Authors: Anthony Bruno
In many ways Kuklinski saw Mister Softee as a mentor, someone
who showed him that there were better ways to kill: quiet ways, bloodless ways, foolproof ways, nearly undetectable ways. It was the perfect student-teacher relationship: One had the know-how; the other had the ambition. But in August 1984 the two men had a disagreement that led to some heated words, and the volatile Mister Softee made the mistake of his life: He threatened Kuklinski by saying that he knew where he lived.
He must not have realized that Richard Kuklinski’s home was sacred. The mere suggestion that he would even think about approaching Kuklinski’s wife and children sealed Robert Prongay’s fate.
On August 9, 1984, Prongay failed to appear in court, where he was facing aggravated assault charges for bombing the front door of his ex-wife’s home and threatening to run over both her and their teenage son. The judge issued a bench warrant, and two sheriff’s detectives were dispatched to find him. The next afternoon they located his garage on Newkirk Street near Seventieth Street in North Bergen, just across the courtyard from Richard Kuklinski’s garage. When the detectives opened the garage door, the first thing they saw was Robert Prongay’s lifeless body hanging out the counter window of his Mister Softee truck. He’d been shot twice in the chest with a .38-caliber revolver.
Crayon drawings of turkeys and Pilgrims hung in the windows of St. Mary’s Catholic School on Washington Avenue in Dumont. The leaves had turned, and the residential streets that led to Sunset Street were lined with knee-high piles. As Barbara Kuklinski turned the corner onto her street, she heard a heavy thud in the trunk of the red Oldsmobile Calais. She frowned and made a face. She’d just gone grocery shopping, and the heaviest item she’d bought was a gallon of milk. She prayed that it hadn’t broken open. Who’d want to hear Richard if it had?
As she approached the house, she noticed that Matt’s car was in the driveway. Richard’s car wasn’t there. Christen and Matt didn’t hang around the house much when Richard was home.
She pulled the car into the driveway and popped the trunk, hoping she wouldn’t find it flooded with spilled milk. When she lifted the trunk, she saw that the plastic gallon was out of the bag and on its side, but nothing had spilled. As she turned the bag upright and started to repack it, she suddenly heard someone calling to her from the street.
“Mrs. Kuklinski? Mrs. Kuklinski?”
She turned and saw two men in suits coming up the driveway. She couldn’t imagine what they wanted. Then she noticed that one of them was holding up a badge.
“Mrs. Kuklinski, I’m Detective Volkman, New Jersey State Police. This is Detective Kane. We’re looking for your husband.”
“Well, I— Why are you looking for my husband?”
Barbara Kuklinski watched Detective Kane’s eyes scouring the inside of the trunk. He seemed angry and suspicious.
But so was she. She didn’t appreciate this sudden intrusion. Why were they confronting her out here in the driveway? Why didn’t they come to the door? “Is there something wrong?” she asked. She knew her voice had a sharp edge to it, and she didn’t care.
“We’re looking for your husband, Mrs. Kuklinski,” Detective Kane said. “We have some questions we’d like to ask him.”
“About what?”
They ignored her question. “Is he at home, Mrs. Kuklinski?”
“His car’s not here, so I guess he isn’t home.”
“Do you know where he is, Mrs. Kuklinski?”
“No.”
“Is there any way you can get in touch with him?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Did he leave a phone number where you could leave a message?”
“I just told you, Detective, I don’t know where he is.” Detective Kane was still staring into the trunk as if he were looking for something. “What’s this all about? What’s the problem?”
“We’d prefer to discuss it directly with your husband, Mrs. Kuklinski,” Detective Volkman said. He was passing her off, and she didn’t like that.
The front door opened then. Shaba was barking. Matt stepped outside without his jacket. Christen was in the doorway, holding the big black Newfoundland by the collar.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” Christen called out.
Before Barbara could answer, the two detectives moved toward Matt. “Excuse me, what’s your name?”
Matt was startled by their abruptness. When he hesitated, they fired off another question. “What exactly are you doing here, sir?”
Barbara put herself between Matt and the detectives. “He’s my daughter’s boyfriend if that’s any business of yours. Now what I want to know is what
you’re
doing here.”
Volkman suddenly looked grim. “I told you, Mrs. Kuklinski. We need to talk to your husband.”
“No, you didn’t tell me, Detective.
What
do you want to talk to him about?”
Kane answered. “We need to question him regarding a number of murders.”
“What?”
“When do you expect your husband to return, Mrs. Kuklinski?”
The last question didn’t register. “A number of murders” was still echoing in her ears. Those words and Shaba’s barking were the only things she could hear.
“Mom? What’s going on, Mom?”
The trembling in Christen’s voice struck a nerve. Her family, her home was being invaded. A mother’s instinct is to protect her children from harm, and Barbara immediately lashed out.
“Get out!”
“Mrs. Kuklinski—”
“Get off my property!” she demanded.
“Mrs. Kuklinski, if you let me ex—”
“Show me a warrant or get the hell out of here.
Get out!
”
“Mrs.—”
“Christen,” she yelled, “let the dog go.”
Shaba was agitated, barking and straining at the collar, baring his teeth. Christen could just barely control him. “But, Mom—”
“Let Shaba go, I said.”
But Christen wouldn’t let go of the dog’s collar. The two detectives
just stood there, staring at the big black dog, waiting for something to happen.
When it became obvious that the young woman wasn’t going to release the dog, Detective Volkman pulled a business card out of his pocket. “Mrs. Kuklinski, when your husband comes home, please have him call me.”
Barbara Kuklinski just stared at the card in her hand. Murder? She didn’t believe this was happening.
The two detectives crossed the lawn then and headed for their car, which was parked across the street a few doors down.
Barbara stared at the state police seal on the business card.
A number of murders?
She knew Richard was no angel, but murder? He had a vicious temper, but not murder. She couldn’t imagine.
Christen was trembling. “Were they serious, Mom?”
Barbara pulled herself together. She didn’t want to upset the kids. “It’s nothing, honey. It must be some kind of misunderstanding. Take in the groceries for me, will you, Matt? Christen, bring Shaba inside.”
“But, Mom—” Christen started, concern in her eyes.
“Go ahead,” she told her daughter. “Take him in before the neighbors complain about the barking.”
Reluctantly Christen did what she was told. Barbara followed her in. She went to the dining-room table and sat down without taking off her jacket. Her heart was beating fast. Staring ahead blankly, her eyes gradually focused on the china cabinet across the room, and her stomach started to ache.
She suddenly remembered what that room had looked like the day Richard exploded in there. It had looked like a bomb site when he was through.
It had been another one of his rages, one of the long, slow, torturous sessions. She couldn’t even remember how it had started. Most times she had only a vague notion of what she’d done to set him off. That time he’d made her sit right where she was sitting now as he yelled and screamed, interrogated and accused, smashing
plates and cups and saucers one by one to punctuate his anger. It went on for hours, and the only way she could keep her sanity was by reciting a rosary in her head. When she finished that, she tried to remember the names of all the characters in the books she’d read in the last year. Anything to keep from focusing on the “bad Richard” raging in front of her. It had started sometime in the afternoon, and it was dark out when he finally ran out of things to break. When it was all over, a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Royal Doulton lay smashed to bits on the floor.
When Barbara Kuklinski realized where she was, her hand was in her pocket, clutching the business card in her fist. She knew she was going to have to tell Richard that those two detectives had been here to see him. There was no way she couldn’t tell him. But this would definitely bring out the “bad Richard.” She wished there were a way she could
not
tell him, but there wasn’t. The kids were there; they had seen it. If he somehow found out that those detectives had been here and the kids didn’t tell him about it—she didn’t even want to consider what he might do.
No, she was going to have to tell him herself.
Barbara closed her eyes and let her head drift back as she unclenched her fist on the business card.
A number of murders. God help us, she thought.
The day after Thanksgiving was quiet at 169 Sunset Street. Too quiet. Barbara and the girls had gone to the mall, and Dwayne was out with his friends. Richard Kuklinski was home alone, holed up in his office. The door was closed even though there was no one else in the house except Shaba, curled up in a corner of the room, sound asleep. Richard had his feet up on the desk, staring out the window, massaging his temples. He’d had a headache since he woke up that morning.
That detective’s business card was on the desk. Volkman and his buddy Kane. He wondered what the hell they really knew. And if they did know something, who told them?
Percy House and Barbara Deppner, that’s who. Who else could it be? He knew the state had them in protective custody somewhere out in Pennsylvania. Someone from “the store” had happened to run into Percy by chance out there, and word had gotten back to Kuklinski. At least now he knew the general vicinity of where they were living. He glanced down at his briefcase on the floor and frowned.
Even if he did find them, getting rid of them wouldn’t
be that easy. Sure, he could shoot them or knife them or even strangle them, but all those methods leave evidence. Besides, the state cops must check in on them pretty regularly if they’re in protective custody. Getting them at home could be risky.
If only he could get some cyanide …
With cyanide he could do it anywhere. Follow them till they went somewhere, then spray them in the face as they got out of the car. Or put it in a sandwich or something. Get them to eat it, the way Gary Smith had.
If only he had some cyanide …
Dominick Provenzano had said he could get him some, but he never came through with it. Dominick was giving him some fugazy bullshit about his source clamming up because of that Lipton soup poisoning in Camden. But that was back in September. Things must have cooled down by now.
Kuklinski’s eyes slid to the phone on his desk. Dominick said he could get it. Guys say a lot of things they don’t really mean especially when they’re trying to make themselves out to be more important than they really are. He hadn’t heard from Dominick in almost a month. The guy was supposed to be all hot to make a deal on a shitload of arms and crap for the IRA. What happened to that? The guy was bullshit. He had to be. Unless he’s found another source for what he wanted.
Dominick had been talking big money last time they discussed this deal. Half a million. If Dominick was being straight about that, ripping him off would be one sweet payday. It had been too long since Kuklinski had made a decent score, and he was getting low on cash. That had really hit home yesterday when he sat down to Thanksgiving dinner with Barbara and the kids. Christmas was coming. Barbara was out starting her Christmas shopping right now. He’d always hated the holidays, but Barbara loved this time of year. He needed money to buy her something nice. He was still feeling a little guilty about the house they hadn’t bought, the one around the corner from President Nixon in Saddle River. He had
gotten everyone all excited about moving; then he just dropped it because he didn’t have the money. He felt he had to make it up to Barbara.
But aside from Christmas presents, he needed money anyway. Real money. Too many deals had fallen through lately. They were starting to live like everyone else in this goddamn neighborhood, and his family deserved better than that.
He
deserved better than that. He was Richard Kuklinski after all, and Richard Kuklinski was never going to be poor ever again. Never. That’s why he
needed
money.
A fluttering sensation spread through his chest, and his breathing was suddenly short. It occurred to him that maybe he was losing his touch. He was going to be fifty-two in a few months. Maybe he was getting too old for all this. The panic of being stuck without cash zinged through him like an arrow. Maybe he really was losing it. Those two state police detectives were on his case, and those other two rats, Percy House and Barbara Deppner, were probably telling them anything to keep them happy, probably telling them he had killed JFK. He hadn’t pulled down a single major score this year. And Dominick Provenzano, the one guy he’d thought he had on the line, didn’t seem to care about him anymore. Richard Kuklinski could see Dominick’s half a million dollars flying right out the window.
Kuklinski kneaded his temples and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. His head was splitting. His whole world was turning to shit. What the hell had happened? What was wrong with him?
Nothing.
Richard Kuklinski took his feet off the desk and pulled up his chair. He picked up a pen and started drawing boxes on a yellow legal pad. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing. He was a somebody. He was somebody because he knew he had the ability to do whatever was necessary to survive. He was somebody because
he knew things no one else knew, things he’d done that the cops were still trying to figure out.