The Corporation

by T. J. English

  The bolita bankers met every week to discuss business, usually at the Colonial restaurant on St. Nicholas Avenue in Washington Heights. They drove in from Union City or Brooklyn or the Bronx, put together some tables in the back of the restaurant, and laid out a big spread of Cuban food: puerco asado, congrí, roast chicken, platanos, and, in memory of their time together in Spain, a steaming paella. They ate and they talked, almost always in Spanish.

  Isleño saw that José Miguel was restless. He knew that as long as his brother’s killer, Palulu, remained alive, El Padrino would remain a volcano on the verge of eruption. His concern was that the mere anticipation of that day, much less when it did happen, might impede the most essential aspect of their business: the daily flow of cash from the streets of the city into the counting rooms, and eventually the pockets of the reigning boliteros.

  JOSÉ MIGUEL HAD A NICKNAME FOR ERNESTICO. HE SOMETIMES REFERRED TO HIM AS “El Hijo Pródigo,” the Prodigal Son. Battle had snatched the young Cuban off the streets of Madrid and was in the process of grooming him to be a bolitero. At least that’s how Battle saw it. Most everyone else thought that El Padrino was grooming his young protégé to be a gangster.

  The other bolita bankers couldn’t figure it out. To them it seemed obvious that Ernesto Torres was a reprobate, a disaster waiting to happen. But Battle had some kind of strange loyalty toward the kid. One of the bankers compared Battle’s affection for Ernestico to the way he was with stray dogs. He picked them up off the street, gave them homes, and tried to restore their confidence. He had a soft spot for the lost and downtrodden. But Isleño Dávila saw it differently. To him, the more accurate comparison was the way Battle was with his fighting roosters. Battle loved cockfighting. He lavished great attention on the birds themselves, seeing to it that they were trained with loving care. When one of his trainers noted that a rooster had injured its leg while training and would have to be put to death, Battle said, “Is that how you would treat your own child? If your son injured his leg, you would have him killed?” Battle coddled his cocks; he held them in his arms and cooed loving sounds in their ears. Then he put them in the valla, the cockfighting arena, and watched as they sliced each other to death.

  In the spring of 1975, following the attempt by Ernesto and Chino Acuna to murder Loco Alvarez, the young hit man began to pester his boss about becoming a banker. There had been a long four-month period of torture sessions and killings, and Ernesto let it be known that he was tired of doing hits. He felt that he had earned the right to be elevated to a higher role in the organization.

  At first, Battle kept him at bay, telling him he would consider giving him a promotion only after Palulu was found and eliminated. But that was proving to be problematic. Palulu had an upcoming trial date for the murder of Pedro Battle. It made more sense for José Miguel to sit back and allow the trial to happen, then take out Palulu.

  Ernesto was insistent. And so on a night in May 1975, Battle brought Ernesto Torres along to the weekly meeting of bolita super-bankers at El Colonial restaurant on 181st Street in Washington Heights. They were all there: along with Battle and Isleño Dávila were Joaquin Deleon Sr.; Luis Morrero, who was related to Battle by marriage; a banker known as Mallin; Nene Marquez, who was married to Battle’s sister; and Abraham Rydz, the Polish Jew whom Battle first met at card games back in Havana. These were men who had mostly started at the bottom of the bolita chain and worked their way up to the level of superbanker. Also present was the owner of El Colonial, Luis DeVilliers Sr., a valuable banker with the organization, as was DeVilliers’s son, Luis Jr.

  Battle announced to the assembly that he was elevating Ernesto to the level of banker, and that each person at the meeting would kick in $2,000 to help him set up a bank. Battle was also asking that they kick over some of their weekly action to Ernesto so that he could get his business rolling.

  All of these men knew what Ernesto was all about—he was Battle’s gunman. They knew that Ernestico was probably not up to the challenge of being a banker, which required patience and brains and organizational skills. But they also knew that José Miguel probably had his reasons. Dávila went along with Battle’s proposition because he saw it as a way to get Ernestico off the street; maybe the killings and mayhem would now quiet down. Most of the others also went along with it, for various reasons. But there were two bankers who objected—Mallin and Luis Morrero.

  The most vociferously against it was Morrero. Said Battle’s uncle-in-law, “I work hard for my piece of the action. I don’t give it up to nobody.” At five feet five inches tall, Morrero was short, and he had a Napoleon complex. He made it clear that a banker of his stature should not have to subsidize a stray dog like Ernestico Torres.

  Nonetheless, it was a good night for Ernesto. Most of the bankers had shown support, and he was now free to set up his own bolita bank.

  In the early days and weeks, it went well. Ernesto set up an office in the apartment of his father, who had recently moved from Spain to New Jersey. Now that his son worked for the organization of Battle, the father was looking to take advantage of the situation. He had a part-time job working at an auto garage in Union City, but he also knew people with access to bettors and betting action throughout the metro area. He could help his son build up his business and also provide a physical space for him to organize his books.

  Ernestico now often traveled with ledgers and shoeboxes filled with envelopes of betting slips. This was the detritus of a bolitero, or, in Ernestico’s case, the manifestation of a street hoodlum trying to turn himself into a higher class of criminal.

  For Idalia Fernandez, watching all this, it was as if her man had gone from punk to reputable boss. El Padrino himself sometimes came to the house, usually with Chino Acuna (who was always armed), and patiently explained to Ernesto how to best organize his business. The main thing, Battle explained, was that he couldn’t do it all himself. Being a banker meant having a network of confederates whom he could trust.

  Ernesto did not have a great feel for the business, and in the first month he was to learn a hard lesson. A number of his clients bet winning numbers over a series of days, and he was literally wiped out. This was something that happened often with bankers just starting out; when a number of bettors won, or even just one bettor hit it big, the neophyte banker had not yet built up enough in reserves to cover the bets. Ernesto had gone broke. He came to Battle, hat in hand, and borrowed $25,000. A couple of weeks later, much of that money was gone. Ernestico had hit a streak of bad luck, and he was getting frustrated.

  At their apartment, Idalia watched; she wanted to help, but there was nothing she could do. She thought that El Padrino, in his efforts to help Ernesto, was patient. “Don’t worry,” he told Ernestico. “You’re going through a bad streak. It happens. But it will all even out eventually. You will make a profit. Don’t panic.”

  Battle had one warning for Ernesto—no sports betting. It was absolutely forbidden. For one thing, it was an entirely different racket. The Cubans had approval from the Mafia to conduct bolita, not sports betting. If Ernesto or anybody else started taking bets on baseball games, they would be stepping on somebody’s toes, stepping over the line, and there would be repercussions.

  Also, there was the fact that sports betting was the crack cocaine of gambling. People bet huge amounts on something like baseball. A banker could win big one day, then lose big the next three. It was a crazy high-wire act that had nothing to do with bolita; any bolitero with half a brain knew that.

  Battle had heard that Ernestico was working a sports book. He asked him flat out, “Are you taking baseball bets?”

  “Hell, no,” said Ernestico. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Later that night, José Miguel sat down with Idalia at the kitchen table. She was impressed that he was talking with her, showing respect. He had a message to deliver: “Listen to me, your man, Ernestico, has the heart of a lion. But sometimes he lacks confidence. I’m telling you, he cannot make sports book. It is again
st the rules. He will get us all killed. You understand? I’m telling you so that you know. And so that you will talk sense to him. If he takes baseball bets, or bets on baseball, he’s going to get himself—and you—into a lot of trouble.”

  After that, Ernesto hit another bad streak. Soon he was another $20,000 in the hole. Battle was losing patience. He heard that Ernestico had not yet paid a $5,000 win to one of his customers. He also heard that Ernestico was not only taking baseball bets, but that he had placed a large wager himself on a game and lost big.

  One night, Battle, with Julio Acuna at his side, came to the house. Idalia could see that he was mad. El Padrino shouted at Ernestico, “What’s the matter with you? The money? I told you, don’t play. That means don’t bet on baseball. You lied to me.”

  Ernestico did not admit any wrongdoing. “Well, forget about it,” he said. “I don’t want to be a banker anyway. This is not for me. I’m not making any money at it.”

  “It’s true you are no banker,” said Battle. He told Ernesto that he was removing him from the position, demoting him back to being a hit man for the organization.

  Later that night, at the kitchen table, Ernestico told Idalia, “Fuck El Gordo. I don’t need him. I’ve got my own plans.”

  EL PINCERO WORSHIPPED ERNESTICO, THE PRODIGAL SON. ALL HIS LIFE, CHARLEY Hernandez had been small potatoes, a working-class hoodlum. He always carried around his small bag of lock-picking tools, because you never knew when a job might come your way. You had to be ready at all times.

  Charley was always ready, but still he struggled to make ends meet. He had four children at home with a common-law wife, an Italian American whom he called “the Americana.” Her name was Carol Negron. She could be tough on Charlie. Whenever he came home with a wad of cash, she took most of it for the household.

  Charley’s kids did not know exactly what their father did for a living, but they knew it was unconventional and possibly criminal. He was not around for days and weeks at a time, and sometimes when he did come home he had a bloody nose or a black eye and bruises. When they asked their father what he did for a living, he told them he was a tradesman. They lived in the projects, at 3901 Kennedy Boulevard in Union City. Where they lived was on the wrong side of the tracks, but that was hardly noticeable since Union City was a working-class town to begin with. The girls went to public schools, and their mother sometimes took them to mass on Sunday at St. Rocco’s Catholic Church.

  Charley was mostly an absentee father, but when he was home, he showered his daughters with love and affection. He sang songs to them in Spanish and told them stories of his Cuban homeland.

  “When will we get to visit Cuba?” the daughters asked.

  Charley was a sentimental man, and when he talked about Cuba, tears often came to his eyes. “We can’t go there now,” he would say. “There’s a bad man in charge there. Fidel Castro. A monster. But hopefully that will change soon. It is my dream to be able to take my girls there one day.”

  Carol, the mother, had no such dreams about Cuba. She was Italian American, born in New Jersey, and she raised the girls to be Americans. They did not speak Spanish around the house, only English. And when she took them with her to shop at the markets on Bergenline Avenue, she made sure they spoke English, even with the Cubans.

  When Charley first met the Prodigal Son at a bar on 48th Street in Union City, Ernesto had bragged about his relationship with José Miguel Battle. Charley knew how powerful Battle was; the rumor was that he controlled the police and the politicians in Hudson and Bergen counties, and in New York City he also had powerful people in his pocket. Charley had doubted that Ernestico really knew José Miguel until the day of Pedro Battle’s memorial service. Since then, Charley had been spending a lot of time with Ernesto and his hit man partner, Chino Acuna.

  It was Charley’s hope that he might become a numbers runner for the Battle organization. It was an entry-level position that paid $200 to $300 a week—steady cash, which was something Charley had never known in his life of crime.

  Seeing how frustrated his friend Ernestico was in his attempts to be a bolita banker, Charley had tried to help. He took bets and called them in to the office, but he found it to be boring. He was relieved when he heard that his friend would no longer be a banker. Maybe now they could get back to making money through robberies and other scams.

  Charley was not a killer. He had close to a dozen arrests on his rap sheet, but none were for crimes of violence. He was a softhearted guy, loyal to a fault, who in many ways was out of his league doing business with the likes of seasoned killers like Ernestico and Chino.

  One night, Ernestico came to Charley and said, “We got a job. El Gordo wants us to kill El Morro.”

  Charley knew El Morro, whom he thought of as a harmless operator in the neighborhood. “What did he do?” asked Charley.

  Ernestico explained how El Morro had been overheard in a bar talking trash, saying that Palulu was going to live to be one hundred years old, and that El Gordo was a maricón and a puto and that the Battle organization were a bunch of assholes.

  “You do this hit with us,” said Ernesto, “you can probably join the Battle organization if you want.”

  “How much is he paying?” asked Charley.

  “Five thousand.”

  Charley thought the fee was an insult, but he needed the money.

  “Well,” said Ernesto, “the least you can do is help us find the guy.”

  Over the next few nights, Ernesto and Charley and Chino drove around looking for El Morro, who must have known he was on a hit list, because he was nowhere to be seen.

  On the third night, Ernesto and Charley made arrangements to meet Chino at a White Castle on Bergenline Avenue. Chino never showed up. Ernestico was angry. Ever since his disastrous attempts to become a banker, he’d begun to feel that Chino had sided with Battle against him, and that he was secretly snitching on him to the boss behind his back. He didn’t say anything to Chino, preferring to mask his feelings behind a façade of brotherly friendship, but to Charley he referred to Chino as “the nigger.”

  The next morning, Charley heard the news on the street: El Morro had been murdered. He immediately headed to Ernestico’s house and told his friend.

  “Chino,” said Ernesto. “That nigger must have done the hit without us, to keep the money for himself.”

  Charley and Ernesto drove over to Chino’s place and confronted him. “You hit El Morro,” said Ernesto.

  “No I didn’t,” answered Chino. “You two must have hit El Morro.” The men all looked at one another.

  The relationship between Ernesto and Chino quickly deteriorated after that, though they pretended they were still friends. Chino spent much of his time on the phone trying to stir up Ernestico. “This guy is talking about you,” he would say.

  “Who’s talking about me?” asked Ernestico.

  Chino knew that Ernesto was insecure. Ernesto had recently bought a new car, a fancy Lincoln Mark IV, no doubt, to counterbalance any perception that he was suffering financially because he’d been demoted by the boss. Chino knew that he was showing off by buying the car. “Listen, Paquito is saying he copied your Mark IV and that he just bought one and now he’s Mr. Paquito.” Paquito was a neophyte banker with the organization.

  “Who?” asked Ernesto.

  “Paquito.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He bought a Mark IV. He said he’s the one. ‘The only one who can have a Mark IV here is me. I already took the Mark IV from this guy, and now I’m the only one that can have a Mark IV.’ ”

  “Is that what’s he’s saying, that maricón?”

  “I swear on my mother, it’s true . . . He said that since you want to kill him, he’ll play the cards to kill you too . . . He said he is Don Paquito, the banker.” This was a direct poke at Ernesto’s failed efforts as a banker.

  “Listen, brother,” said Ernesto, “the thing is, I don’t like to talk. Let time go by and things will become obv
ious, you understand me?”

  Then Chino got right to the point: “Paquito called El Gordo to tell him that you said that you were going to kill me and him.”

  “That’s a lie, brother. You know that I know where you live. If I’m going to hit you, I don’t have to say anything about what I’m going to do. Of course, that maricón is just trying to get us to fight.”

  “Of course. They say one thing first and then they say something else.”

  Ernesto could hear Chino breathing into the phone. “Those people can suck my prick,” said Ernesto.

  “Of course,” said Chino. “I know you are a guerrilla fighter.”

  “You know.”

  “We know,” said Chino.

  “You and I know each other well.”

  Ernesto and Chino called each other “brother” on the phone, but really they had become like two roosters, spurs raised and ready, circling each other in the arena.

  ONE MORNING IN JUNE, CHARLEY CAME TO ERNESTO AND IDALIA’S APARTMENT. IT WAS a humble place that Idalia had given a woman’s touch; it was decorated with numerous religious artifacts—a framed picture of La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre (Our Lady of Charity); an altar with beads and a candle to San Lazaro; a crucifix made of wood.

  Charley noticed that his friend could hardly contain a sly smile.

  “What’s up?” Charley asked.

  “You don’t know it yet,” said Ernestico, “but you are about to become a rich man.”

  Ernestico showed Charley a list he had made, ten names written out on a piece of a paper. “You know what this is?” he asked.

  Charley looked at the list. He recognized nearly every name. “These are all big bankers in the Battle organization.”

  “That’s right,” said Ernestico. “And you know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna abduct all these bankers who are millionaires, one by one, and if they don’t give us the money when we ask for a ransom, we’re going to start killing them. The ones that pay, they will not have any problems. The ones that don’t pay, we’ll kill them.”