To the various Sicilian, Italian, and Irish Mob bosses in New York, Pompez was recognized as a valuable asset. Money was the common denominator, not racial enlightenment. A 1929 article in New York Age, a local newspaper, was headlined “The Spanish Menace in Harlem.” The article decried the arrival of Spanish-speaking immigrants from the Caribbean and cited gambling as a threat to the stability of the community. Pompez countered the negative publicity by becoming a legitimately successful businessman in other areas, particularly as the owner of the New York Cubans, a baseball team in the Negro League whose home stadium was in the nearby Manhattan neighborhood of Washington Heights.
The numbers operation financed by Pompez, which in turn was financed by one of the most prominent Mob bosses in the city, set a precedent for Cuban American racketeering in the United States.
José Miguel Battle would be following in the footsteps of Pompez, but still he would need the proper introductions. If Battle was going to operate in New Jersey, not to mention the highly competitive boroughs of New York City, he would be doing so in territory that was already spoken for by various factions within the Five Families. He could not go anywhere near the New York City area without first having someone of Trafficante’s stature make it happen.
“I could open some doors for you,” said Trafficante to Battle.
“You would do that for me?” replied José Miguel.
Trafficante set up some important meetings for Battle, and José Miguel headed north, where he had already established a home with his wife and kid in Union City.
The first meeting was with Sam DeCavalcante, known as “Sam the Plumber,” the powerful Mob boss who controlled gambling, loan-sharking, and racketeering in northern New Jersey. DeCavalcante claimed to have descended from an Italian royal family in Naples; he liked to have underlings refer to him as “the Count.” If Battle were to set up shop in Jersey, DeCavalcante would get a piece. Their meeting took place in Newark, the mobster’s home base.
Another important meeting took place in upper Manhattan, in the neighborhood of Spanish Harlem. This was the territory of Anthony “Fat Tony” Salerno, acting boss of the Genovese crime family. Fat Tony always had a cigar in his mouth, and he spoke the language of the streets, motherfucker this and cocksucker that (some of it captured in later years on FBI wiretaps). The meeting was at Patsy’s Restaurant on First Avenue and 117th Street. Trafficante also attended this meeting, traveling from Tampa, as he was a personal friend of Salerno’s. Another meeting was held with representatives of the Bonanno family in Brooklyn.
In all of these meetings, José Miguel was introduced as “Mike.” He was paraded around like a beauty pageant contestant who didn’t need to do much but sit there and look pretty. The mafiosi knew what bolita was all about, and they knew that, if properly organized, it was a license to print money. Hey, paisano, meet Mike Battle, the Cuban from New Jersey, the guy who’s gonna make us all rich by breathing new life into the Spanish lottery.
The Italians all liked Mike Battle. He was a tough guy who was conversant with the practices of the underworld. He spoke their language— that is, the language of black market capitalism. From now on, he would be un nostro amico, a friend of the family.
IT WAS GOING TO TAKE A LOT OF PEOPLE TO RUN A SUCCESSFUL BOLITA OPERATION IN the greater metropolitan area of New York and New Jersey. At the street level would be dozens of runners, people out there taking bets, writing them down, and bringing them back to various “offices” or calling them in over the phone. The offices were mostly cheap apartments turned into work areas, with a few tables, chairs, and a half dozen phones. Recording equipment was used to record each and every call, in case of disputes over transactions.
Then there were the accountants, those with a head for math, who maintained the all-important ledgers. The organization paid out a percentage of the money flow to hundreds of people. The various Mafia factions received their cut. The bankers—some of whom were mafiosi in the area and some Cubans back in Miami—also received a cut. Then there were payouts to various members of the organization, the street runners, bookkeepers, underbosses, and bosses, all the way up to Battle himself.
Money was constantly in motion, flowing in and out of the barely furnished apartments that served as counting rooms, and so there were those whose job it was to safeguard and transport the cash. In 1966, less than two years after Battle took over and expanded upon the business started by Angel Mujica, the organization was taking in between $30,000 and $60,000 a day. That money was often gathered in the smallest of denominations. Money was gathered in one of three main counting rooms, one in the Bronx and two in Manhattan. At the end of the day, the cash was placed in suitcases, and the suitcases were brought out to a caravan of cars, which were driven and protected by an assortment of armed men. The middle car was the money car, with the front and back cars serving as protection. The three vehicles drove through the Midtown Tunnel or over the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey, destined for Union City. The cortege was never disturbed, because the Battle organization had paid off cops in upper Manhattan and throughout Hudson County, New Jersey, the kind of payments that were designed to reach into the upper structures of law enforcement.
It was a vibrant, multilayered operation, based on a simple principle. There were a number of ways a person could wager, but the payout was the same—six hundred to one. Those odds were better than anything seen before in the area; the payout before had been four hundred or five hundred to one. Battle’s operation offered the best return. People flocked to his runners to place their bets.
The winning number was based on the total mutual handle from the racetrack, published each day in the morning newspapers on the sports page. This was the way it had always been. In the metropolitan area, there was the Brooklyn number and the New York number, based on daily results in those jurisdictions, with a person’s winning number determined by where they placed their bet. In order to make rapid payoffs, Battle’s organization did something different—they had spotters at the racetrack monitoring results as they came in. Thus they had that day’s track totals at the close of the day. If you bet with Battle’s organization, you didn’t have to wait around till the next day to find out the winning number when newspapers hit the newsstands. And, most important, if you hit the number, you got paid immediately, unlike with the Italians, where the payout was always on their terms and could take days.
Battle liked to reward hard workers. If you were a low-level runner who hustled, bringing in a lot of bets and money on a daily basis, you would be promoted to a midlevel banker. This way you had your own bank, which was cofinanced by a higher bank within the organization. You were now midlevel management; you had your own runners, your own little area of operation, and you were a big shot in your domain.
Word went out on the Cuban immigrant pipeline—the Battle organization was hiring. La bola en la calle (street gossip) spread from New Jersey all the way to Miami and even Havana. If you were someone the Battle brothers already knew, you were in a good position to secure a role in the operation. If you were a veteran of the 2506 Brigade, like José Miguel and Mujica and others, you were royalty, likely to come into the business as a high-level banker. If you were blood, you were also in a privileged position. Most of the Battle brothers were involved, and eventually the man who married the Battle brothers’ only sister—Nene Marquez—became a high-level banker, as did Marquez’s father (Battle’s father-in-law), who became what was known as a superbanker, with the privilege of sitting back and stockpiling their proceeds while out on the streets the minions hustled for a living.
In the mid- to late 1960s, Battle’s organization was usually referred to as “the Cuban Mafia.” This was partly in recognition of the group’s alliance with the Italians—the traditional Mob—and all the muscle that implied. Clearly, Battle’s operation was protected. It operated mostly out in the open. And, given that the Cuban Mafia was connected at the highest levels, there were few problems with robberies of mone
y couriers or attempts to muscle in on Battle’s turf. The word was out—you mess with the Cubans, you were taking on the entire Five Family structure.
Still, José Miguel knew that his entire business was based in large part on the reputation of the man at the top. He assumed the role of the Padrino, the Godfather, from the very beginning. Only in his late thirties at the time, he projected the image of a more mature man who conveyed leadership through his demeanor and gravitas rather than inspiring rhetoric or brilliant business strategies. It was a role he seemed destined to play and had been rehearsing ever since he’d first witnessed the likes of Santo and Meyer lording over the casinos and nightclubs in Havana. Partly that role required that the boss project an image of magnanimity and fairness; partly it had to do with his being tough.
Battle had a temper. Those who knew him well had seen that temper in action. Though he was generally friendly and calm, his anger could emerge suddenly, with ugly consequences.
One person who witnessed this was Jesús, the black market gun merchant who had first encountered José Miguel as a cop back in Havana. Battle had been impressed that Jesús did not rat on his partners, and it formed the basis of a mutual respect that proved to be long-lasting.
Like so many Cubans whose lives had been scattered far and wide by the upheaval of the revolution and what came after, Jesús and José Miguel had parted ways and then were reunited years later in the United States. In 1962, Jesús fled the Castro regime and became a small-time criminal in Miami. La bola in the city was that things were hopping up in New York and New Jersey. Though Jesús had never been to New York, he headed north and settled with his brother in an apartment on 135th Street and Broadway. Soon he hooked up with the Battle organization, working mostly in Manhattan, but he routinely hitched a ride or took a bus across the Hudson River to Union City.
One afternoon in December 1968, Jesús was in Tony’s Barbershop, located at 137 48th Street, half a block from Johnny’s Go Go Club. The barbershop was owned by Nene Carrero and had become something of a social club for members of Battle’s bolita organization. Wagers were made there, payments dropped off, and information passed back and forth.
That day, a local Cuban was sitting in a chair getting a haircut and a shave from the barber. Jesús was looking over a newspaper, checking out the previous day’s racing results. Along with the barber and his customer, three or four others were in the shop waiting for a haircut or just hanging out.
José Miguel Battle came into the shop. Jesús said hola to the boss. The others nodded a greeting.
The customer in the barber chair saw Battle and, incredibly, started “talking shit” about Battle’s wife. Battle had opened a jewelry store on Bergenline Avenue in the adjacent New Jersey town of West New York. The customer had done some business in the jewelry store and wasn’t happy about something.
“If you know what’s good for you,” said Battle to the hombre, “you’ll shut your fucking mouth right now.”
Apparently oblivious, the guy kept talking—loudly, so everyone in the place could hear him.
Jesús couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked at Battle, knowing that the guy in the barber chair was treading on thin ice.
Battle wasn’t even looking at the guy, but Jesús could see that his boss was steaming. The guy in the chair kept yakking.
Suddenly, Battle pulled out a snub-nosed .38-caliber handgun. He rushed over to the guy in the chair, stuck the gun under his chin, and pulled the trigger. Boom! The sound of the shot reverberated through the barbershop.
Fortunately for the guy, he jerked his head back at the moment the shot was fired, so the bullet did not go through his head. It entered at an angle, piercing his neck. There was blood everywhere.
Jesús, acting as an underling should, helped rush his boss out of the location before the police arrived.
In the days that followed, Battle realized that he’d created a problem for himself. The shooting victim told the cops exactly what happened, and on December 12, 1968, Battle was charged with aggravated assault with a firearm. It would be the first of many criminal charges filed against him over the following decades.
It was Jesús who helped resolve the problem. Many years later, he remembered how it occurred. “I went to the guy with ten thousand dollars in cash. The shot caused the guy to be paralyzed in one arm. I told him that El Gordo regretted what had happened. He wanted to make a payment—an offering—to make the charges go away. The guy wanted more money. I told him, no, it was ten thousand or nothing. He took the money. When the date for his court appearance came up, the guy didn’t show up. The case was dismissed.”
For Battle, it was a close call. Much like the hombre he shot, he had dodged a bullet. Some might say it had been a mistake, a stain on his reputation, but like so many things in the criminal world where violence was involved, it also had a reverse effect. The moral of the story was clear: Don’t mess with José Miguel Battle. He will not send others to do the dirty work for him. He will take matters into his own hands and shoot you in the face.
MEANWHILE, BACK IN MIAMI, SOME OF THE BATTLE BROTHERS WERE STAKING THEIR claim. Not so much with bolita, which in Miami was already under the control of a consortium of Cubans associated with Santo Trafficante, but through another racket on the rise: the importation and selling of cocaine.
Publicly, José Miguel Battle’s position was that he was against narcotics as a business. It was a dirty way to make money, with a high body count. He told his underlings that he didn’t want anyone dealing drugs—heroin, cocaine, or marijuana. How serious he was with this edict against narcotics is hard to determine, but what is known is that his brothers Gustavo and Pedro were active players in the Miami cocaine business.
Their benefactor was none other than the Man, Santo Trafficante, and their direct boss was Evaristo Garcia Sr., Santo’s primary under-boss in Florida’s growing Cuban underworld. Garcia had been the Mafia don’s number two man back in Havana. He’d co-owned a hotel with Trafficante and had been one of the key people to help line up women and entertainment for visiting “dignitaries,” including in 1957 a young senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy.
In the late 1960s, cocaine trafficking in Miami was not yet the megabusiness it would become, but it was substantial enough that there were turf wars and territorial disputes. Unlike bolita, where it was felt that there was enough activity to go around, cocaine at the time was in the hands of only a few operators, and the competition was fierce.
It was this competition that would engulf the Battle brothers in Miami and nearly bring about their immediate demise.
One local player in the city’s nascent cocaine underworld was a man named Hector Duarte Hernandez. His slight, almost gaunt physique was in contrast to his reputation, which was fearsome. Back in the 1950s, Duarte had been politically active in Cuba. He was a member of a revolutionary student federation aligned with the Auténtico Party, led by Carlos Prío Socarrás.
On the afternoon of March 13, 1957, Duarte had taken part in one of the most extraordinary events in the Cuban Revolution. He was one of a large group of student insurgents who attacked the presidential palace and made a kamikaze attempt to assassinate President Fulgencio Batista. With pistols, machine guns, and hand grenades they stormed the majestic palace, its broad cascade of steps making the approach to the building akin to climbing the steps of an ancient temple.
Batista’s people had been hearing rumors of an attack, so military personnel and police were nearby to repel the onslaught. But the fighting was fierce. There were over fifty student attackers and nearly one hundred soldiers. A palace guard opened fire on the students with a machine gun, mowing down more than a dozen. In the shootout, numerous guards and soldiers were also killed.
A group of student gunmen actually penetrated the perimeter and made their way into the building. There, in the massive interior lobby, another shootout took place, with more men on both sides being killed. President Batista, whose office was on the s
econd floor, heard the commotion and escaped out a back exit into a stairwell. Some of the attackers made it all the way to the president’s office before being shot dead.
Forty student rebels were killed that day, as well as ten soldiers and policemen. The steps of the palace were littered with dead bodies and splattered with blood. Though the primary purpose of the attack, to assassinate the president, had been unsuccessful, the number of students involved and the level of carnage that ensued shocked the country and would forever after be remembered as a seminal event in the Cuban Revolution.
Hector Duarte was one of only a handful of rebels who survived and escaped. For weeks and months afterward, Batista’s military police went on a rampage attempting to hunt down Duarte and the other survivors. People were tortured for information by the notorious SIM, Batista’s repressive secret police. Duarte hid out, protected by the urban underground. And he fought back. Duarte was believed to have been involved in the killing of at least two Havana cops in his years on the run.
Duarte was a revolutionary, but he was not a communist. The student underground had been in alliance with Castro’s 26th of July Movement, but when Castro came into power and revealed himself to be a communist, Duarte, like many others, felt betrayed. He fled Cuba and settled in Miami.
For those in Cuba who had been actively caught up in the revolution, living a life of guns, clandestine activities, and guerrilla warfare, adjusting to life afterward was not always easy. Duarte may have become involved in criminal activity because he had the skills to do so; he may also have needed to find a way to make a living. Either way, upon his arrival in Miami, he became a gangster and a narco peddler. A classified CIA dispatch from the chief of station in Miami described him as “a dangerous hoodlum.”
The Corporation Page 9
