead of delivering the weapons, however, he was going to deliver death.
As Richard drove to the Vince Lombardi stop, he thought about feeding Spasudo to the rats. Oh, how he’d enjoy that! He was still intent upon killing Pat Kane, but he needed cyanide to pull that off properly, to make it appear like a heart attack; that was the key, and he still hoped Polifrone could get him the cyanide. If it appeared like a hit, the police would, he was sure, be on him like white on rice.
Richard arrived at the Lombardi service area at nearly 3:00 P.M., unaware of the law-enforcement encampment he was entering. This was very much unlike him. He normally came early to such meetings, hid in a van, and made sure all was clear, using binoculars and his well-honed sixth sense. The fact that he planned to murder Polifrone, he now says, made him drop his guard: he was walking straight to the gallow steps of his own volition. It was a chilly gray day. A cold wind blew across the flat french-fry-smelling expanse around the rest stop. The sounds of cars and trucks whizzing by was constant, punctuated by fleeting truck and car horns. The many planes landing and taking off from nearby Newark Airport passed low overhead, adding to the cacophony of fast- moving sounds. Polifrone was ready. He knew what he had to say and how to say it. After greetings, Richard again apologized about being late. He said he had the hit kit with him, opened the trunk, and showed it to Polifrone. “This is,” he said, “a .22 long barrel, military capacity with a screw-off front. You screw the suppressor on.” He handed it to Polifrone and told him he could let him have it for eleven hundred dollars, but the price would have to be fifteen hundred for a large load; this was, he said, only to get the deal moving. “A sample price.”
Bob Carroll was pleased: they could now arrest Richard and charge him with the sale of this gun and silencer. The silencer was a major felony. But Carroll wanted more, had to have more. His intention was to make sure Richard got serious time, spent the rest of his life behind bars or, better yet, got a death sentence. Tensed, he waited to hear Polifrone draw Richard further into his carefully laid trap. As this was happening Pat Kane was waiting back at the attorney general’s bunker, nervously pacing like an expectant father. He couldn’t be seen here. If Richard made him, all was instantly lost, everyone knew.
Now Kuklinski showed Dominick how to put on the silencer. He handled the gun with knowing familiarity. They were off near a bank of telephones. Richard used the open trunk of his car to block anyone from seeing what he was doing. Polifrone gave him the eleven hundred dollars, which had been provided by the state of New Jersey. This is what was recorded:
“Listen, Rich. Remember you were telling me about how you use cyanide?”
“Yeah?”
“Well I got this fucking rich Jewish kid I been supplying with coke. He wants me to get him two kilos now, which I can do, but the kid’s a real fucking pain in my balls, you know? So what I’m asking is, you think it’s possible we can dope up the coke with cyanide?”
“Definitely.”
“What I was figuring, we can make a quick score. Do the kid and go halfsies on the bread he brings for the two keys.”
“Does he always come alone?”
“Yeah, he always comes alone.”
“And he brings cash?”
“The kid’s rich from his old man. He’s rolling in it. Money’s not the problem. He’s the problem. I can’t stand the little fuck anymore.”
“All right. Just tell me when. Dom, you understand that the price of these pieces goes up after this one, right? It’s eleven for this one, but it’ll be fifteen apiece, even in quantity.”
“Without the nose?” (A “nose” is a silencer.)
“No, with the nose. The same as you got here, except it’ll be fifteen hundred, not eleven.”
“What caliber?”
“I didn’t even ask. Probably .22.”
“Hey, what the fuck do I care? It’s the Irish broad’s money, not mine. I don’t give a fuck. Personally I could give two shits about their cause over there. I’m gonna give you your price today. Whatever it is tomorrow is her problem.”
“Whatever, I’m just telling you, Dom. And as for that other guy, that sounds very interesting, fuck it, I’ll hit a Jew in a minute. Who the fuck cares?”
“Yeah.”
“Not only that, you say we can make a nice buck off this.”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Rich. You know what we can do? I don’t know if you wanna do this, but I can bring the kid here someday. I’ll meet him here for coffee, and you can come and take a look at him if you want.”
“No problem. Tell him you’ll meet him over by the phones, and I’ll park over there so I can see what he looks like.”
“Good, good. Only thing is, Rich, I don’t want him whacked. His old man’s got money up the ass. He’ll hire private investigators and all kinds of shit. That’s why it’s gotta look like an OD. You know what I’m saying?”
“No problem. I can do it, but you gotta get me the cyanide. I’ll make it up and hit him in the face with it. I can make the—you know, then just one hit, and that’s it. He goes to sleep.”
“Or we put it in the coke. I don’t give a shit really, just as long as he’s gone and it looks like an overdose.”
“My friend, there’s more than one way to do it. You don’t want him shot, we can do it another way. There’s millions of ways.”
“An OD, that’s what I want.”
“Well, we can give him some pure shit and make him really OD.”
“Whatever. I gotta run now, but we’ll talk about this some more later. All right, Big Guy?”
“You got it. See you later.”
Richard and Polifrone walked in different directions. Richard got back into his car and drove out of the rest stop. Carroll was overjoyed. They now clearly had Kuklinski for conspiracy to commit murder. The list of charges, as he was hoping, was lengthening, and because of how Kuklinski obviously trusted Polifrone, Bob Carroll was thinking they could take this even further, build and fortify the case against Kuklinski they already had. Carroll was thinking of using Paul Smith, sitting next to him now, as the rich Jewish kid looking to buy cocaine. Carroll could’ve had Richard arrested on the spot, but he wanted more. He wanted to be sure that when they arrested Richard, they had an airtight case against him, that he would die in jail, either of old age or by execution—preferably the latter.
As the Ice Man task force planned and plotted its next move, Richard left for Zurich again, and again they had no idea he’d gone anywhere. Had Richard known what was going on, how Solimene had set him up, who Polifrone truly was, he would have stayed in Zurich. He still believed Polifrone would buy a huge load of armaments and help set up this rich Jewish kid. He was not yet suspicious. Polifrone was a means to an end—more money, and cyanide. After that he was dead.
Remi and Richard met in a glass-encased cafe in the center of town, and still again Richard heard how another man in this “gang” was trying to shake down the Asian bank official.
Remi said, “Now, you know, he’s really scared. He’s talking about quitting and going back to Japan, and then we are lost. We must stop that. You have to do your magic thing again. I know you know the right people.”
“I am the right people,” Richard said, his voice low and deadly serious, a slight smile on his high-cheekboned, Slavic face.
Remi blanched. “You…I don’t believe it.”
“Isn’t any big deal,” Richard said.
Remi’s eyes widened. He blinked rapidly. He didn’t know how to handle this…revelation. “My goodness,” he
