AT TIMES IT SEEMED AS THOUGH JOSÉ MIGUEL BATTLE HAD ALL OF HUDSON COUNTY IN his back pocket. His influence in law enforcement was far-reaching, with Deputy Chief Scarafile on the payroll, and he had pull with Mayor William Musto of Union City, whose various political campaigns were believed to be partially financed by illegal gambling money. But Battle had other connections designed to lubricate the system and give him a standing in the community above and beyond that of a crime boss.
One such connection was Rene Avila, the publisher of Avance, who sometimes acted as Battle’s liaison between the underworld and the upperworld. Avila had risen from being an ad salesman for a monthly Cuban magazine to a player in Hudson County political circles. He was friendly with Battle to the point of providing crucial services for the organization. For example, on April 24, 1975, when Ernestico Torres and Chino Acuna were arrested following the attempted murder of Loco Alvarez, it was Avila who showed up at the jail to pay their bail—$15,000—on behalf of the Cuban Mafia.
If you asked Avila if he was affiliated with any criminal organization, he would deny it, and if you stated it in print, he might have you sued for libel. Avila presented the veneer of an upstanding businessman. Upon arriving in New Jersey from Cuba in 1961, he had risen from nothing to become an independent publisher. With his newspaper, he had the influence to promote and support various county commissioners, some of whom were hand-selected by Battle, who for a brief period was even listed as an employee of Avila’s newspaper.
In 1975, Avila bought a house on Manhattan Avenue in Union City for $69,000 (which would be nearly $300,000 today). He owned a 1972 Rolls-Royce as a second car, wore designer suits, and purchased fur coats for his wife. His declared annual income at the time was $10,000. Eventually he would be called to answer for these financial discrepancies via a grand jury corruption investigation in Hudson County. Investigators concluded that there was a “shadowy relationship” between Avila, Battle, and key political and police figures in Union City in which Avila was “the lynchpin.” It was also implied that Avila was on the payroll of El Padrino, a charge he denied.
The role that Avila played in Hudson County cultural and political circles was a classic function of organized crime, as it had existed in the United States at least since the Prohibition era. The criminal underworld may have been a separate entity, comprised of hoodlums and hit men like Ernestico and Chino, but organized crime did not operate in a vacuum. Battle was a typical Mob boss in that he was constantly looking for ways to ingratiate himself in the upperworld. If an anti-Castro political group was holding a fund-raiser at a restaurant or former vaudeville hall on Bergenline Avenue, Battle would make a bulk purchase of seats or tables. The man who would broker that sale was Rene Avila, who seemed to know everyone in the community. If a county commissioner was being put forward for office, or running for reelection, Avila had tremendous influence, not only with his newspaper, but, more important, by making a phone call in support of a particular candidate. It was understood that Avila represented the interests of José Miguel Battle.
As influential as Avila may have been, he was part of a network that reached deep into law enforcement and politics in Hudson County. He was not operating alone. Another person with tremendous influence was Eusabio “Chi Chi” Rodriguez.
In 1976, Chi Chi was called to testify in front of an ongoing federal grand jury investigating gambling-related activities of, among others, Deputy Chief Scarafile and Mayor Musto. It was a potentially explosive investigation. Chi Chi Rodriguez was a well-known bolitero, part of Battle’s organization, with many arrests, mostly for gambling offenses. He was also friendly with politicians and cops throughout Union City. In front of the grand jury, he refused to answer questions, an act of defiance—or loyalty, depending on where your bread was buttered— that would eventually cost him eighteen months in jail on the charge of contempt. Upon his release, Chi Chi’s standing among crooked politicians, dirty cops, and local gangsters was greatly enhanced.
Chi Chi became a power broker of some renown. He was a frequent visitor to city hall and was able to secure an audience with any commissioner at will, but most especially Commissioner Manuel Diaz, who had gone to school with José Miguel Battle Jr. and was a close personal friend of the Battle family. Chi Chi’s influence was so far-reaching that when Deputy Chief Scarafile, after a political shake-up at city hall, was looking to protect the teaching jobs of his son and daughter-in-law, he didn’t contact the commissioners or members of the Union City Board of Education, all of whom he knew personally. He contacted Chi Chi Rodriguez to ask him to intercede on his behalf, because Chi Chi represented the Battle organization.
A grand jury report on corruption in Hudson County put it this way:
If you want a job, call Chi Chi. If you want to influence a commissioner, call Chi Chi. If you want the head of a national crime syndicate to influence a newspaper and affect an election, call Chi Chi. All of this is so, despite the fact that Chi Chi Rodriguez is not registered to vote.
This same report stated:
The conclusion which this panel must draw is that elements of organized crime have been knowingly and intentionally integrated into the general governmental structure in Union City and those organized crime elements are using their power and positions for their own advantage . . . Chi Chi Rodriguez could not have attained and maintained this position of importance in the community by himself. He had, and still has, the help of public officials and employees who have become far too cozy with individuals in organized crime . . . The picture is frightening.
The findings of this particular grand jury, based on wiretapped conversations between Rene Avila, Chi Chi Rodriguez, and others, were still a few years away. In the meantime, these men were at the peak of their powers helping to create a universe of influence that was conducive to the criminal objectives, and personal whims, of José Miguel Battle.
ERNESTICO AND IDALIA WERE ON THE RUN, AND THIS WAS CAUSING MUCH ANXIETY for Charley Hernandez. Charley was aware that there was a contract out on all their lives, for various transgressions, but mostly for the aborted kidnapping of Luis Morrero, Battle’s uncle-in-law. Charley didn’t want to die, so after slinking around New York for a while, hiding in the shadows, he headed down to Miami to stay with Ernestico and Idalia.
They stayed at the home of Tomás Lopez, a friend of Ernestico’s who lived in Allapattah, a low-income neighborhood north of the civic center, near the courthouse and Dade County jail.
The main reason Charley was there was to help fulfill a dream that Ernestico had had for some time to kidnap Isleño Dávila, the richest of the bolita bankers. Isleño’s Fort Lauderdale home was an hour’s drive from where they were staying. Though Ernestico was in hiding, it did not mean he was in retirement. Kidnapping Isleño, they believed, would make them all rich.
Isleño lived on a luxurious estate on the intracoastal waterway in a big house with twenty acres of land. The estate was surrounded on three sides by water. Isleño kept three pumas in cages. The security system at the estate was designed so that if anyone breached the perimeter of the property, the cages would open automatically and the animals would be released.
Ernestico and Charley cased the joint, sitting in a car outside the home’s front gate. They were like two medieval bandits trying to figure out how to get into a castle. Charley’s bag of quaint lock-picking tools would do him no good here. They wondered which one of them would first get eaten by the pumas. They weren’t even sure if Isleño was staying at the estate or if he was in New York City.
The idea of kidnapping Isleño was put in dry dock, but Ernestico remained a hustler; he always had something up his sleeve. They decided to burglarize a private home that Ernestico had been told about. They broke in and stole, among other things, a gun they found on the premises. Afterward, they found out that the place they had broken into was the home of a former Los Angeles cop now living in Miami. A deal was worked out for them to return the gun, and in exchange, the former cop would not make their lives a living hell. Ernestico and Charley’s knack for getting into trouble followed them from New Jersey to Miami.
Even while this was going on, Ernestico maintained contact by phone with El Padrino and also with Chino. With Battle, he pretended he was still in the New York–New Jersey area, lying low because various people were trying to kill him. To Chino, Ernestico confided all, believing that his former partner was still a friend. Chino reported everything he was told by Ernestico back to José Miguel, his boss and benefactor.
AROUND THE SAME TIME THAT ERNESTO AND IDALIA FIRST DISAPPEARED ON THE RUN, the bolita bankers called a special meeting at the Colonial restaurant in Washington Heights. Everyone was there, and quite a few of the bankers were upset with El Padrino. The one who was most upset was Luis Morrero, who spoke for the entire group when he said, “José Miguel, with all respect, you are responsible for this cucaracha, Ernesto Torres. You are the one who brought him into our group. You made us contribute to his becoming a banker, which was a disaster. You created this monster. He’s your responsibility.”
It had come to the attention of everyone that the kidnapping and shooting of Morrero had only been the beginning. Word on the street was that Ernestico had a list of bankers he intended to kidnap and hold for ransom. Everyone in that room was likely on that list. Said Morrero, “This guy has become a big problem for us. He has to go. You, José Miguel, have created this problem, and so you must take care of it. It’s only fair. It’s the right thing.”
Battle did not argue with the other bankers. He knew they were right. He had allowed the Prodigal Son to run amok for too long.
The next afternoon, El Padrino met with Chino. The only matter on their agenda was to find and kill Ernestico, who had recently cut off phone contact with both Battle and Chino. Ernestico had gone deep underground. Battle and Chino knew he was in Miami, but they had no idea where he was hiding out.
“What about that friend of his, Charley Hernandez,” said Battle. “Maybe he knows.”
“El Pincero? I hear he’s back in town.”
“Find him,” said Battle. “Find out what he knows. It’s time we put the squeeze on that fool.”
IN MARCH 1976, AFTER SIX WEEKS ON THE LAM IN MIAMI, CHARLEY WAS BACK IN UNION City. He’d been slinking around, only going out at night. Eventually, he got the impression that maybe the dangerous times had blown over. Then he visited a friend of his named Manuel Cuello, who was associated with the Battle organization.
“Charley, my friend, you’re in a lot of trouble,” said Cuello.
“What do you mean?” asked Charley.
Cuello explained that Chino Acuna and another hit man had been by his place that morning. They knew that Cuello and Charley were friends. Chino told him that they were looking for Charley because the boss, Señor Battle, had put out a $15,000 contract on his head.
“Why?” Cuello had asked Chino.
Chino explained that it was because of the botched Morrero kidnapping.
Hearing this, Charley was alarmed. “But that was all Ernesto’s idea.”
Said Cuello, “That’s what I told them. I said, ‘Ernesto Torres is the instigator. Charley is not the bad guy.’ Chino said, ‘Well, as it stands right now, Charley is marked for death. The only way he’s gonna survive is if he helps us get rid of Ernestico.’ ”
“Oh my God, what do I do?” Charley asked Cuello.
“Call Chino,” answered his friend. “See if you can make a deal. Otherwise they gonna hunt you down and take you out.”
The next day, Charley called Chino. They arranged to meet on 60th Street in the town of West New York, near where Chino lived. When Charley arrived, Chino was already there. They were standing at a street corner right in front of—of all places—the West New York police station.
Chino explained to Charley that there was a contract out on both him and Ernestico. The contract had been initiated by Luis Morrero, but Battle had taken over responsibility for the killings.
Said Charley, “But I thought Ernesto was supposed to be like a son to El Gordo, that they were thicker than blood.”
“Look,” said Chino, “Ernesto has been out of control for a long time. He called up El Gordo and told him he was going to start kidnapping all his friends. He’s crazy. And we know you were in on some of that. The one we really want is Ernesto. He betrayed El Gordo. He has betrayed the organization . . . If you don’t help us, you’re dead. If you do, El Gordo will forgive you.”
Fuck. Charley wasn’t sure what to make of all this. Maybe it was a trick. He said to Chino, “I’m gonna help you, but right now I’m completely broke. I need two hundred dollars. Can you arrange for two hundred to be dropped off at my wife’s house? As a sign of good faith.” It was a test on Charley’s part, to see whether Chino could be trusted.
“Sure,” said Chino, “I can do that.”
Charley wasn’t even staying at the house in Union City with his wife and kids. He’d been hiding out at the apartment of his girlfriend, Lydia, in Washington Heights. That night, he called his wife in Union City and asked, “Hey, did you receive two hundred dollars from a guy tonight?”
She said yes, a man had dropped off two hundred in cash earlier that evening.
Charley didn’t tell his wife anything, except to say, “See, don’t I always take care of you?” Then he called Chino and said, “Okay, we’re good. My wife got the money. We can do business.”
Chino said, “All right, tomorrow at noon we gonna meet at Battle’s apartment. I see you there.”
A bell went off in Charley’s head. He knew Battle’s building, a big new apartment complex on 45th Street in Union City. Luis Morrero lived in that same building.
“Wait a minute. Morrero lives in that building. That man wants me dead.”
Said Acuna, “Listen, chico, if Morrero or Battle still wanted you dead, you would already be dead. I’m the hit man, remember? You are safe, as long as you do this thing for us. Come by El Gordo’s home. He wants to talk with you face-to-face. We gonna figure this all out.”
Charley hung up and thought, What have I gotten myself into? He’d never been to Battle’s apartment before, never had a one-on-one conversation with the Godfather. He was way out on a limb now, all on his own, thanks to his good buddy Ernestico.
TO BATTLE’S WAY OF THINKING, THE LIVELIHOOD OF ANY BOLITA OPERATION WAS based primarily on two things: discipline and trust. There were other bankers—like Isleño Dávila, for example—who knew more about the ins and outs of bolita than he would ever know. But Battle knew about leadership, and he knew that leaders knew how to keep their men in order. What he was facing now, with Ernestico, was an insurrection. His entire reputation as a bolita boss rested on how he went about resolving this crisis.
Battle had his doubts about El Pincero. In fact, from what he knew, Charley Hernandez was a small-time pendejo, an asshole. But he was also the key to their entrapping Ernestico. There was no better way to handle this problem than to have Ernestico’s closest friend do the deed. It was the kind of message Battle liked to send: You betray the organization, and you will never be safe. Anywhere, anytime, we will get you. And it may be your closest friend who betrays you, just like you betrayed us.
José Miguel was ready when Charley Hernandez came over to his apartment, 3H, in a building at 45-30 45th Street. The apartment was spacious but hardly luxurious. From his balcony, Battle looked out on a typical Union City street of double-decker homes and modest apartment buildings; he was only a couple blocks away from Johnny’s Go Go Club, Tony’s Barbershop, and other establishments on 48th Street, which was now the center of the Cuban bolitero universe.
Chino Acuna was at Battle’s apartment that day, and so was José Miguel Battle Jr., then twenty-two years old.1
Battle Jr.’s presence was unusual. The previous year, Miguelito, as he was known to most everyone, had graduated from St. Peter’s College, a Catholic college run by the Order of Jesuits, located in Jersey City. Throughout his adolescence and young adulthood, Miguelito had kept his distance from the rackets. In a way, he also had become part of the Godfather syndrome. If Battle Sr. was Don Corleone, it seemed as though Miguelito had assumed the role of Michael Corleone, as played by Al Pacino. Miguelito had no interest in the family business; he was following the straight and narrow path to a respectable career. The story was that he was going to be completely legit.
Charley Hernandez, for one, was surprised to see Miguelito there. He looked like what he was: a nice college boy. Charley remembered a conversation he once had with Ernestico, who claimed that Battle Sr. once told him, “My son is going to be a prosecutor, maybe a U.S. attorney. And you will take over from me as Padrino, the Godfather of bolita. With the two of you at the top, our Cuban thing will be more powerful than anything the Italians ever dreamed of.”
Charley found that ironic, because now here they all were setting out to plan Ernestico’s murder.
“He betrayed everything we stand for,” Battle Sr. told Charley. “I raised him like he was my own son. I made him a banker when everyone in my organization was against it. I stuck my neck out for this guy. What he did, I take it very personally. I do. So now we gonna deliver a message: I don’t care who you are. You betray us, you pay the ultimate price. You understand?”
“I do, yes,” said Charley. “Uh, but what about Morrero. He wants me dead.”
Battle told Charley not to worry about that. He controlled Morrero. “If anyone tries to bother you, you tell them to call me. Call Battle. If you are with me, I protect you.”
Chino explained what they wanted Charley to do. He was to call Ernestico and lure him to New York. “What do you think would be the best way to do that?”
Charley thought about it for a few seconds, and then said, “He’s been trying to kidnap Isleño Dávila. He tried to do it in Fort Lauderdale, but he couldn’t find Dávila. I could tell him that I spotted Dávila here in New York, at the Colonial restaurant in Manhattan. That might get him up here right away.” Charley told him that he would call Ernestico that night and tape the conversation, so that they could hear it.
“That’s good,” said Battle Sr. “Do you have a recorder?”
Charley did have a recorder, but he didn’t want Battle to know that. He said no.
“Go with Chino,” said Battle. “He’ll buy one for you.”
That afternoon, Charley drove around with Chino. They bought the tape recorder and a suction cup for recording phone calls at Sears. Then Chino took Charley along as he ran various errands for the organization. For Charley, it was something he had dreamed about. He was now being treated as if he were a partner with Chino and the boss, a member of the Cuban Mafia. For a lowly lock picker and thief, it was the ultimate promotion.
“You know,” said Chino to Charley, “you shouldn’t feel bad about this, because Ernestico was going to kill you anyway. He told me many times. ‘I gonna use Charley on a big score, then I’m gonna make him disappear.’ He said that.”
Charley listened. He doubted that was true. Ernestico and him were best friends.
Chino made a stop in Manhattan. They were there to pick up some silencers. They met a man in his apartment. The man was introduced to Charlie as Manolo Lucier, and he seemed to be a trusted adviser of the Battle organization. Chino explained how Manolo was one of the men who kidnapped the famous Argentinean race car driver Juan Manuel Fangio. The kidnapping of Fangio, in 1958, was one of the most famous incidents of the Cuban Revolution. Just before the Gran Premio Formula One race in Havana that year, Fangio was kidnapped by rebels and held for ransom. When he was finally released, he spoke highly of his captors, making the incident a public relations coup for the rebels.
At that time, Manolo had been part of the revolution. Somewhere along the line, he became disenchanted with Castro and switched sides. Now he was a Cuban gangster in the United States, part of the Battle organization.
Charley was amazed. In the Cuban American underworld, you never knew who you were going to meet—a revolutionary, a counterrevolutionary, or a counter-counterrevolutionary.
THAT NIGHT, CHARLEY CALLED ERNESTICO IN MIAMI. “DAMN,” HE SAID, “YOU REALLY got me into a mess here. What I’m dealing with is unbelievable.” He explained everything to Ernestico, his meeting with Battle and Chino, and that they wanted Ernestico dead, and how he was being used as the bait. Not only that, they wanted him to do it. “They want me to kill you, brother.”
Ernestico went quiet on the phone for a few seconds, and then said, “How much you think they would pay you for that?”
“I don’t know,” said Charley. “Maybe fifty thousand.”
“Take the job,” said Ernestico. “That’s good money. Take the job. But tell them I wouldn’t come to New York. Tell them that I want you to come to Miami. Say I told you I have a big robbery job down here, a big pile of money just waiting for us at a warehouse. We gonna rob that warehouse. You tell them you gonna kill me here in Miami.”
“Wow,” said Charley.
“Yeah. Take the job, get them to give you the money. Bring the money down here and we split it between us. Then we go on the run.”
Charley agreed to the plan. “Okay,” he said, “I’m gonna hang up now, then call you back. I’m gonna tape-record the conversation. You tell me how you have this job for me in Miami. I will play this tape to El Gordo and Chino.”
Charley and Ernestico did just that. They carried on their fake conversation, like actors playing out a scene. Charley could feel his heart pumping. It was crazy, but it was also kind of exciting.
The next day, Charley again visited the apartment of El Padrino. The same people were there—Battle Sr., Chino Acuna, and Battle Jr.—with the addition of another person, Rene Avila, the newspaper publisher.2 Charley knew who Avila was; he was a well-known person in the community. And Ernestico had once explained to him how, after the attempted hit on Loco Alvarez, it was Avila who paid his bail and got him out of jail. To Charley, it was an example of Battle’s reach, how he had people in high places—cops, politicians, and community leaders—on his payroll.
Charley played for them the recorded phone conversation between him and Ernesto, with Ernesto telling him to come down to Miami right away. After the conversation came to end, he turned off the recorder and said, “That’s it. I’ll go down to Miami and I’ll do the thing down there.”
Battle Sr. and Chino seemed skeptical. Battle Jr., the son, was only partially involved in the conversation, and Avila was in and out of the room, not involved, though it was clear to all what the men were talking about; they did not hide it.
“How you gonna do this?” asked Chino, the experienced hit man.
“Well,” said Charley, “you give me the money, and I fly down to Florida tonight. He will pick me up at the airport. When I get a chance, when he stops the car or he goes out with me to do the job he’s talking about, I’ll kill him.”
Battle Sr. and Chino looked at one another, then Battle Sr. said, “You think you can do this, Charley? I mean, you’re not a killer. As far as I know, you’ve never done this before. And now you’re killing your good friend? Will you be able to go through with it?”
“Listen,” said Charley, “don’t worry about it. I can do it. This guy is no good. Anyway, Chino said Ernesto was gonna kill me after we make a big score. So now I gonna get him first. You don’t have to worry. I’m gonna take care of him, believe me.”
They talked for a bit about how exactly Charley might do the job and what was the best way to dispose of the body. Battle Sr. seemed to be having doubts. At one point, he turned to his son and said, “Miguelito, what do you think?”
Battle Jr. said, “I think what Charley is saying is the simplest way. He is the one who can gain Ernestico’s confidence.”
Battle Sr. said to Charley, “Maybe we should send Chino down there with you.”
“No,” said Charley. “Look, Ernestico is a paranoid guy. You send me down there with Chino it could get me killed. Better I do this my way.”
“You have a gun?”
“Yes, I have a gun down there. A .38 Special. He holds it for me. The only thing I need is bullets. Because when he gives me the gun, it may be empty. Or it may have dummy bullets.”
Battle Sr. pulled out his own gun and emptied the chamber. “Six bullets. Nice bullets. You don’t have no problem with these.” Battle Sr. then put the empty gun to Charley’s forehead. “You make sure you put one in his head. And be sure his head is straight, understand? Not at an angle. So the bullet goes in the front and comes out the back.”
“Don’t worry, boss. I’m gonna do it.”
Battle Sr. nodded. “You leave tonight. What name you want on the ticket?”
Charley shrugged. “My name. Carlos Hernandez.”
Battle Sr. nodded to Rene Avila, who said, “I’ll be back in an hour.” Then Battle Sr. said to Chino, “You go with Rene, bring back the ticket.” Avila and Chino both left the apartment.
The boss left the room and came back with a gym bag. He zipped it open. It was filled with neat stacks of cash. Battle Sr. said, “I’m gonna pay you fifteen thousand dollars to complete the job. It’s your first job for us. But you do this right, you gonna make a lot of money with us.” He pulled out some stacks of money wrapped with rubber bands and handed them to Charley.
One hour later Chino returned with Charley’s ticket to Miami on Eastern Airlines, the flight leaving at 11 P.M. that night. Said Battle Sr. to Charley, “Go home. Get prepared. We’re gonna pick you up at nine o’clock and drive you to Newark airport.”
In his car driving to the projects on Kennedy Avenue, where he lived with his common-law wife and four kids, Charley looked at the neat stacks of cash on the seat. It wasn’t the fifty grand he had imagined, but, Damn, he thought, I’m doing all right. Fifteen large, which he had finagled out of the Godfather himself. Amazing. Of course, he had no intention of killing Ernestico. It was all a scam. Which somehow made it even more exhilarating.
At home, Charley greeted two of his young daughters, Kelly and Carol. Lately, he hadn’t seen the girls very often. Particularly after the botched Morrero kidnapping, he had deliberately stayed away from the wife and kids because he did not want to bring danger into their house. The girls smothered him with hugs and kisses, to the point where tears came to Charley’s eyes. For the girls, this was no surprise. Their father cried easily. Years later, the older of the two, Kelly, would say, “He was a very sentimental man.”
Charley gave his wife, “the Americana,” $300 and told her that he had to go to Florida for a few days.
She said to him, “You know, that Ernestico Torres is going to take you down. You were a lock picker, and then you’re a kidnapper, and now you are God knows what.”
Charley said, “Don’t worry. I got everything under control. This time I’m gonna make it. You’ll see.”
Charley didn’t tell his wife about the fifteen thousand. At the last minute, he decided to take $1,000 with him down to Miami and stuff the rest of it under the mattress in his bedroom. He placed the neat stacks of cash in the middle of the mattress, so if someone lifted the edge the money would not be seen.
At 9 P.M., Battle Sr. and Chino drove up in Battle’s blue-and-white Cadillac Eldorado. Charley kissed the girls goodbye, then went outside and got in the backseat with El Padrino, while Chino drove.
On the way to Newark airport, Battle Sr. said to Charley, “My friend, we have an expression. When someone is playing two sides against the middle, we call that ‘playing two cards.’ You ever hear that expression?”
Charley said, “Yes. I’ve heard that expression.”
“Charley, are you playing two cards with me?”
“Señor Battle. I don’t do that. Never. I am going to take care of this guy in Miami. You’ll see.”
Battle said, “I hear you have a nice family, a young boy that you love. That is important. I admire that in a man. But let me tell you something, if you run away with the money, or if you are playing two cards with me, I will kill your entire family. You understand me?”
Charley said, “Yes.”
They arrived at Newark airport, the Eastern Airlines departure gate. Said Battle, “Okay, when the job is complete, you call Chino’s house and say that you had supper already and I will know that Ernestico is dead and that everything is all right.”
Said Charley, “All right. ‘I had supper already,’ you want me to say. ‘I had supper already.’ You will hear that from me very soon.”
On the plane to Miami, Charley had time to think about what he was doing. The anxiety had begun to build, and he attempted to keep it at bay with little bottles of scotch whiskey. One of the flight attendants seemed to like Charley, and she kept slipping him bottles for free. As he became more inebriated, he thought about many things, like, for instance, Maybe I should go through with this and kill Ernestico after all. That way, he would get to keep all the money. But Charley knew he could not do that. He loved Ernestico like a brother.
JOSÉ MIGUEL BATTLE WAS AN ARDENT BASEBALL FAN. HE ESPECIALLY LOVED THE NEW York Yankees, whom he associated with preeminence. In 1976, he bought season tickets to Yankee Stadium. Box-seat tickets, row nine, behind home plate.
The Yankees were generating tremendous excitement that year, partly because the newly refurbished stadium had opened that year after two years of renovation. After playing the previous two seasons at Shea Stadium in Queens, the Yanks were back in their glimmering new home in the Bronx, and they had a good team to go with it.
Battle liked to use his box seats to reward friends and associates. But the person he took most often to the Yankee games was his son Mi-guelito. Their mutual love of baseball and the Yankees seemed to be one of the few things they had in common.
It was perhaps inevitable that Battle Sr. and his son would have a complicated relationship. When Battle left Cuba in late 1959, Miguelito, age six, was left behind in Havana with his mother. Growing up without a father was difficult enough, but Miguelito had the added pressure that his father went on to become a member of the 2506 Brigade, which was in Cuba a source of controversy, ridicule, and ostracism. Like all brigade members locked away in prison in Cuba, Battle’s father was seen as a traitor to his country. Harassment from the Castro government was constant.
By the time Miguelito came to the United States to live at the Fort Benning Army base, he hardly knew his father at all. When the family moved to Union City, it was more or less mutually agreed that Miguelito was cut from a different cloth than his father. For one thing, the son was an excellent student. After graduating from college—the first in his family to do so—he made the decision to apply to law school; it was a decision that was wholeheartedly endorsed by his parents.
Arriving at Cleveland Law School, also known as Cleveland-Marshall College of Law at Cleveland State University in the Ohio city of the same name, Miguelito suffered something of a personal identity crisis. He was uncertain whether law school was really for him. After just two weeks, he dropped out and returned to New Jersey. He moved in with his parents at the apartment on 45th Street in Union City, which was an odd choice, given that Miguelito often felt smothered by his father’s larger-than-life personality.
The father cut a powerful public figure, to be sure. There were other kids in the community of boliteros who worshipped Battle. Joaquin Deleon Jr., whose father had been a cop with Battle in Havana, was one of those people. In Madrid, as a teenager, he first fell under the spell of El Padrino. One of the factors that captured his imagination was the way Battle and other reigning boliteros, including his father, used to present themselves in public. “They had great style,” he remembered many years later.
Partly this was the gangster style of mafiosi the world over, but there were certain aspects unique to the Cubans. “They used to have their wives iron their money so it was always smooth and crisp. They used wallets where the bills were always flat, never folded. Then they sprayed the money with perfume, so that when Battle slipped a few bills to a maître d’, a doorman, or whoever, the fragrance of the money lingered long after he was gone.”
They also mixed the cologne they wore with a little champagne, so that the cologne would stick to their skin. This way, its aroma would not dissipate so quickly.
Deleon Jr. also marveled at Battle’s confidence and wit. He was once part of the Godfather’s entourage at a Cuban diner in Union City. It was a time when Battle was constantly under surveillance by FBI agents and local police. At the diner, he spotted a local cop they all knew named Lieutenant Frank Mona, along with his partner, a Latino. In Spanish, the word mono means “monkey.” Battle went up to Lieutenant Mona, slapped him on the back, and said to his Latino partner, “Ese es el unico mono que es amigo mio (This is the only monkey that is my friend).” The partner understood the play on Mona and mono and chuckled. Battle walked off, leaving it to the partner to explain the joke to the lieutenant.
Joaquin Deleon Jr. worshipped what he perceived to be Battle’s swagger, but Miguelito was not so captivated. Miguelito had grown up a rock and roll kid. He loved his father, but he was also ambivalent, which had created a personal crisis about what role he would play in the family legacy. His dropping out of law school was a major disappointment to his parents. But this also was part of Miguelito’s ambivalence, because his being a lawyer was more a dream of his parents than it had been for him.
In September 1976, as the Yankees were in a pennant drive for the first time in many years, Miguelito, for the first time in his life, was arrested. The charge was possession of an unlicensed gun. It was a relatively minor charge, and as a first time offender in the state of New Jersey, he was given the option, under the Hudson County Pretrial Intervention Project (PTI), of meeting with a counselor on a regular basis. If the counselor felt that the person charged understood the seriousness of the charges and showed remorse and atonement—if he or she wasn’t revealed to be a hopeless delinquent—the charges would be dropped.
Miguelito seemed to enjoy the counseling sessions. A court liaison filed a report that read, in part:
Arriving promptly for his appointments with PTI, Mr. Battle Jr. was cooperative and spontaneous throughout, attempting to answer questions and supply information to the best of his ability. To what extent he selectively eliminated potentially damaging information is, of course, difficult to assess . . . While he is articulate and intelligent, his insight is relatively limited. His attitude and behavior during the interviews were appropriate, although a very limited range of emotion was displayed.
The counselor noted that the instability of Miguelito’s early years may have contributed to his recent arrest:
To what extent the hostile environment affected Mr. Battle Jr. is difficult to say, but there is little doubt that the trauma left its mark. Mr. Battle Jr. feels he is stronger and able to tolerate more pain because of his experience. The lack of emotion with which he speaks at times is perhaps a manifestation of this.
And then there was the relationship with his father:
[Mr. Battle Jr.] speaks respectfully of his family, but particularly admires his father with whom he indicates he has very close emotional ties . . . When he dropped out of law school in 1976 after only a few weeks, his parents, particularly his mother, were very upset. Mr. Battle Jr. describes somewhat matter-of-factly a time in his life which must have been quite difficult. He feels that he strove all through college and when arriving at the goal of law school suddenly was not sure that this was what he wanted—a delayed identity crisis perhaps . . . The nature of his relationship with his father, with whom he feels one, demands further exploration. One final important point for evaluation is the effect that his exposure in his formative years to the violent environment in Cuba and subsequent military life [of his father] had on him.
Miguelito told the counselor that he was currently employed at the Latin American Jewelry store, “a family owned enterprise,” and that he also worked part-time for the Spanish-language newspaper published by Rene Avila.
In some ways, Miguelito’s evaluation by a criminal justice intervention counselor revealed a profile not unlike that of many young adult males. Battle Jr. was seeking to reconcile a messy upbringing with his strong desire to achieve success on his own terms and rise above his station. He professed love for his father, but there was perhaps buried underneath this love a degree of resentment and tension. This was not unusual for a young man, particularly the son of an immigrant who had fought hard to make his way in the new world.
Of course, the idea that Miguelito’s situation fit the standard psychological profile was belied by the fact that, according to Charley Hernandez, his father, in his presence, had ordered the murder of an underling in his organization. And that Miguelito had been consulted, not on moral grounds, but as a strategic matter, whether using Charley to entrap and murder Ernestico was the best way to get it done. Miguelito had said, Yes, go for it.
For a man who had spent much of his early life and adolescence going against the grain of his father’s image and style, it now seemed as though he was being groomed to be a successor to the throne.
IDALIA FERNANDEZ LOOKED AT HER BOYFRIEND, ERNESTICO, AND HIS BEST FRIEND, Charley, seated at the kitchen table deep in conversation, and she thought, Damn, these two men are probably more emotionally bound together than I and Ernestico could ever be. Okay, maybe she was the one who went to bed with Ernestico, she was the one who gave herself in a sexual way, but these two had some kind of weird connection that was stronger than blood.
Charley had arrived in Miami in the wee hours of the morning, ostensibly to murder Ernestico for money. It was Ernestico’s father, now living in Miami, who met Charley at the airport and brought him to his apartment. Ernestico and Idalia then met Charley over at the father’s place. As Ernestico explained it to Idalia, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Charley. But it was possible that Charley was being followed, and he didn’t want to risk revealing the location of their new apartment in Hialeah, near the famous Hialeah racetrack.
Ernesto Sr. had recently moved to Miami. As the father of the most wanted hombre in Union City, he was not safe there. He sneaked down to Miami, making sure he had not been followed. His son and the girlfriend visited him, but even he didn’t exactly know where they were living.
In Senior’s apartment, Ernestico and Charley sat at the kitchen table. Charley was in tears, explaining that there was no way he could ever kill Ernestico.
Idalia felt sorry for Charley. He seemed like a guy who was in over his head. Her boyfriend was a fuckup also, but at least Ernestico always seemed to be in control, even if he wasn’t. He never lost his confidence. Charley, on the other hand, was a follower, and he always seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Ernestico and Idalia were disappointed that Charley had not brought the $15,000 for the hit. To them, that’s what this was all about. They desperately needed the money.
Charley explained, “Look, there’s only one way you will get that money. You have to return to Jersey with me. We will gather every gun we have and we’ll sit across from Battle’s building until he comes out the door. We kill El Gordo. It’s the only way. Otherwise, this guy is gonna kill you and then he’s probably gonna kill me. So we have to kill him first.”
Ernestico laughed. He was the one who was supposed to be hotheaded and crazy. Charley Hernandez had never killed anyone, and now he was talking about taking out the Godfather of the Cuban underworld.
“My friend,” said Ernestico, “what have you been drinking? You think we can just go kill El Gordo and then it’s gonna be over? You kill Battle, and then you gotta shoot it out with his brother, and he’s got many brothers. How many Battles you gonna kill, Charley? And there’s no money in any of that. I’m gonna stay right here. I’m gonna kidnap Isleño Dávila and make a million dollars.”
Charley believed the kidnapping of Isleño was a pipe dream; it would only make matters worse, like the Morrero kidnapping.
The argument went back and forth all day. Idalia listened with growing concern. Charley had not brought the money, and the men had no plan. They may have thought of themselves as blood brothers, but as criminal partners they were a disaster.
That night, alone in his motel room, Charley came up with a plan. He told it to Ernestico and Idalia the following morning. “Last night I saw on the TV news there was a million-dollar robbery. Three guys walk into a hotel, get the manager, and they break every safe box and make off with the loot. A witness described the robbers as three Hispanic males. I’m gonna tell Battle that was you. You cut me out of the robbery, made a million-dollar score, and you took off for Mexico.”
“What about the money he paid you?” asked Ernestico.
“I’ll give it back to him. Tell him I wasn’t able to do the job. As long as you’re alive, I don’t think he’s gonna kill me. Because he needs me to find you.”
Said Ernestico, “If he believes that line of shit, then you’re in. You’re a member of his organization for life.”
Charley was too spooked to take a plane back to Newark. Maybe he would be whacked by one of Battle’s men. So Idalia and Ernestico drove him to the train station.
Idalia watched as the two men hugged. She heard her boyfriend say, “Brother, so far we win every war. They tried to get me with a bomb, and they didn’t kill me. They tried to hit me in the flower shop, they couldn’t kill me. They sent you down here to kill me—nothing. One day, you and me, we gonna do a big score, because we are the ones who are winning. It’s our destiny.”
Idalia was amazed. As long as she had known Ernestico and Charley, it had been one failed score after another. And yet they somehow remained naively optimistic. It seemed as though they were doomed by the very nature of their irrational brotherhood.
The two men agreed that after Charley delivered his story to El Gordo about Ernestico’s hotel robbery, if Battle bought the yarn, Charley would send a telegram that read: Rasputin in Mexico. That would be the code that they were in the clear.
JOSÉ MIGUEL BATTLE LISTENED TO CHARLEY’S COCKAMAMIE STORY ABOUT ERNEStico pulling off a million-dollar robbery in Miami and hightailing it to Mexico. What does this guy take me for? he thought. He let Charley talk.
“Maybe you catch him at the border,” said Charley. “Tijuana. Maybe you catch him there trying to cross over.”
They were in Battle’s home, Charley, José Miguel, and Chino Acuna. Charley had brought visual aids to support his story, newspaper articles from Florida that reported of the hotel robbery in Miami. Three Hispanic males, said a witness. From what he’d been told, said Charley, the loot was mostly diamond watches and jewelry, not cash, and Ernestico’s cut was not a million dollars, more like forty thousand. But it was good money, enough so that his friend could split town before he’d had the chance to blow his brains out.
Battle looked at the newspaper articles and said, “I don’t know, Charley, there’s something funny about this. I’m going to ask you what I asked before: are you playing two cards?”
“Boss, I know it’s not how we wanted things to go, but that’s how it is. I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m not playing two cards.”
Battle looked at Chino, who was sitting there showing no emotion. Chino just shrugged, as if to say, What’re you gonna do? You win some, you lose some.
Charley gave Battle back his cash. “Here,” he said. “Here’s the money. Minus one thousand I used for the trip.”
Battle didn’t bother to count the money. He put it back in the gym bag. He spread open the bag to show Charley the contents, stack upon stack of cash held together by rubber bands. Charley guessed there might be fifty or sixty grand in there. “See this?” said Battle. “This is all for whoever gets Ernestico. The contract is still open.”
“Well,” said Charley, “he still thinks he’s gonna kidnap Isleño one day. So he will contact me. I’m still his best friend.” Charley wanted Battle to believe that he was still his best opportunity for tracking down Ernestico.
Battle and Chino let Charley go. They knew they had to act fast. Even if Charley’s story was bullshit, as it most likely was, it meant that Ernestico would soon flee.
IT WAS A MORNING IN LATE MAY WHEN IDALIA AND HER BOYFRIEND WENT OVER TO HIS father’s apartment and discovered that there was a telegram waiting for them. It read: Rasputin in Mexico. Both Idalia and Ernestico were relieved. This meant that Battle had accepted Charley’s story. They were safe, at least for the time being.
A few days later, Idalia was in their apartment on 74th Street in Hialeah. Her boyfriend had stepped outside. Minutes later, she heard the sound of gunfire. She ran to the window and looked out and saw a blue-and-white car making a U-turn. On the passenger side was a man wearing a hat and white gloves. He was holding something that looked like a gun with a long silencer. The man fired a few more shots.
Idalia ran downstairs. By then, the blue-and-white car was speeding away. Ernestico was on the sidewalk, down on one knee. He had been hit in the left forearm. It looked as though his bone had been shattered, and he was bleeding profusely. Idalia got him back to the apartment and wrapped a towel around his arm.
Ernestico was in pain. He said, “I saw them. It was José Miguel’s brother Gustavo. And Manolo Lucier. I know those men. Battle must have sent them to kill me.”
Idalia said, “We have to go to the hospital. Now. Or you will bleed to death.”
Ernestico objected. A hospital would be unsafe. But Idalia was able to convince him that they had no choice; this was an emergency. She raced her boyfriend to Palmetto General Hospital, where he spent the next forty-eight hours. He was discharged with a thick cast on his left arm from wrist to elbow.
They didn’t even go back to the apartment in Hialeah. They hid out for a few days at their friend Tomás Lopez’s apartment until they could find a new place.
It was Idalia who found the rental at 1125 Sharazad Boulevard in Opa-Locka through an ad in a magazine. It was an efficiency apartment, a dwelling common to South Florida, a single-room apartment with few frills except for a pool. Idalia and Ernesto would not be hanging out by the pool in the complex. They rented the place under the names Margie and Ricardo Villo. Nobody knew their true identities, except for a delivery boy who delivered groceries from Los Hispanos Market, which was located eight miles away in South Miami. It was the only place they trusted. The owner was a friend of Idalia’s from New York.
After they had been there a week, a vacancy in the building allowed Idalia and Ernestico to move from the efficiency to a one-bedroom unit on the ground floor. Their new hideout was sparsely furnished. It was a typical 1950s layout, with terrazzo floors, an eat-in kitchen, and glass jalousie windows and doors that made it feel like a tropical bungalow.
WHEN JOSÉ MIGUEL BATTLE HEARD ABOUT THE FAILED ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON Ernestico, he was annoyed. Failed hits were a hazard of the life, but he did not want the contract on Ernestico to turn into another saga like the ongoing efforts to kill Palulu. Too many failed attempts could damage the reputation of a criminal organization. After a while, you become like the gang that couldn’t shoot straight, the laughingstock of the underworld. With Palulu, Battle had been forced by circumstances to bide his time. But the Ernestico issue had already dragged on too long. To solve this dilemma, Battle would do what he always did in his life: he would take control of the situation.
It did not take long for them to identify the apartment complex where their targets were now living. Using a local contact who posed as a prospective tenant, they had been able to case out the Pinetree Gardens apartment complex on Sharazad Boulevard, checking out entryways and exits on the property.
Putting together a hit team, that was the tricky part. It would take three men to kill Ernestico and his girlfriend in their apartment. To assure that the hit would not be botched necessitated that they use men from deep within the inner circle of the organization. Chino Acuna, of course. And then José Miguel decided that he himself would take part in the hit. As for that third person, it would be once again his brother Gustavo, who had only recently been released from prison after serving six years on cocaine charges and was already back doing hits for the organization.
Battle called Gustavo, who was living in Miami. They made arrangements to meet in the Magic City the following day. Battle and Chino flew to Miami on separate flights.
At five minutes past three on the afternoon of June 16, the three men arrived at the apartment complex. They were all armed with various handguns. They sneaked up to the door of Ernestico and Idalia’s apartment. They took out their guns, stopped, and listened for a few seconds. They heard the sound of a television. It was General Hospital, the TV soap opera, which Idalia never missed.
They busted in through the jalousie door, glass shattering everywhere. José Miguel and Gustavo let Chino take care of Idalia, who was watching TV in the front room. They rushed down a hallway toward the back bedroom.
Ernestico awakened from his nap. He heard the crashing door, heard Idalia scream, and knew his moment of reckoning had arrived. He grabbed two guns he kept next to him on the bed and started firing. The Battles returned fire, blowing holes in the plaster wall of the bedroom.
Ernestico slid off the bed and retreated toward the closet. He blasted away with both weapons, though his efforts were inhibited by the cast on his left arm. The Battles charged into the room. Gustavo was hit, not badly, but enough that he was bleeding. One of the attackers, either Battle or Gustavo, shot one of the guns out of Ernestico’s hand. With the other gun, Ernestico continued firing as he scampered into the closet for cover. After sixty seconds or so, Ernestico fired no more; he wasn’t moving.
Cautiously, the Battles moved forward. There was Ernestico, crumpled in an odd position. He’d been shot multiple times—twice in the torso, in the forearm, and in the hand.
Ernestico moved ever so slightly. He was still alive.
José Miguel, the Godfather, bent down and put his 9mm handgun to Ernestico’s forehead, right in the middle, a half inch above the eyebrow line. He positioned Ernestico’s head so the trajectory was straight and true. Then he pulled the trigger, shooting the Prodigal Son right between the eyes.
The two Battles hurried out of the room, Gustavo dripping blood as they met up with Chino in the hallway. They exited through a rear doorway in the kitchen.
Later, an eyewitness from across the street, not close enough to identity the assailants by face, did notice that there were three of them, and that two of the men helped the third along, as if he were injured.
The three men jumped into a Cadillac and sped away. It had been messy, but the deed was done.
AT THE AGE OF FORTY-SEVEN, BATTLE WAS ARGUABLY A BIT LONG IN THE TOOTH TO BE carrying out hits himself. Normally, Mob bosses in his position would have created a buffer between themselves and the actual killing, for legal reasons, if nothing else. But Battle wanted to let the other bolita bankers know that he was not like them.
On the night of the shooting, Battle called Oracio Altuve, a Cuban bolitero from New York who had recently moved to Miami. Altuve was from Battle’s generation, in his late forties, living in an apartment in North Miami Beach. At the time Battle called, he happened to have a visitor in his home—Isleño Dávila, who lived nearby in Fort Lauderdale.
The two men were surprised to hear from Battle, who they did not know was in town. Said Battle to Altuve, “I need you to come over to the place where I’m staying.” He gave his friend the address of a cheap motel in Little Havana.
“Isleño is here with me,” said Altuve.
“Good,” said Battle. “Bring him with you.”
Altuve and Isleño drove to a location on SW 8th Street, Calle Ocho. Battle was in the parking lot waiting for them. He climbed into the backseat of the car. The first thing he said was, “He fought like a lion.”
Altuve was behind the wheel, Isleño in the front passenger seat. They both turned around and looked at Battle, who explained, “Ernestico. He defended himself with great courage. Until he ran out of bullets. We shot him in the closet.”
Battle asked them to drive him to the Fort Lauderdale airport. He had a plane to catch.
Back in New York a few days after the murder, Battle called for a meeting of the bolita bankers at the Colonial restaurant in upper Manhattan. Many prominent members of the organization were in attendance: Abraham Rydz, Luis Morrero, Nene Marquez, and Luis DeVilliers, owner of the Colonial, to name a few. Battle announced to the group, “You won’t have problems with Ernesto Torres no more. It’s been taken care of. I shot him myself.”
For Battle, it was a matter of principle: if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. By handling it the way he did, it was as if he were back on the beach at Playa Girón, at the Bay of Pigs, taking matters into his own hands.
1 The account of Charley’s meeting with Battle Sr., Acuna, and Battle Jr. comes from Charley Hernandez, who was called upon to give this account on numerous occasions, including three lengthy debriefing sessions with detectives and federal prosecutors, twice in Grand Jury testimony, and once in trial testimony. During his debriefing interviews, Charley gave a detailed description of the interior of Battle’s apartment, which involved drawing a map of the premises. Later, in preparation for trial, he submitted to a lie detector test, which he passed. During his testimony, Charley submitted to rigorous cross-examination on the subject of this meeting and other subjects. He proved to be a credible witness, with his testimony leading to the conviction of Jose Miguel Battle Sr. on murder conspiracy charges. Nonetheless, Battle Jr. contests Charley’s account of this meeting and a subsequent meeting he allegedly took part in. At his father’s trial, on the witness stand, he admitted having met Charley Hernandez once, having been introduced to him by Ernestico Torres, but when asked if he was present at this meeting between his father, Charley, and Chino Acuna, Battle Jr. said, “That is not true. That is a lie.”
2 As with the previous meeting between Battle et al and Charley, this account comes largely from the recollections and testimony of Charley Hernandez. Rene Avila, like Battle Jr., publically denied, during a legal deposition, that he was present at this meeting. He admitted having met Charley on previous occasions, and having been present at Battle’s apartment numerous times. Avila was never charged with any wrongdoing for any role he might have played—as alleged by Charley in depositions and trial testimony—in this incident.