The Corporation

by T. J. English

  Marchena answered, “No way.”

  “Okay. Thirty-five thousand.”

  Marchena thought about it. Recently, he had learned that Battle had attempted to pay a bribe to the judge in the case, forcing Marchena’s lawyer to demand a change of judges. The lawyer was successful, but clearly Battle was going to play dirty. His legal fees were going to be substantial. Thirty-five thousand dollars sounded better than nothing.

  Nene explained the deal. “We’ll send you an airplane ticket. You fly from Lima to Miami. In Miami, we’re going to give you your money.”

  Marchena could think of no reason he needed to fly from Lima to Miami to receive his money, unless, of course, the Battle people intended to make him disappear. “You know what?” he said to Nene. “Forget about it. We go through with the case.”

  For Marchena, it was a matter of principle. But he had to admit, he was scared. He was taking on the Godfather.

  ANOTHER HIGH-LEVEL CASINO EMPLOYEE WHO WAS HAVING PROBLEMS WITH THE management was Chito Quandas, whose title was director of operations. Unlike Marchena, the Peruvian investors, and some of the others, Quandas had actually started out liking José Miguel Battle. Quandas lived in an apartment on the same floor as Battle, and he sometimes stopped by to meet with his boss. Once he got past the bodyguards into Battle’s inner sanctum, what he often encountered was Battle sitting in his underwear, or in a bathrobe, with a shotgun on his lap as he watched videotapes of one of the Godfather movies on the television.

  Everyone at the casino knew that Battle was obsessed with the Godfather movies. It was a running joke among the employees. Señor Walled thinks he is Don Corleone. Sometimes after watching scenes from these movies all morning or afternoon, Battle would come down to the casino floor talking as if he were doing an imitation of Brando as the Don.

  Not knowing the full extent of Battle’s criminal career, Quandas found it all charming in a certain way. Battle was playing a role. The problem was that in the movie the Don was a man of principle who eschewed narcotics and placed family values above business. For Battle, as his dream of a casino seemed to be heading down the drain of financial ruin, he became less like the Don and more like Sonny, the hotheaded son whose temper tantrums drove him to make intemperate miscalculations.

  Quandas knew that Battle was drinking a lot and using cocaine. Sometimes he witnessed Battle snorting coke while watching The Godfather, mouthing dialogue from the movie from memory. The director of operations was not about to tell Battle what he could or couldn’t do in his personal life, but when El Padrino started doing the white powder out in the open, Quandas realized he needed to say something about it.

  It was all on videotape. One day, a member of the security staff showed Quandas a tape, taken from one of the hotel’s security cameras, of Battle snorting coke with his bodyguards in a hotel hallway. Quandas called Battle into his suite and showed him the tape. Battle became enraged. He pulled the tape out of the video player and tried to destroy the machine. “You record me secretly without my permission!? I could have you killed.”

  The relationship between Battle and Quandas was never the same after that. Having your boss threatening to kill you tended to sour employer-employee relations. Plus, Quandas was aware of all the same improprieties as Marchena and the others—bank fraud, false invoices, pilferage by the owners, and, most notably, an inability to meet payroll.

  The casino owed Quandas over $100,000 in back salary. He brought it up at one of the shareholders’ weekly meetings and knew right away it was a mistake. From then on, he was on the receiving end of a campaign of intimidation that he believed was designed to either drive him crazy or force him to resign—probably both.

  One morning at 5 A.M., Quandas came back to his room after a long night on the casino floor to find in his bathroom the severed head of an animal—a lamb or a goat—and blood from the animal splattered around the bathroom. On another occasion he noticed a terrible smell in his room. He looked around to find out where it was coming from. In the ceiling he noticed that a small hole had been drilled and a clear liquid was dripping through the hole and onto the floor. He had no idea what the liquid was, but the odor was so bad that he had to move to a different room.

  The campaign of intimidation achieved its goal; Quandas wanted out. One afternoon, he summoned his courage and confronted Battle in his room. The Godfather was on the television, and Battle was high on cocaine and scotch whiskey.

  “Let’s settle our disagreement once and for all,” said Quandas to El Padrino. “Let’s reach a fair financial settlement, come to an agreement.”

  Battle was not in a reasonable state of mind. “No. I’m not agreeing to anything. I want you out of here.”

  “Yes,” said Quandas, “I’m going out of here. That’s what we both want. Now let’s agree to a settlement. I’m asking for twenty thousand dollars.”

  Battle became quiet and said, “I could probably have you killed for less than that.” Then he continued rattling on about how people were trying to take advantage of him. “I built this casino. Me. I’m the one who supplied the capital. And now everyone is trying to destroy it, to bleed it dry.”

  Quandas gave up. He approached the other owners and quietly reached a settlement. He would resign and agree not to sue the casino. In exchange, he received the $20,000 he asked for and was given a oneway ticket back to Aruba.

  HAROLD MARCHENA WAS STILL PURSUING HIS LAWSUIT. IT WAS CAUSING BATTLE AND his partners considerable consternation. One morning, Marchena received a call from Evelyn Runciman. He was ready to hang up, thinking she was about to launch into one of her profane tirades, but her voice was calm. She asked if Marchena could come by the office at the casino. She and her husband wanted to speak with him.

  Marchena agreed. As he prepared to go to the casino, he was feeling relieved. Maybe Battle had finally come to his senses. The lawsuit was costing them both time and money. Maybe Battle was finally ready to reach some sort of agreeable settlement.

  Marchena went to the office at the Casino Crillón. Battle was not there. In attendance were Evelyn and her stepfather, Valerio Cerron, who, after Chito Quandas had quit, was promoted from slot machine technician to managing director of the casino.

  Evelyn was seated at the desk. To Marchena, it was somewhat comical because she was hardly big enough to see over it. Cerron stood at her side like a diligent turkey vulture.

  Evelyn called Battle on the phone and handed the receiver to Marchena: “Here. Señor Walled wants to talk with you.”

  Marchena put the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he said. He was half expecting an apology, or at least some sensible conversation from Battle; instead what he got was this: “You listen to me, you fucking maricón. You think you’re smart? If Evelyn wanted to, she could open the desk drawer, take out a gun, and shoot you right now.”

  Marchena tried to speak, but he realized he was only stammering.

  “If you don’t leave Peru within the week, I’m going to have you eliminated. Do you understand? This is nothing for me. I’ll have you know that I already eliminated my first wife, Effugenia. That’s right. You remember her? She got on my bad side and now she’s gone. I will do the same with you. Drop your lawsuit. Get out of Peru. Otherwise I’m going to have you killed.”

  Marchena gathered his wits enough to say, “You know what? I’m going to go straight to the embassy, the Dutch embassy, and notify them. And I’m going to notify my lawyer. You can’t go around threatening people.”

  Battle had begun to respond—“You do that, you fucking . . .—but Marchena didn’t wait for him to finish; he handed the phone over to Evelyn. Then he left the office.

  In his car, Marchena couldn’t stop shaking. He was disturbed by the threat, obviously, but right away he wondered about the reference to Effugenia Reyes having been killed. He had not heard anything about that. When he got to his lawyer’s office, he immediately called Juan Solano Loo, the former accountant at the casino who had had an affair with Effugenia. Solano
was now living in hiding somewhere outside of Lima.

  Solano had not spoken with Effugenia in a while; he didn’t know anything about any murder. He gave Marchena her home phone number in Guatemala City.

  Marchena dialed the number. A man answered the phone and said, “Yes?”

  Marchena cleared his throat. “I would like to talk with Effugenia.”

  After a pause, the man said, “Who’s calling?”

  “A friend of hers from Lima, Peru. Why do you need to know?”

  The man said, “Because Effugenia is dead. She was killed earlier today.”

  Marchena was stunned. “Who is this?” he asked.

  “I’m with the police. I’m here investigating the crime.” Then the man asked, “Do you know José Miguel Battle?”

  He did not say Alfredo Walled. He said Battle. José Miguel Battle, Marchena knew, was Walled’s real name, though no one in Peru used that name for El Padrino.

  Marchena was dumbstruck. He held the phone for a few seconds, then he hung up.

  His attorney had been listening. He looked at his client, who had turned pale. “What is it?” he said.

  “That man said he was a policeman. He said that Effugenia is dead. She was murdered in her home in Guatemala earlier today.”

  The lawyer took Marchena straight to the Dutch embassy in downtown Lima. As a Dutch citizen, Marchena wanted to lodge a complaint that his life had been threatened by a man who called himself Alfredo Walled, though his real name was José Miguel Battle Sr. It was the first time that Battle’s actual name had been entered into any official document since he had arrived in Peru.

  EVER SINCE LEARNING THAT BATTLE WAS IN PERU, SHANKS AND HIS SQUAD HAD BEEN sniffing around for information. First, they had to verify what they read in the Spanish-language newspaper, that Battle owned a casino in Lima under the name of Alfredo Walled. They did so by contacting the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS), a division of the State Department that, among other things, enforces passport laws. An agent from DSS contacted the U.S. embassy in Lima. They were able to establish that, yes, Alfredo Walled had entered the country on a U.S. passport that, under the circumstances, was likely forged. In their investigation, they also learned something interesting about Battle. Though he had become eligible for citizenship back in the early 1960s when President Kennedy made a special allowance for Brigade 2506 veterans, Battle had never applied for it. Technically, he was not even a U.S. citizen.

  At the very least, the cops might have a case to make against Battle for passport fraud, which would be a federal charge. But to make that case, they had to have him in the United States. They had no jurisdiction in Peru. Some thought was given to devising a plot to lure Battle back to Miami.

  Meanwhile, Shanks got a call from an officer he had worked with years earlier. The officer had a friend he had known since grade school. The woman had over the years become friendly with certain people within the Battle family circle of influence. She was in a position to know and have heard certain things about Battle that others might not know. She was willing to talk.

  Shanks met the woman one day, at a café far away from the police station. The woman was nervous, but after a while she settled down and began to open up. She described some of the interpersonal dynamics of the Battle family, how Junior and Senior hardly spoke with one another; how the matriarch of the Battle family lived separate from El Zapotal.

  After a while, Shanks asked, “Why are you here? Why are you willing to talk to me like this?”

  “Effugenia Reyes,” said the woman.

  Shanks was familiar with the name. “Battle’s mistress, right? She lived with him at El Zapotal.”

  The woman nodded. “She was my best friend.”

  Shanks cocked his head. “Wait a minute, you said ‘was.’ What happened?”

  “You don’t know? She was brutally murdered.”

  This was the first time Shanks was hearing this information.

  The woman explained how Effugenia learned that Battle was having an affair in Lima. She felt betrayed and left Battle, returning first to Miami to gather her belongings before continuing on to Guatemala. She was living there when two men broke into her house and murdered her. The woman was certain José Miguel Battle was behind the murder. “That’s the kind of man he is,” she said. She was talking to Shanks because she hoped it might one day lead to some form of justice for Battle.

  Shanks told her that he would look into it. He asked the woman if they might meet again and on a semiregular basis. Since she was still in contact with people close to the Battle family, she could be his confidential informant.

  “You mean like Deep Throat?” she said, referencing the Watergate source that famously fed information to journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein.

  “Right,” said Shanks

  “So what’s my code name?”

  Shanks gave it some thought, but before he could say anything, she offered, “How about ‘Sexy Cubana’?”

  “Okay,” said Shanks. The common initials for a confidential informant was C.I. For her, he would use C.S., which was “Sexy Cubana” in reverse.

  Back at the office, Shanks told the other investigators. By now, he was working on loan to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and serving under Larry LaVecchio, who was now an assistant U.S. attorney (AUSA). La-Vecchio was intrigued by what he heard. He had Shanks call the U.S. embassy in Guatemala City; they called the Guatemalan National Police and learned that Effugenia Reyes had indeed been killed. The crime had taken place supposedly during what was ruled a home invasion robbery, though no money or valuables were taken from the residence. Effugenia was killed with a knife, her throat cut so violently that her head was almost completely severed from her body.

  LaVecchio called together the entire team of investigators, a group that included Shanks, Kenny Rosario, and four other detectives. They discussed their options. If Battle had indeed ordered this murder, it was going to be difficult to even investigate. They couldn’t charge Battle solely on what they had learned from Sexy Cubana. They didn’t know if the hit men were local killers, assassins from Peru, or from the United States. If they were from the United States, that would put the conspiracy within the jurisdiction of American law enforcement, but they were a long way away from knowing those details.

  “The fraudulent passport,” said LaVecchio. “That’s still our best bet for getting him kicked out of Peru and brought back here to face the music.”

  After the meeting was over, LaVecchio said to Shanks, “That’s a helluva source you got there. Mind telling me who she is?”

  “No can do,” said Shanks. “This woman is putting herself at great risk talking with me. I promised her no one would know her identity, not even my supervisor.”

  LaVecchio was annoyed; Shanks could see that. But Shanks knew he was within his rights. It was an unwritten rule about street informants. If they offered information under a cloak of secrecy, a promise from their cop overseer that their identity would not be divulged, that promise had to be honored. If it wasn’t, that was a betrayal, and then what difference was there between the criminals and the cops?

  SEPTEMBER 14, 1994, WAS BATTLE’S BIRTHDAY. HE WAS SIXTY- FIVE YEARS OLD. IN honor of this momentous occasion, he threw a birthday party for himself in the Sky Room on the top floor of the Crillón. But first he had a mariachi band come into the casino and serenade him in front of the entire staff. He had people open bottles of champagne and make sure all casino personnel had a glass. Battle announced, “I want everyone to know, you can go ahead and steal today. I stole the money myself. And it’s my birthday. So you can go ahead and do what you want.”

  He hoisted his glass and gave his signature salutation: “Let’s drink champagne and raise a toast to our enemies.”

  Everyone drank, but the atmosphere was not exactly convivial. Morale among the casino employees was not great, as paydays were often missed and managers were being fired on a regular basis. Attendance at the casino was down.

 
; The night of Battle’s birthday party, Hubert Dominico Salazar, a cashier at the casino, was told by a regular customer, “Your boss, I hear, is a very dangerous man. They say he had his former wife killed in Guatemala.”

  Salazar was one of the employees who had come from Aruba, a friend of both Harold Marchena and Chito Quandas. Already he was disturbed by the turmoil and firings; this was the final straw. He approached a manager and asked, “Is it true what they say about Walled?

  “What’s that?”

  “He had his ex-wife killed?”

  The manager shrugged. “I hear she was found with her head cut off.”

  The manager could see that Dominico was shaken. “Listen,” he said. “My advice is that you keep your mouth shut about these things. Don’t ask too many questions.”

  Dominico did ask more questions, and then he was fired. Not only that, he was told that he would not be paid the remaining money he was owed under the terms of his contract.

  Dominico requested a meeting with Battle. Years later, he remembered the incident: “I asked if I could meet him, and he came down. At first, he was very nice. He asked if I wanted something to eat. Then I asked him why I was being fired, that I did a good job training [the other cashiers]. And he said, ‘Well, I paid you for the training and I don’t want you there anymore.’ We got into an argument, and he said, ‘You can go to five, six, seven lawyers, I will not pay you to the end of the contract. And I advise you that you better leave or something bad might happen to you.’ ”

  As with others who had come from Aruba to work at the Crillón, Dominico made a hasty and unceremonious exit.

  For Battle, the road to fulfilling his dream of being a casino boss like Lansky and Trafficante had become a downward spiral. Left and right, he was threatening floor workers, managers, and bankers—nearly everyone with whom he was doing business. Even for someone who had frequently used thuggery in his life and business dealings, he had never been so out of control.

  The possibility that he had ordered the murder of Effugenia Reyes, a young woman whom most everyone at the casino had known while she was there, was a new level of depravity. Killing a woman is normally beyond the pale, even for a gangster. You don’t kill women and children. If it was true, not only was Battle acting in bad faith, but he had lost his soul.