Detective Rosario met Altuve at the downtown Miami correctional facility. Theirs was the usual tête-à-tête between cop and criminal facing charges. Rosario dangled a carrot, and Altuve dangled one right back. The bolitero said he might be willing to cooperate. He assured Rosario that he had enough information to sink José Miguel Battle.
“Like what?” said Rosario. “Give me a taste.”
“Well,” said Altuve, “like the time I helped him get away after a murder.” Altuve was referring to having driven Battle to the airport following the Ernestico Torres murder—but he would say no more. Before he would agree to cooperate, he wanted to see how his cocaine case unfolded.
Rosario reported back to Shanks and the other cops. They salivated at the idea of having a cooperating informant like Altuve.
Meanwhile, Shanks was having problems with his partner, Bert Perez. Since their trip together to New York City, Perez had become increasingly disenchanted with his duties at the Organized Crime Bureau. To Shanks, it seemed as though the young cop had come to OCB thinking he would become a deep undercover officer, like he had seen in the movies. Real-life investigative work was more circumscribed and involved patience more than anything else. Perez had not been gifted with patience, and his restless energy was causing problems. One day he used the office fire extinguisher to spray a veteran detective with a chemical retardant. It was meant as a joke, but the detective on the receiving end did not see it that way.
Three days after this incident, Shanks was looking for his junior partner, who owed him a written surveillance report. Perez was nowhere to be found. Shanks was having a bad day to begin with. He and his wife had separated that week, and he was still grieving the death of his uncle.
Shanks walked over to Perez’s desk to see if there was any sign of the report. As usual, on his partner’s desk was an assortment of notes scribbled on pieces of paper, but no report. It was then that Perez walked into the squad room. Shanks let him have it. “I’m tired of your half-assed paperwork. You have a report due and what do I find? Pieces of paper. Lack of organization. And no accountability.”
The other detectives in the squad and their supervisor, Sergeant Boyd, sat quietly.
Shanks crumpled up a handful of notes on Perez’s desk and said, “See this? This is how easily important intel can be lost.” As he dropped the papers in a wastebasket, he saw Perez coming at him, but it was too late to react.
Perez hit Shanks with a roundhouse right hook. Shanks staggered, then fired back. It wasn’t exactly a fair fight. Perez was ten years younger than Shanks and a dedicated weight lifter with a sturdy build. Shanks was someone who liked the occasional beer and rarely spent time in the gym, but he had a barrel chest and a strong jaw. For a few seconds they traded blows until Sergeant Boyd and others jumped in between them and broke it up.
Perez was sent home. Boyd pulled Shanks aside and said, “Look, I know I have to do something about Bert. He’s become a problem. I just want to warn you, I’ll have to report this incident upstairs. I’ll tell them exactly how it went down, but you know how it is.”
Shanks nodded. He knew that once Boyd reported the incident to his superiors, it was out of his hands.
Sure enough, a few hours later, Boyd returned to the squad room. He told Shanks to meet him out in the hallway, away from the other detectives.
“They’re going to transfer you both,” said Boyd.
Shanks was not happy. “And can you tell me why, when I didn’t start it and was only defending myself?”
Boyd frowned. “I think the boss is afraid of being branded anti-Hispanic.”
Shanks said nothing. He knew that in a police department whose majority and upper management was increasingly Hispanic, any mid-to upper-level manager being branded as antiblack, antifemale, or especially anti-Hispanic would see his career hit a dead end. Boyd was talking about the bosses, but Shanks knew that the sergeant was also a creature of the system. He was not going to put his neck on the line for David Shanks.
“I don’t like being chased off my own case,” said Shanks. “You’ll regret this. You’ve got a squad full of followers and sprinters, not long-distance runners. You’re going to need me again somewhere down the line.”
“I don’t disagree, Dave,” said Boyd. “But for now, you’re off the case.” It took a few days for it to sink in. Shanks had been working the Battle case for five years. Because of his dedication to the case, he had devoted countless extra hours, which contributed to the dissolution of his marriage. His life was in a downward spiral, not unlike the entire region of South Florida following its unprecedented hurricane. And now this.
To top it all off, he was assigned to uniformed patrol. He was put in a squad car, driving around the Kendall Division, where his career as a cop had begun. After twenty years on the force, it was like he was a rookie all over again.
BY NOVEMBER, PLANS FOR THE CASINO IN PERU WERE UNDER WAY. BATTLE, LUIS DeVilliers, and Nene Marquez made the five-and-a-half-hour flight from Miami to Lima and inaugurated a corporate entity they called Empresa de Inversiones Orientales. Notably, José Miguel did not use his real name when forming the company, which would oversee financing and management of the casino. It had been determined that, given Battle’s criminal record, using his name was simply not possible. It would have sunk the entire undertaking before it ever got off the ground. Rather than bow out, he determined that he would simply use a false name. From now on, in Peru he would be known as Alfredo Walled.
Already, the team of owners had scouted out the location. The casino would be located on the first floor of a hotel known as the Crillón. Located in a part of downtown Lima that was less than savory, the Crillón Hotel was nonetheless a popular spot. Originally built in 1947 and architecturally based on the famous Hôtel de Crillon in Paris, the establishment had become a destination for celebrities and politicos. Movie stars such as Greta Garbo, John Wayne, and Debbie Reynolds had stayed there, as had the Rolling Stones, who allegedly wrote the song “Let It Bleed” while staying at the Crillón in Lima.
In 1960, the hotel expanded from its original eight floors to twenty-two floors, with an impressive top-floor restaurant known as the Sky Room, which offered panoramic views of the city. By the late 1970s, the hotel had fallen on hard times and filed for bankruptcy. Consequently, the ownership was open to business opportunities such as a casino. It was thought that the casino could generate profits in its own right (the owners would lease space for the casino) and increase the occupancy rate of the hotel. It was the kind of proposition that businessmen, in a rush of capitalistic optimism, often refer to as “win-win.”
Located on the Pacific coast of South America, Peru was a Spanish-speaking country coming out from under decades of economic stagnation. Lima, the capital city, was a crossroads for South American commerce, with international banking, a currency that was traded on the New York Stock Exchange, and a new president, Alberto Fujimori, who had been elected in 1990 with a mandate to implement financial reforms.
There had never been a casino in Peru. Only recently, in 1991, had a law been passed making it legal for the government to bestow a gaming license to whoever was able to muster the financial backing for such a venture. Many felt that it was only appropriate that the first ever casino in Lima be at a location as renowned as the Hotel Crillón.
Three men made the venture possible—Felix Fefer, Wilfredo Chau, and Ricardo Chiang. These were the men who had first approached Luis DeVilliers in Miami. Ferer was a Peruvian-born businessman. Chau was an attorney who had in 1989 been appointed to the position of labor secretary in Peru, a job he held until July 1990, when his political party was voted out of power. Chiang was an engineer who currently held the post of general superintendent of immigration in the Peruvian government. All three of these men were politically well connected and, it was believed, in a strong position to handle any bureaucratic complications that might ensue in the launching and management of the business.
There was a meeting i
n Lima. Luis DeVilliers and his wife, along with Nene Marquez and his wife, traveled to Lima to strategize with the Peruvians. At a lavish dinner, they drank and discussed the possibilities; everyone was excited. Opening the first casino in Peru was historic. Their excitement was tempered somewhat by the fact that there was much work to do. There was no gaming equipment in Lima, so it would have to be shipped into the country from other locations. And recruiting and staffing the casino was another priority. Nene Marquez would be overseeing that; he would travel to Aruba, the Caribbean island where casino gambling had been in place since the 1950s. There he would recruit dealers, pit bosses, security personnel, midlevel managers, and more.
Now that the government license had been secured and the enterprise was under way, the Peruvians felt there was nothing much left for them to do. They could just sit back and collect their percentage of the profits. To their knowledge, DeVilliers and Nene Marquez were the sole investors on the American side. They had not been told anything about a man named Alfredo Walled.
IN LATE 1992, NENE MARQUEZ TRAVELED TO ARUBA. HE SPREAD THE WORD AMONG casino workers there that an exciting opportunity was opening up in Lima. A new casino. The word was that Marquez was offering something that the workers would not receive in Aruba—a percentage of the casino’s profits. It was a chance to get in on the ground floor.
The first and most important person that Marquez would meet was Harold Marchena, a manager at the Americana casino inside the hotel of the same name. Marchena had years of experience; he had worked his way up from dealer to supervisor to a manager of surveillance, pit boss, and casino operations manager. His knowledge of the daily operations of a casino was vast.
Marquez knew that if he could land a big fish like Harold Marchena, who was well known in Aruba, it might launch a stampede of other casino workers eager to come on board for this exciting new opportunity in Lima. There were eleven casinos in Aruba, with more experienced workers than anywhere outside of Las Vegas—the difference being that in Aruba a good number of the workers spoke Spanish.
Marquez and Marchena met at the Holiday Inn, where Marquez was staying. They discussed the plans for the casino. Marquez told Marchena that if he came in at this early stage, he would be a shareholder in the casino. Marchena was interested. Said Marquez, “I’m departing this afternoon at two, flying direct to Lima. Why don’t you come with me?”
Marchena laughed. “That’s impossible. I have a job here. Responsibilities. If I do accept your offer, I have to first notify my employers.”
Marquez told Marchena that he was going to send him two airplane tickets to Peru, for him and his wife. “You can visit for the weekend. Just to see the place, see if you like it or not.”
Marchena made the trip to Lima. He was impressed with the Crillón, which was a historic location in the city. He was introduced to the Peruvian shareholders and to Luis DeVilliers. After the weekend was over, he told the team of investors he was in.
The name of Alfred Walled or José Miguel Battle was never mentioned. Marchena had no idea that any such man was one of the shareholders.
One investor whom Marchena did meet was the brother of Nene Marquez. His name was Maurilio Marquez, though Marchena would come to know him mostly as “the Venezuelan.”
HIALEAH PARK WAS A GORGEOUS RACETRACK. WITH SWAYING PALM TREES, A BEAUTIfully landscaped track, and live flamingos that were allowed to lounge in a man-made lagoon and flutter around the grounds, it was evocative of a tropical paradise. Abraham Rydz often thought that even if he weren’t a committed gambler, he would still come to this track as often as possible for the sheer beauty of the place. He was there with his usual coterie of friends and hangers-on when one of them mentioned, “Hey, did you hear the latest about that casino in Peru?”
Rydz’s ear pricked up.
“What?” asked one of the others.
“Nene Marquez’s brother, Maurilio Marquez, he’s one of the owners.”
Rydz felt his heart stop. “What!?” he said. “You’re crazy.”
“I read it in the newspaper. They listed the owners. Luis DeVilliers, some Peruvians with connections in the government, and the Marquez brothers.”
Rydz began to sweat. How was such a thing possible? Battle Jr. had been told by Nene, in no uncertain terms, that his brother was not involved in any way.
Rydz left the track. He spoke to no one. He knew that the following day there was to be a birthday party at El Zapotal. Rydz had been invited. He didn’t even remember who the birthday party was for. But he would go to José Miguel’s house for the party and he would ask him and the others to tell him exactly what was going on.
The following day, he arrived at El Zapotal. He buzzed the outer gate of the property and was allowed to drive in and park. He knocked on the front door and was greeted by Effugenia Reyes, Battle’s mistress, who was now living with him at El Zapotal. Rydz entered. As soon as he saw Nene Marquez, he said, “I need to speak with José Miguel, you, and Luis. Somewhere private.”
They all went into a small room that Battle used as his office. “Is it true?” asked Rydz.
“Is what true?” said Battle.
“Is it true that you’re using Maurilio Marquez in the Crillón casino in Peru?”
Nene, Luis, and José Miguel were silent for a few seconds. Then Battle said, “Yes.”
Rydz felt as if he’d been hit over the head with a baseball bat. He looked at Nene Marquez. “You told Migue and me that you would not use your brother. You swore on your mother’s grave.”
Then Nene shrugged and said the words, in Spanish, that would ring in El Polaco’s ears for generations to come: “Lo hecho, hecho está (What is done, is done).”
Rydz took a few seconds to gather his thoughts, then he said, “For ten years now, Migue and me, we been working on this foundation of ours. We worked eighteen-hour days. You all know this. It was Migue’s dream, and mine, that one day we would have created a business that was legitimate. Using Maurilio was a big part of it, because he was a Venezuelan citizen and could make deposits without triggering an investigation by the IRS. Maurilio was a part of everything we did. His name is on all our documents. And now you’ve put us in tremendous jeopardy. For what? So you can play cards and roll the dice?”
Rydz was having a hard time understanding how this could have happened. To José Miguel, he said, “Your son devoted his whole life to this. To create something he could leave for his family, his kids, to see to it that everyone would be taken care of for years to come.”
Said Battle, “Listen, Polaco, there’s no reason Miguelito needs to know anything about this. We would rather you didn’t tell him.”
Rydz shook his head. “Listen, don’t let me out of this room. You’re going to have to kidnap me. Because the minute I leave this room, I’m going to tell Migue.”
They let Rydz go. From a pay phone, he called Battle Jr. and said, “We need to talk. It’s urgent.”
On the drive north to Key Biscayne, Rydz lit up one cigarette after another. When he was stressed, he chain-smoked. It crossed his mind that Battle had allowed this to happen out of jealousy. Even though it was José Miguel who had put Rydz together with Junior—saying to him in the prison visiting room, “Take care of my son while I’m away”— Battle was resentful that he and Junior had become so close. Rydz had become the father that Junior never had, and Battle couldn’t stand it. So now he was attempting to destroy it.
There was much that went unspoken between Rydz and Battle and, for that matter, all of the boliteros, who were old-school Cubans bound by codes of machismo. They did not talk about their feelings. But they did act on them. That was Battle, a man who would shoot himself in the foot out of pride.
When Rydz told Junior the news, his friend and partner was devastated. He didn’t say much, but Rydz could see it had rocked him to his core. They walked around their neighborhood in Key Biscayne, mulling over the implications of having their entire business structure linked to what they suspected was a doomed
enterprise far off in Peru.
“Listen,” said Battle Jr., “you need to go to Curaçao and to Europe right away. You need to close out all the accounts with Maurilio’s name attached. Liquidate everything. Then you create a new foundation using only your name.”
Rydz said, “You realize this will be costly. You’re talking about selling and buying stocks under the least desirable terms. We could lose as much as half a million dollars on each transaction.”
Battle’s voice became sad. “What choice do we have, my friend? Do it now, or maybe we lose everything.”
The very next day, Rydz got on a flight to Curaçao, to close out some of the offshore accounts, and then on to Switzerland. He stayed at a nice hotel in Zurich and spent the week with brokers and lawyers, selling off stock and closing out accounts, expunging the name of Maurilio Marquez from all of their documents. It was a brutal process that would shrink their overall holdings by 25 percent, but it had to be done.
On the way back to Miami, Rydz did something he rarely did—he drank on the airplane. He was trying to do something that people in the criminal life often have to do—forget the past.
IN JANUARY 1993, ROBERTO PARSONS WAS ARRESTED IN FRONT OF A FRIEND’S HOUSE in Hialeah. It was a relatively undramatic arrest. Even though the search for Parsons had reached from coast to coast and involved the FBI, DEA, and many local police departments, Parsons was, like so many criminals, a creature of habit. He was sitting in a pickup truck with his friend when he was surrounded by a SWAT team of lawmen that included agents from the FBI’s Violent Criminal Fugitive Apprehension Unit and detectives from the Metro-Dade Police Department. Parsons was handcuffed and taken into custody.
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