Rodriguez shrugged and wondered if that was true. Clearly, Battle couldn’t be trusted in a card game. Rodriguez was not the first, nor would he be the last, to catch José Miguel cheating at cards. But it had seemed so obvious and lighthearted, as if Battle didn’t care if someone saw him stacking a deck or hiding a discarded card. It was all part of the camaraderie of playing the game.
Trio de Trés tucked José Miguel Battle’s business card into his wallet without thinking much about it.
Though he liked to play cards, and he did occasionally bet the number, Rodriguez was not a habitual bolitero. Born in Matanzas, Cuba, on August 30, 1934, he left the island in 1962 and arrived in Union City with his wife in the mid-1960s. He earned a living by working in a garment factory. The garment business was the primary industry in Union City; it was the main reason most Cubans had come there in the first place. The work was sporadic. Rodriguez did not have a full-time job. He worked when he could find it, and when he wasn’t working he hung out at neighborhood poker games or at one of the many Cuban bars and cafecitos in Union City or West New York.
One night Rodriguez was at a bar called El Brinque in Union City, shooting pool with a couple of strangers who had walked into the bar. He took turns playing eight-ball with the two shady-looking characters. They were playing for money. As Rodriguez racked up one victory after another, taking bill after bill from the losers, he began to get the sense that these hombres were not about to let him leave the bar with their money. Quite possibly his life was in danger.
Rodriguez noticed that he still had Battle’s business card in his wallet. He handed the card to someone he knew at the bar and said quietly, “Find a pay phone. Call this man. Tell him Trio de Trés is in trouble at El Brinque.”
“What if he asks who is calling?”
“Just do it.”
His friend called Battle. Within ten minutes, there he was, El Gordo, in a suit and tie, with two bodyguards. The men with whom Rodriguez had been playing billiards seemed to recognize Battle, and they backed off. Battle said, “Hey, chico, what are you doing here? I told you to go pick up that thing.”
Rodriguez recognized this as his cue to skedaddle, and so he did.
The next time Rodriguez saw Battle, he told him, “You may have saved my life.”
“I’m glad I could help,” said Battle. Then he asked Rodriguez if he’d like to work for his organization.
Carlos Rodriguez quit working in the garment business and became Battle’s confidant and errand runner for the next thirty years. On various FBI surveillances, he became a new face on the radar. He was seen driving around with Battle and others in his organization.
One day, Rodriguez was at his home in Union City. There was a knock at the door. His wife answered. He heard her talking to some men—in English, which was unusual.
Then his wife came to him and said, “The men with three letters are at the door.”
Rodriguez thought, F-B-I. Coño (damn).
He let the two agents into his home. They said, “We’re going to record everything that’s said here.”
Rodriguez didn’t know if that was legal, but he didn’t want it to appear that he was hiding anything.
They showed him a photo of José Miguel Battle. “Do you know this man?” they asked.
Rodriguez was pretty sure they must have been following him around. Why else would they be here?
“Yes,” he said.
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Yes, he is.”
The men became very serious. One of them asked, “Why is he a friend of yours?”
Without hesitation, Rodriguez said, “Because he’s a war hero.”
They asked him if he knew what Battle did for a living. Carlos said, “He owns a jewelry store on Bergenline Avenue.”
Then they asked Rodriguez if he knew three other people. One was Celin Valdivia, a politico–law enforcement liaison in Union City. The second they identified only as Rafaelito. And the third was Captain Frank Scarafile, a powerful figure in the Union City Police Department.
Said Rodriguez, “I know one and two, but not the captain.”
The FBI agents wanted to know if Battle was making payoffs to Captain Scarafile.
“I know nothing about that,” Carlos told them.
The agents finally left the house.
Rodriguez waited till later that night. He left the house and made various evasive maneuvers to ensure that he was not being followed. He met Battle at La Gran Via Restaurant on Bergenline Avenue and told him about the visit from the FBI agents.
Battle did not seem surprised, nor did he seem too worried. He told Carlos, “Gracias for bringing this information to me.” Then they ordered some food. Battle had what he usually had for breakfast, lunch, or dinner—harina and picadillo (cornmeal and ground beef). Years later, Trio de Trés would remember, “That man, he sure did like to eat.”
ON JULY 22, 1970, NEWARK U.S. ATTORNEY FREDERICK B. LACEY ANNOUNCED THE indictments of fourteen people, including Battle, Mujica, and José Miguel’s brothers Aldo and Hiram. Bench warrants were issued for all of the defendants.
José Miguel turned himself in at the police station in Union City and was taken to the federal courthouse in Newark to be arraigned. His friend Trio de Trés, Carlos Rodriguez, was there in a show of solidarity. Said Rodriguez, “I remember we were in the hallway, and there was a woman crying. She had been fined five hundred dollars for some matter, and she didn’t have the money. Battle reached into his wallet and took out five hundred. He gave her the money. The woman was stunned. So was I. Here was this man facing serious legal problems of his own, and still he stops to help this woman. He was very generous.”
Battle’s attorney was Maurice M. Krivit, a Jersey City criminal lawyer. Krivit cautioned Battle to keep his mouth shut. They stood before the judge, who read the charges: “The defendants herein did knowingly, willfully, and unlawfully combine, conspire, confederate, and agree together and with each other, and with diverse other persons whose names are to the Grand Jury unknown, to commit an offense against the laws of the United States . . . It was a part of said conspiracy that said defendants and co-conspirators would travel and cause others to travel in interstate commerce between Hudson County in the state and district of New Jersey and New York City in the state of New York, with intent to promote, manage, establish, carry on, and facilitate the promotion, management, establishment and carrying on of an illegal activity, said unlawful activity being a business enterprise involving gambling offenses.”
Various counts were read as they related to each individual defendant. It took some time. Eventually, bail was set for the lead defendant, Battle, at $50,000. José Miguel posted a surety bond for that amount and was released from custody.
The charges were substantial, but it could have been worse. Three months later, federal courts would enact the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO), a law aimed at criminal conspiracies that allowed for much steeper sentencing. Under RICO, Battle might have been facing thirty years; under the current laws his sentence would be more like three to six.
Even so, he had no intention of going to prison. He expected his lawyer to negotiate a deal that would involve perhaps a fine but no jail time.
Battle was out on bail and free to circulate in his world, but his business suffered because of the government’s case. FBI surveillances were still ongoing, and it had been revealed in court that the case would be based in part on informant testimony. That meant Battle’s Cuban Mafia had a rata—a rat—in their midst. Who was the rat?
Battle’s attorney filed a motion in court arguing that the government should be forced to reveal the name of their informant so defense lawyers could adequately prepare for trial. Prosecutors claimed that if they provided this person’s name, his life might be in danger. The judge sided with the government and dismissed the motion.
Meanwhile, Battle’s gambling operations suffered. El jefe, the boss, may have been feeling pressure
, but he had a way of keeping it bottled up until it exploded, usually in an act of violence.
Just such an event occurred in September 1970 in Jersey City. And it had to do with Battle’s son, with whom José Miguel had a difficult relationship.
José Miguel Battle Jr., whom everyone knew as Miguelito, had come to the United States at the age of nine. His first home was at Fort Benning, where he lived with his father and mother. They had then moved to Union City.
Miguelito was quiet as a child. As a teenager, he showed little interest in his father’s business—bolita—and seemed determined to go his own way. His primary interest was music; he became part of a band that played rock music like the Beatles with a Cuban flavor, what would later be identified by musicologists as “the Latin tinge.” He and his band-mates came up with the idea of holding block parties around Hudson County, mostly for teenagers like themselves. There would be food, nonalcoholic beverages, and live music. The events were popular and helped to give Miguelito a sense of identity and accomplishment, something he did with little or no involvement on the part of his father.
One afternoon, at a block party in Jersey City, Miguelito got into a fistfight with another kid. An acquaintance of Miguelito’s named Alejandro Lagos stepped in to break up the fight. At that moment, José Miguel Sr. arrived on the scene. He saw Alejandro with his arms around Miguelito and assumed he was the person Miguelito was fighting. Battle snapped. He pulled out a gun and began pistol-whipping Lagos, putting him in the hospital. Later that day, Senior was arrested by officers from the North Bergen Police Department, charged with aggravated assault, and released on his own recognizance.
It was a situation similar to when Battle had shot the guy at the barbershop a few years earlier. He had acted impulsively, created a problem for himself, and now he needed to find a way to make the problem disappear.
The day after the incident, Lagos was visited in his hospital room by four men who said they were there representing José Miguel Battle Sr. One of them was Rene Avila, a well-known figure in the community. Avila owned a Spanish-language newspaper called Avance and was active in community events and local political campaigns. Lagos was told by the visitors, “Listen, the man that hit you is El Padrino. He feels bad about what he did. He wants to make the charges go away.”
Lagos was told that he would be paid $3,000 and given a job in the organization if he dropped the charges. Lagos had some inquiries made on his behalf; he learned whom he was dealing with. He dropped the charges and, once he recovered from his injuries, went to work as a pickup man for the Battle organization.
El Padrino was fortunate. Since he was out on bail on federal gambling charges, an assault charge would certainly have muddied the waters. As it was, the gambling case was not going well. The judge overruled every pretrial motion put forth by defense lawyers. It appeared to Battle that he was being railroaded and would likely be sent to prison. He did not want to go to prison. Memories of the Isle of Pines were still fresh in his head. He would do almost anything to avoid that.
In February 1971, seven months after he had been indicted, Battle disappeared. He packed up with his wife and son, boarded a plane, and headed for Spain.
On February 16, FBI special agent Anthony Vaccarino, who had worked the Battle case from the beginning, notified the judge that Battle had not appeared for his latest court date. He had apparently skipped bail and left the country. A charge of unlawful flight to avoid arrest was levied against him, and a warrant was issued for his arrest.
THE LIGHT IN MADRID IS OFTEN SPECTACULAR. SINCE THE CITY WAS FIRST LAID OUT in the Middle Ages, the morning sun comes from the east and brightens its darkest corners. This was sometimes seen as a problem, as the city was designed as a series of fortresses, making it a place of refuge for some, but also a haven for scoundrels. It was in this ancient capital of Europe that José Miguel Battle would hunker down and try to figure out his future.
As it turned out, Battle and his family were not the only Cuban exiles in Spain. Angel Mujica had also skipped bail and fled to Madrid. The two men who had guarded the patio together at the Isle of Pines prison seemed to be inseparable.
Pedro Battle also wound up going to Madrid as an act of solidarity with his brother even though he wasn’t facing charges. In Spain’s capital, José Miguel would meet many other Cubans in flight from Castro’s Cuba, which every day was evolving more and more into the full-fledged communist disaster they had predicted.
Battle had a nice apartment in Madrid, at Calle Jaime Conquistador No. 48, in a residential area on the outskirts of the city. Since Spain did not have an extradition treaty with the United States, El Padrino was in no danger. He circulated openly in business and political circles and was seen on occasion socializing at the Venezuelan embassy.
Among his many Cuban friends who were in Madrid was Joaquin Deleon Sr., who had moved there only recently. Battle knew Deleon from Havana, where they had been cops together in the same police station. They had even been born on the same day, September 14.
Short and lean, like a long-distance runner, Deleon had come to New York and became a key banker in Battle’s bolita operation. He was based in upper Manhattan, in the neighborhood of Washington Heights, a key barrio where the brain trust of the Cuban Mafia often met in restaurants and bars to talk business.
Deleon was in Spain with his wife, whose uncle had been a colonel in the Cuban police, and his son Joaquin Jr., or Joaquinito, who was thirteen years old. Joaquinito was a godson of José Miguel, having been christened back in Havana, where he was born in 1957.
The younger Deleon was the quiet type, always observing and saying little. He was especially fascinated by his godfather, whom he felt had a charisma that made him a natural leader. Of Battle, Joaquinito remembered, “He could be loud, but he could also be quiet and intense. He had a way of looking at you and slightly tilting his head, assessing you . . . He would say to me, ‘You’re not going to say anything, right?’ And my dad would say, ‘Joaquinito never talks.’ ‘That’s what I like about this kid,’ Battle would say. We had a special connection because he was my godfather.”
Joaquin Jr. also got to know Battle’s son, Miguelito, who was a few years older. “He wasn’t like his father. He didn’t seem to have any interest in his father’s business, unlike me. I was into it. I watched everything and listened.” Miguelito was spoiled. He drove a red Grand Prix in Madrid and was known by all the doormen at the nightclubs.
Also present as part of Battle’s circle of friends and associates in Madrid was Humberto Dávila, an esteemed bolitero going back to Cuba in the 1940s and 1950s. Dávila was from a family of boliteros. When he arrived in New York in the early 1960s, he established a base of operation, mostly in Brooklyn, at the same time Battle was forging his alliance with the Italians.
Dávila and Battle could have seen themselves as competitors. Dávila had more knowledge of the bolita business than Battle, who was a Johnny-come-lately to the numbers world. Dávila made the business work at the retail level. He knew all of his customers and runners by name. He was not by nature a gangster, and preferred to run his business free of violence.
Dávila’s nickname was “Isleño,” which meant “the Islander.” He was built like a small island, five feet nine inches tall, and stout. Though he had dropped out of school after the sixth grade and was functionally illiterate, he was a genius with numbers and had recently pioneered a method of operation that would transform the bolita business. Rather than have numbers runners circulating in the community taking bets and collecting money, why not have a set location for people to place their bets and do business? Isleño saw the value in purchasing or renting commercial space and setting it up as a “numbers hole,” a location where people would come to do bolita business. There could be no narcotics or guns at the numbers hole; people had to know it was a safe location to place a bet.
Isleño knew that most gamblers were creatures of habit. Many bet the same number every day. And the idea of a set loc
ation to place a wager was part of creating a routine for gamblers that was as important to their compulsion as winning.
Unlike Battle and other bolita bankers in the New York area who invested their gambling proceeds in businesses such as bars, clubs—or, in Battle’s case, a jewelry store; a car wash in Washington Heights; and a botánica on 48th Street in Union City that sold candles, religious figurines, beads, and incense—Isleño was old school. For years he had been smuggling cash out of the United States and depositing it in banks in Spain. Earlier that year, on a flight to the Dominican Republic, he had been stopped at a New York airport carrying $408,000 in cash (equivalent to over $3 million today). Because he had not declared the cash at customs, the money was seized. Isleño wrote off the loss and continued on to Santo Domingo, where he secured a false passport and boarded a flight to Madrid, where he was now hiding out for a while.
Isleño Dávila was bolita royalty, but in Spain, Battle also established relationships with much shadier characters.
Ernesto “Ernestico” Torres had been born in Cuba and come directly to Spain in the late 1960s. In Madrid, he became friendly with Pedro Battle. It was Pedro who introduced Ernestico to his brother. At the time, Ernesto’s hair was neatly trimmed and schoolboyish, though he eventually let it grow long and maintained a wispy beard, earning him the nickname “Rasputin.” He had a feral intensity that José Miguel in his days as a vice cop would have recognized as the demeanor of a killer.
As it turned out, Battle knew Ernestico’s father, who had been a gangster and drug dealer in Havana. The father was also named Ernesto Torres, and by the time José Miguel Battle met him in the early 1950s, he was already something of a legendary figure. Born in Galicia, Spain, he had migrated with his mother and sister to Cuba in the 1920s. In his early teen years, he became a professional criminal. Before long, he was in trouble with the law and fled to the United States. He was imprisoned for a time in New York, where, he claimed, he trimmed the hair of Mafia boss Charles Luciano (Torres was a barber by trade).
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