By the time cops arrived at the Guanabo Bar and Grill, the place was mostly cleared out except for the manager of the bar, a few staff, and Elda Battle, who was on her knees crying over the body of her dead husband.
After a quick look at the body, the cops could see that Battle, lying in a pool of his own blood, was dead. Detective Thomas E. Henry, standing over the body with a pad and pen, made note of Battle’s colorful attire, his expensive Lucien Piccard watch, his black patent leather loafer-style shoes, and the gold wedding band on his left hand.
Other detectives questioned the handful of workers at the bar. The employees described the mayhem that had taken place, but none of them knew or had seen the shooter—at least that’s what they said.
The wife was still wailing over the dead body. Uniformed cops had to peel her off and lead her away, so that emergency personnel and a forensics team could address the crime scene.
It was now 4 A.M. Outside the Guanaba bar, squad car lights flashed and the area was marked off. At that hour, you wouldn’t expect there to be many people on the street, but there they were mingling in the winter cold, some talking under their breath, others shocked and startled. After hours could be brutal in el barrio.
Those who knew anything about the assailant and the victim— patrons who had perhaps fled the bar and were now on the sidewalk or in the street pretending to be anonymous onlookers—had intimations of what lay ahead. Pedro, the youngest of the Battle brothers, had been murdered in a very public way. This was a dagger aimed squarely at the heart of the Battle organization, an act that would resonate throughout the Cuban American underworld.
Palulu had declared war on El Padrino, and now there would be hell to pay.
5
BRING ME THE HEAD OF PALULU
CARLOS RODRIGUEZ, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS TRIO DE TRÉS, WAS HOME ASLEEP WHEN his phone rang. It was early in the morning, around 6 A.M., not an hour when he was usually at his best. But when he answered the phone and heard the voice of Chino Barquin, an assistant of José Miguel Battle’s, he shook himself awake. “Get dressed,” he was told by Barquin. “We’re coming by to pick you up in twenty minutes.”
Rodriguez rolled out of bed. He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He put on some clothes, quickly brewed some coffee, and had had only a few sips before he saw outside the window Battle’s red Cadillac pull up in front of his building.
Rodriguez headed outside. As he approached the Caddy, he saw Barquin in the driver’s seat, and in the front passenger seat, José Miguel. Rodriguez got in the backseat and pulled the door closed. He sat there for a beat or two, didn’t say anything. Then Battle turned around, and Rodriguez saw something he had never seen before: El Padrino was crying.
“They killed Pedro, my little brother,” said Battle. His face was contorted with grief.
Rodriguez was stunned. His heart sank for his friend. He said, “Oh my God,” because there were no other words to express the sadness he was feeling.
Without looking back, Barquin said, “We gotta drive into the city and go identify the body.”
“Okay,” said Rodriguez.
The Cadillac drove through Union City, onto the New Jersey Turnpike, and into the Holland Tunnel, which would take them into lower Manhattan, where the city morgue was located. On the drive, José Miguel related what he knew of the shooting so far, what the cops had told him, and what he was able to learn through contacts of his own. There was no question who had pulled the trigger. It was Palulu Enriquez.
At such an early hour, finding parking was not difficult. They entered the morgue and explained why they were there. An official from the Medical Examiner’s Office led them downstairs to the morgue.
The room was like a crypt, with smells that were strangely antiseptic and clinical. The men were led to a gurney, where a body lay covered with a white sheet, except for the feet, which peeked out from the sheet. The assistant medical examiner looked at a tag on the toe of the left foot.
“Okay,” he said, “which one of you is a relation of the deceased?”
José Miguel nodded and stepped forward. The medical examiner pulled back the sheet.
From where Rodriguez was standing, he could not see behind the sheet. And so he watched José Miguel’s face. He saw the sadness and the grief, the tears again coming to his friend’s eyes. Whimpering like a wounded animal, Battle nodded that, yes, this was his brother, Pedro Battle.
The assistant medical examiner pulled the sheet back over the body. He asked the men to wait there as he wheeled the body away.
Rodriguez put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, which seemed to snap Battle out of his grief. His crying stopped, and Rodriguez saw something take hold of his friend. It was anger. “Hijo de puta (son of a bitch),” said Battle, to no one in particular. And then the anger transformed itself into an even deeper subset of emotion—rage. Battle’s face reddened, his breathing became labored. “We gonna get that motherfucker,” he said to Rodriguez. “We gonna make him pay for what he did.”
El Padrino was like a volcano, ready to blow.
Over the days that followed, that rage never did subside.
The funeral service for Pedro Battle was held in Union City on December 27, 1974. Throughout the day and into the evening, well-wishers stopped by to offer condolences, deliver floral arrangements, and, in some cases, breathe in the pungent aroma of revenge that hung over the funeral parlor like a tropical depression.
IT IS NOT KNOWN EXACTLY WHEN JOSÉ MIGUEL BATTLE SAW THE MOVIE THE GODFATHER for the first time. The movie debuted in New York City, Los Angeles, and other major U.S. cities on March 24, 1972, while Battle was on the lam in Spain. It opened in Madrid later that year, in October, but by then, Battle had already returned to the United States, where he was immediately arrested and held in detention for the next sixteen months. Determining when he first saw the movie may be elusive, but for those who knew him, there is no question that he did indeed see the film, and that it had a profound impact on the boss of the Cuban Mafia.
Battle talked incessantly about the movie and seemed to view the story of Mafia boss Don Vito Corleone, as played on-screen by Marlon Brando, as a kind of metaphor for his life. The movie’s storyline was a bloody and dramatic explication of the American dream, with the Godfather, Vito Corleone, attempting to retain aspects of his Old World Sicilian culture while adapting to the realities of the New World. At the center of Corleone’s universe was the concept of family, something that Battle held dear, or at least paid lip service to on many occasions. Don Corleone had his sons, and José Miguel had his brothers. There was also the fanciful aspect of the plot in which Corleone, as boss of the family’s criminal enterprise, is against the selling of narcotics. In the real world, many Mafia bosses, including, most notably, Santo Trafficante Sr., had peddled dope since at least the 1930s, but in the movie, the Godfather’s resistance to narcotics is presented as an example of Old World nobility, with the boss choosing morality over profit.
Mostly what captured the imagination of Battle was Marlon Brando’s performance as the Don. Battle bore a resemblance to Brando as Corleone—the jowls, the raspy voice, and also the air of noblesse oblige, as if the responsibilities of the world weighed heavily on his shoulders. After Battle had viewed the movie more than once, many in his circle of friends and associates got the impression that José Miguel would subconsciously slip into an impersonation of the Godfather, and no one thought of this as an affectation. Many felt that indeed there was some kind of connection between the El Padrino they knew and the iconic screen character. Somehow, Battle as Corleone made perfect sense.
The movie was a huge critical and box-office success, and in 1973 it won multiple Academy Awards. Battle saw in the culture’s embracing of the movie a reaffirmation of his own life choices, and yet the benefits were ephemeral. The Godfather was a movie. What had arrived on Battle’s doorstep were the harsh vicissitudes of real life.
José Miguel’s personification of Brando’s
Godfather was very much on display at the funeral parlor on the night of his murdered brother’s memorial service. While friends and family members paid their respects at the closed coffin of the deceased, Battle was in a room nearby receiving condolences and speaking to his underlings. Already he had made it clear to his people that he wanted Palulu Enriquez dead or alive— preferably alive, so he could torture him to death himself. He offered a bounty of $20,000 for anyone who killed Palulu, and $50,000 for anyone who captured him alive. He also declared that anyone who was with Palulu as part of his crew had until Pedro’s burial to come to his organization and join their side, or they too were fair game.
At the funeral parlor, he eulogized his brother, saying that Pedro was “too kind and gentle.” His emotions ebbed from sorrow and regret to fulminations of vengeance. Of Palulu, he proclaimed, “¡Quiero la cabeza y los cojones de ese hijo de puta montadas en mi pared, mañana! (I want the head and balls of this son of a bitch mounted on my wall, tomorrow!)”
At the funeral parlor that night, and in the days that followed, a few of Battle’s most trusted hit men stepped forward to offer their services. One person who approached him was not a member of his organization—at least not yet. He was Julio “Chino” Acuna, a mocha-skinned mestizo who at the time was a gunman in Palulu’s crew.
Chino was another of the thousands of Cubans fleeing the island of Cuba every year. In his case, the journey had been recent; he arrived by boat in Miami in 1971 and eventually requested asylum at the Newark office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service as a Cuban refugee. His mixed-blood features earned him the nickname “Chino” (Chinaman). He knew Palulu from Cuba and went to work as his bodyguard and enforcer. Standing five feet nine inches tall, and lean, he was not physically intimidating, but Chino Acuna was known to be a proficient killer.
Chino showed up under the guise of paying his respects to Battle on the occasion of his brother’s memorial service, but his true motive was to tell El Padrino that he would switch sides and help him get his revenge against Palulu.
“I am here to help you,” he whispered in Battle’s ear.
They agreed to talk in more detail later.
Others came forward, including Ernestico Torres. In Spain, Ernestico had emerged as a crazed, up-and-coming gunman willing to kill on behalf of El Padrino at the drop of a hat. Since arriving in the United States, he had served as a mule by strapping loads of marijuana and cocaine to his body and crossing the border at Tijuana, Mexico. The drugs were delivered to a house in Los Angeles. Since arriving in New Jersey, he had been scuffling to get by, ripping off Colombian drug dealers—a highly dangerous proposition—and eventually going into the cocaine business with Pedro Battle. He had also contracted himself out as a professional hit man.
Ernestico approached José Miguel Battle with some trepidation. He had heard that Battle held him partly responsible for having stirred the hornet’s nest that led to his brother’s death—first by getting involved with Pedro in the coke business, and second by killing El Raton. Palulu had used the murder of El Raton and the stealing of his product as the motivation and excuse for going after Pedro.
At the funeral parlor, when Ernestico heard how much was being offered for the capture or murder of Palulu, his eyes lit up. He wanted a piece of that action. But he had to convince Battle that he was the man for the job.
José Miguel was in a room separate from the coffin viewing area, where mourners gathered to pay their respects. Ernestico was allowed into the room. With him was a sidekick and criminal partner named Carlos “Charley” Hernandez, a professional lock picker and thief with whom he’d recently been doing burglaries. Charley, whose nickname was “El Pincero” (the Lock Picker), stood at a distance as Ernestico spoke to Battle.
“Pedro was your blood,” said Ernestico, “but he was like a brother to me, too. Remember, he was the godfather to my son, Ernesto Jr. I blame myself for what happened. I should have protected him from that cocksucker. It was my fault.” Ernestico rubbed the wetness from his eyes.
For all his hardness, José Miguel could be a soft touch. He took in stray dogs and was known to give out money indiscriminately to people who were in need. Ernestico’s tears worked.
“Listen,” José Miguel said to Ernesto, “you need to show more discipline. You need to use your brain and not go off half cocked all the time.”
“I know. Listen, I promise to you. I give you my word. No more coca. I’m done with that business.”
Battle nodded his approval.
“Let me get Palulu. Give me the contract. I won’t let you down.”
Battle glanced toward Charley Hernandez with a trace of disdain. He said to Ernestico, “Tell your friend to wait in the other room. We talk privately.”
Ernesto told Charley to wait outside. When he was gone, Battle said, “Listen, niño”—he often called Ernestico niño (child)—“I’ll give you this contract, but I don’t want this friend of yours involved. I’ve heard about this guy. He’s a common thief, you know that, and he drinks too much and runs his mouth. He can’t be trusted.”
“Okay,” said Ernestico, “whatever you want.”
El Padrino had them hold hands and make a pledge that they would not rest until they had avenged Pedro’s murder.
Charley Hernandez was waiting outside when Ernestico appeared. Years later, he remembered it well: “So Ernestico went out of the funeral parlor, and he was happy. I said, ‘What went on?’ He told me what went on: ‘I’m working for José Miguel. Tomorrow I’m gonna start looking for this guy [Palulu].’ And I say, ‘Well, now you’re in the money. These people are bankers. They got a lot of money, you know? Good for you.’ He says, ‘Don’t worry, I’m gonna try to get you in with [Battle]. You my ace in the hole.”
The hunt for Palulu started immediately. Teams of hit men in cars began roaming northern New Jersey, upper Manhattan, and the Bronx. Ironically, the first to encounter trouble from these efforts was not Ernestico or Chino Acuna; it was Battle himself.
IT WAS AROUND 2 A.M. ON THE MORNING OF DECEMBER 30, JUST TWO DAYS AFTER THE funeral service. José Miguel was at a bar called Club 61, in the town of West New York, just north of Union City. From a pay phone at the club, he called his wife at home. The level of paranoia in the Battle universe was high. Everyone was concerned about further shootings, and the Battle family in particular suspected they might still be a target of Palulu and his crew. José Miguel routinely called in to check on his family. He was told by his wife that just a few minutes before there had been some men in a car outside their apartment building, and that a man with a gun had confronted Aldo Battle, José Miguel’s younger brother, in the garage. Battle immediately called his other brother Sergio, telling him and Aldo to meet at his home on 45th Street in Union City.
José Miguel grabbed an associate at the bar, Michael Depazo, who was currently under indictment on a murder charge. The two drove to a safe house apartment where the Battle organization kept an arsenal of weapons. They picked up some guns and headed on to meet the other Battles.
Aldo and Sergio were waiting in front of the building. Aldo told José Miguel the story of confronting a man with a gun in the garage. The man, it turned out, was an off-duty cop investigating a stolen car incident; the man showed his police identification. But now the paranoia of the Battles had been stoked. They loaded into Battle’s four-door Buick, which was listed as belonging to Latin American Jewelers, his jewelry shop on Bergenline Avenue. They carried with them an assortment of weapons, including revolvers, automatic pistols, and a shotgun.
What these men didn’t know was that the off-duty cop had called in a report of four Spanish-speaking men driving around in a car loaded with guns.
Depazo was driving, with José Miguel in the front passenger seat and the other Battle brothers in the back. They were on the hunt for whatever they might find, preferably someone from Palulu’s crew, or Palulu himself, in which case they would blast him to smithereens.
On Palisades Avenue,
they were suddenly surrounded by cop cars with lights flashing. Two cops from the patrol car in front were the first to get out and approach the Buick. One of the cops, Patrolman Diego Mella, a Cuban émigré, approached on the driver’s side. His partner approached the vehicle on José Miguel’s side and opened the door. The first thing he saw was a shotgun wrapped in a blanket between Battle’s legs. “He’s got a gun,” he called immediately.
The two cops pulled out their weapons. “Out of the car with your hands in the air,” shouted Officer Mella.
The Battles and Depazo piled out of the vehicle. They were all searched. In addition to the shotgun, José Miguel was carrying a .38-caliber Colt revolver and also a 9mm Luger automatic. Aldo Battle was carrying a .38-caliber revolver and extra shells for the shotgun. The driver, Depazo, was carrying a .38, fully loaded with five rounds. In the back of the Buick, on the floor, was a fully loaded .380 automatic pistol.
“What are you dong with all these weapons?” asked Officer Mella.
“I can explain,” said Battle. “They’re not ours. Somebody dropped them and we picked them up.”
At this point, from the police vehicle in the rear, a sergeant approached. His name was John Messina, and he was the supervisor at the scene.
As soon as Battle saw the sergeant, he said, “Messina, it’s me.” And then, nodding toward the arresting officers, he asked, “What is this?”
Messina looked at José Miguel, then looked at the patrolmen and said, “I know this man.”
Mella said to Messina, “We confiscated a small arsenal from these men.”
Messina looked at the assortment of guns. He seemed to be thinking, assessing the situation. He said to Mella, “All right. Take them back to the station and we’ll sort this out.”
Battle and the others were cuffed. José Miguel was put in the back of Patrolman Mella’s car. As they were driving to the police station house, Battle became chatty in the backseat. At first he spoke in English, but when he determined from Mella’s accent that he was a Cuban, he switched to Spanish.
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