“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.—wit
h 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 Y
ankees 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.
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