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den and unfolded his six-foot-four, 270-pound frame.
    “Shaba,” he called out as he went to retrieve the dog, “shut up.”
    The dog didn’t listen, which wasn’t unusual, but Kuklinski was mad now. Must be goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses, ringing the bell like that. He’d make them sorry they’d ever got up this morning, the bastards.
    He climbed the stairs of the split-level house to the front door and grabbed Shaba by the collar as he turned the bolt and opened the front door a few inches.
    “Whattaya want?” he snarled into the crack. Shaba strained at the collar and barked by his side.
    Two broad-shouldered men in jackets and ties were at the door. One was holding up a badge. “Mr. Richard Kuklinski?”
    Kuklinski opened the door a little more and squinted at the badge. “Yeah? Can I help you?”
    “I’m Detective Volkman, New Jersey State Police. This is Detective Kane. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    Kuklinski tilted his head back. “About what?”
    “Several murders.”
    “I don’t know anything about any murders.”
    Shaba growled and thrashed his head to get loose from Kuklinski’s grip.
    “Did you know an individual by the name of George Malliband, Junior?” Detective Volkman asked.
    Kuklinski shrugged and shook his head.
    “Did you know an individual by the name of Louis Masgay?”
    “Nope.”
    The other cop, the younger of the two, just stared at him. Detective Kane didn’t say a word, just tried to look mean. Kuklinski knew the routine. They weren’t the first cops to come around asking questions. Volkman, the talker, was going to be the friendly guy; Kane was going to be the hard ass. Kuklinski wanted to laugh in their faces. Who the hell did these guys think they were? Better yet, who the hell did they think they were dealing with?
    “How about Paul L. Hoffman?” Volkman asked. “Did you know him?”
    Kuklinski shook his head.
    “Gary Thomas Smith?”
    “Nope.”
    “How about Daniel Everett Deppner?”
    Kuklinski yanked up sharply on Shaba’s collar to silence the barking. “Never heard of him either.” He had his hand on the edge of the door, ready to close it.
    Detective Volkman’s glance slid toward his partner. “Well, if you don’t know these men, Mr. Kuklinski, then I don’t suppose you know anything about a Mr. Roy DeMeo.”
    Kuklinski squinted at the detective as his grip tightened on the dog’s collar. He wanted to know how the hell they’d gotten that one.
    “Roy DeMeo,” Detective Kane snapped. “He was a soldier in the Gambino crime family. Until he was murdered.”
    Kuklinski flashed a cordial smile. “Why don’t you boys come in? Let’s not talk out here.” He opened the door all the way and showed them in. Shaba was agitated, sniffing at their pants, but the dog had stopped barking.
    Kuklinski led them up the short flight of stairs to the livingroom. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the couch, as he got comfortable in his favorite chair in the house, the beige leather easy chair next to the fireplace, his “throne.” The shaggy Newfoundland flopped down on the floor at his feet. He took the dark amber-tinted prescription glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and tilted his head back. He stared at the two detectives and let the silence get uncomfortable. He wanted them to make the first move to see how much they really knew.
    Detective Volkman, the talker, finally spoke up. “Are you sure you don’t know any of those men, Mr. Kuklinski?”
    Kuklinski shook his head.
    “You didn’t know George Malliband?” Kane asked.
    “I don’t believe so.”
    Volkman opened a small notepad. “On March 31, 1980, Mr. Malliband told his brother that he was going to a meeting with you to conclude a business deal. That was the last time he was seen alive.”
    Kuklinski shook his head and shrugged. “Sorry. I have no recollection of such a person.”
    He scratched Shaba’s head. He remembered George Malliband. A big mother, three