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.
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