The Corporation
Page 18
Charley could hardly believe what he was hearing: they were going to be like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving it to themselves. It was dangerous, maybe even crazy, but also audacious in ways that crystallized why Charley admired Ernestico Torres as much as he did.
“It will be easy,” explained Ernestico. “We’ll walk up to a banker and ask him to borrow some money. If at this time he will not let us borrow the money, we kidnap him.”
It sounded too good to be true, but in fact, in their first effort, they approached Mallin, the banker who had objected to giving money to Ernesto back when El Padrino first announced that Ernesto was becoming a banker. They cornered him on a street in Washington Heights. Ernesto showed Mallin that he had a gun and said, “I need to borrow five thousand from you.”
Mallin looked at the young hoodlums. He said, “I don’t have five thousand, but I’ll give you two thousand.” He handed over the cash.
Later, they hit another guy on Ernestico’s list, someone that Charley didn’t know. Again, the guy forked over a couple thousand.
That night, Charley and Ernestico partied, bouncing around to different bars in Washington Heights and Union City to show that they were men of means. Charley said to Ernestico, “Jesus Christ, I never seen people give up money so easily, just by asking. You really got it made with these people. I ask them for fifty dollars, they don’t give it to me. You ask for five thousand and they give you two thousand. They afraid of you, they really afraid of you.”
Ernestico beamed with pride.
A week later, Charley and Ernestico were ready to check off another name on the list; this time it was Luis Morrero. Charley was concerned, because he knew that Morrero was some kind of relative of José Miguel Battle. This would be much riskier. But Ernestico assured him, “Don’t worry. I have Battle wrapped around my finger. I am the Prodigal Son. Besides, Battle hates these people because when Pedro got killed, they did nothing to help.”
Late one night in early August, Ernestico and Charley tracked down Morrero at a bar in Washington Heights. Ernestico told Charley, “Wait here. I’m gonna go in and talk to him.” Charley waited in the car.
Ernestico entered the bar. He saw Morrero sitting there, a short guy with his Napoleon complex. Big black mustache. Ernestico walked up to him and said, “I need five thousand dollars.”
Morrero looked at this kid, who he felt was nothing more than a thug. “You been asking me for money ever since I’ve known you. Who the hell are you? Why are you asking me for money? You never did shit for me.” He returned to his drink.
Ernestico looked at the guy. He wanted to kill him right there. But he was older now. Wiser. He was a smart gangster.
Ernestico returned to the car and said to Charley, “This is the one we’re going to hit. He’s good for fifty grand, at least. He’s probably got it in his house in New Jersey. Let’s follow him home.”
They waited till Morrero came out of the bar. The little fucker was drunk, probably shouldn’t have been driving, but he was. “Let’s snatch him right here,” said Charley.
“No,” said Ernestico. “Better we get him on the other side of the bridge.”
They followed Morrero in his car. It was obvious he was inebriated, his vehicle drifting across lanes of traffic. As he crossed the George Washington Bridge and exited into Union City, he at one point side-swiped a parked car.
“Look at this motherfucker,” said Charley. “Fucking borracho (drunk).”
Morrero stopped at a bodega and disappeared inside.
Charley and Ernesto agreed. Let’s take him now. Charley had a police badge that he could hang on a chain around his neck, and a set of handcuffs. He looked like a Hudson County detective. When Morrero came out of the deli, they pulled up hard and Charley popped out of the front seat: “Stop right there. Police. You hit a car back there.”
Charley cuffed one of Morrero’s hands and was getting ready to cuff the other, but suddenly Ernestico jumped out and grabbed Morrero, forcing him into the backseat of their car. When Morrero saw Ernestico, he knew what this was all about.
Morrero fell to the floor of the backseat. Charley was still trying to cuff his hands together when he said defiantly, “You got to kill me here, you piece of shit. You got to kill me right here.”
Ernestico said, “All right. I gonna kill you right here.”
Charlie heard Boom! and blood splattered on his face. Then again— Boom!
He pulled himself out of the car. There was Ernesto running fast down Kennedy Avenue. He was running away.
Charley wiped blood from his face with the sleeve of his coat. And then—what the fuck!—Morrero popped out of the backseat, bleeding from his face and his arm, handcuff dangling from his wrist, and ran off into traffic.
Charley jumped into the driver’s seat. The key was in the ignition, and the car was running. Charley floored it. He drove right by Morrero, drunk and bloody, running down the street. Ain’t this a fucking bitch! He drove around looking for Ernestico, couldn’t find him anywhere. So he drove over to Ernesto’s apartment in Cliffside Park, which was only a few minutes away. He rang the doorbell and Idalia answered. Without saying anything, she stepped aside so Charley could enter.
Ernestico was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a beer.
“Are you fucking crazy?” said Charley. “You shot this guy. He’s out there bleeding all over the street.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Ernestico.
“The gun. What did you do with the gun?”
“I dumped it right on Kennedy.”
“Oh my God. Fingerprints. They gonna find the gun. This guy Morrero gonna go straight to Battle. Battle’s gonna find out. He gonna come after us. We’re fucked!”
Ernestico was remarkably calm. “Charley, how many times I gotta tell you. Battle is on my side. He gonna be with me. I’m the Prodigal Son.”
Idalia said, “Charley, have a beer. Calm down. Ernestico knows what he’s doing.”
Charley looked at the two of them, dumbfounded. “Listen,” he said, “I can’t go home. I got daughters at home, you understand? I don’t want to put them at risk. Once I get settled somewhere else, I’ll contact you.”
Charley didn’t run very far. He had a girlfriend named Lydia Ramirez who lived on 175th Street in Manhattan. He stayed there. The next couple of days he scoured the newspapers looking for anything about the shooting of Luis Morrero. There was nothing. Which meant the guy had not been killed. That meant that at least Charley wasn’t facing a murder rap.
From friends in Union City, Charley learned that Morrero was out walking the streets, with a bandage on his face and his arm in a sling. Everywhere he went he had two bodyguards at his side. He was telling everybody exactly what happened and who did it—that fucking maricón, Ernesto Torres, and his sidekick Charley, El Pincero.
Hardly able to speak, and in great pain, Luis Morrero vowed to get revenge.
ERNESTICO TORRES CERTAINLY DID HAVE A KNACK FOR MAKING ENEMIES. SOMETIMES he could even turn a good situation into a bad one. Not long after the Morrero incident, Ernesto was approached by the wives of two very dangerous men, Tati and Monchi, who, along with Malagamba, comprised a hit squad associated with Omega 7. Tati and Monchi were in jail at the time, but before they were arrested, they had been involved in a $40,000 jewelry heist. Now that they were locked up, the wives were looking to fence the jewelry.
At an apartment in Washington Heights, Ernestico and a partner brought along $10,000 and a couple ounces of cocaine. They had a little party. Ernestico then had the two women engage in sex together, and then he joined in. He took photos of the orgy. When the women brought out the jewelry to be sold, Ernestico handcuffed them together, took the jewelry, and left with the $10,000.
Not only had Ernestico just ripped off the wives of two very bad hombres who were away in prison, but he had photos of the two women in compromising positions that he threatened to spread all over town if he wasn’t paid by Tati and Monchi.
Charley was scared. He told Ernestico as much when they spoke on the phone. Ernestico was not oblivious; he knew they were in danger. But he didn’t let it bother him.
A couple weeks after the Morrero incident, Charley for the first time felt secure enough to show his face in Union City. He was driving with Ernestico in the middle of the afternoon.
“Hey,” said Ernestico, “look, there’s El Gordo with his brother Richie” (as Sergio Ricardo Battle was sometimes known).
“Go the other way,” said Charley.
“No, I’m gonna go talk to him. I haven’t had a conversation with him since the thing with Morrero.”
Ernesto pulled over and parked. They got out and approached the Battle brothers.
“Well, well,” said José Miguel. “It’s the Little Godfather and his counselor.”
Ernesto asked, “So where do I stand with you?”
Said Battle, “Look, this thing with Morrero is serious. He’s angry. He has a contract out on both of you. I’m in the middle, and I can’t take sides.”
Ernestico tried to explain why they had snatched Morrero, but Battle didn’t want to hear it. “I’m just telling you,” said El Gordo, “he gave the contract to Malagamba, Tati, and Monchi. They driving around looking for you”—Battle pointed at Charley—“and you.”
Ernesto asked, “You know what they driving, what plate numbers?”
“I’ll see if I can get those for you,” answered Battle.
They parted ways. Charley was amazed that Battle had been so friendly. “Hey, I think we okay with this guy. Maybe he’s not looking to have us killed.”
Ernestico kept driving and said nothing. Truth was, he wasn’t sure whom he could trust.
Ernestico maintained his relationship with the boss. Their connection was deep, like father and son, with all the psychological layers that implied.
One afternoon, Ernestico called Battle on the phone. He secretly tape-recorded the conversation. What he didn’t know was that Battle had also begun taping certain friends and associates. The two men were taping each other.
“Hello, brother, how are you?” Ernestico asked.
Battle had just undergone a minor hernia operation. “They opened me up from the chest to the beginning near my prick. Two hernias.”
“You must be skinny,” said Ernestico.
“Yes, I lost some fat.”
When talking about anything business-related on the phone, the two men used code. Battle was referred to as Butin, or El Butin, and Ernesto as Rasputin, and they spoke of themselves in the third person.
“Listen,” said Battle, “I just learned, by means of some recent commentary, that Rasputin has another person who is putting up the apparatus on him.” This was Battle’s way of telling Ernesto/Rasputin that there was another contract on his life. “Rasputin must be super cautious. He must be cautious of everyone. Because everybody is after Rasputin.”
Ernesto defended himself, saying that Rasputin hadn’t done half the things he was being blamed for.
Said Battle, “Yeah, you know people are always talking and, you know, if you listen to them, you go crazy.”
“You go crazy. That is true, brother.”
When Battle mentioned that El Butin had an apparatus for Rasputin, Ernesto knew what that meant: a job. A hit for hire. Ernesto was excited; he needed the money.
“How is Rasputin feeling?” he asked. (How much do I get paid?)
“I believe the ink man set aside for him five lucas.” (You get paid five thousand dollars).
They agreed to meet the next day to talk about the details.
The next day, Ernesto awoke to go meet Battle. He kissed Idalia goodbye and headed out to the parking garage, where his turquoise Mark IV, as always, was looking majestic.
As he opened the driver’s side door, he heard a slight ping. A curious sound. A million thoughts whirled in his head, like the Wheel of Fortune, and then the needle stopped on one word: Bomb.
Ernesto started running. He was about thirty feet away when the car exploded. He was lifted off his feet and slammed against a concrete wall. His ears went numb.
Idalia was standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes when she heard an explosion. At first she wasn’t sure what it was, but then it occurred to her that it might have something to do with Ernesto. She ran out of the apartment, down the hallway toward the elevator. The elevator door opened and Ernesto, looking scuffed up and shaken, hurried out of the elevator. “Let’s go,” he said. “They’re trying to kill us.”
They gathered up their things. Ernesto called Charley and said, “They blew up my car. Idalia and me need a place to hide. We gotta come over there.”
“Coño. Motherfucker. Of course you can stay here.”
On the way out, Idalia looked toward Ernesto’s car. Not only was it destroyed, but the two cars on either side were also badly damaged.
Ernesto and Idalia crashed at the apartment of Lydia Ramirez, along with Charley. Times were tense. Was it El Padrino who was trying to kill them? Was it somebody Morrero had hired? Or was it Tati and Monchi getting revenge for Ernesto having had an orgy with their wives? It was hard to say.
Ernesto called Battle. He knew all about the car bombing; it had been in the local newspapers. Ernesto did not ask Battle if he did it, and Battle did not deny it, for to do so would have given credence to the supposition that he was ever a suspect to begin with. Instead, Battle said, “This is terrible, niño. We will find out who did this.” Meanwhile, he let Ernestico know that he was still offering him the contract to do a hit.
“Of course,” said Ernestico.
He received information about the hit later that day. It was a Cuban named José Morín Rodriguez, who had run afoul of Battle’s organization for some reason Ernesto didn’t care to know.
One thing about hiding out at the apartment in Washington Heights was that it put Ernesto a few steps closer to Morín, who owned a flower shop called Cuban Florists at 161st Street and Broadway.
On December 27, Ernestico went to do his hit.
Charley, having borrowed a friend’s car, was acting as getaway driver. Double-parked across the street, he waited for Ernesto as he disappeared into the flower shop. Within a few minutes, Charley heard gunfire. He saw Ernestico come running out of the shop, shouting, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” Ernesto had shot and killed Morín, but it seemed as though they knew he was coming.
Ernesto jumped into the backseat of the car. Charley was packing heat; he said, “Let me go get them. I’ll kill those motherfuckers.”
“No,” said Ernestico. “Can’t you see I’m hit? Get the fuck out of here.”
Ernestico was bleeding from his side. Charley put the car in gear and peeled away.
Back at Lydia’s apartment, Idalia tried to make the bleeding stop. Ernesto was jabbering, “It was an ambush. They were waiting for me. They knew I was coming. Somebody set me up.”
Ernesto did not want to go to the hospital. Lydia Ramirez knew a doctor who lived nearby. She called the man, who came over and gave Ernesto an injection of a powerful antibiotic so that his wound would not become infected.
It was Idalia who said, “Ernesto, we need to get out of New York. They’re gonna kill us here. We can go to Miami. We have friends there.”
Over the next couple days, they made arrangements for a place to stay in Miami with a friend of Ernestico’s. The wound wasn’t too bad. Ernestico was lucky; he had been shot in the side. The bullet had gone in the front and come out the back. It was mostly a flesh wound, but they had to wait for the bleeding to stop, clean it
, and wrap it up. Ernestico was in pain, but he would live.
Late one night, Charley drove Ernestico and Idalia to the train station. They had everything they owned in a knapsack.
“Hope you gonna be okay, compadrito,” said Ernesto.
“If things get too hot up here,” answered Charley, “who knows, I may join you.”
They were unable to embrace because of Ernesto’s gunshot wound.
The train drove through the night, down the East Coast. Ernesto and Idalia watched as the climate changed from the frigid Northeast to the mild conditions of the Carolinas and on into Florida. When they arrived in Miami, the sun was shining, and it was warm.
It was New Year’s Day 1976.
MIAMI IN THE MID-1970S WAS MOSTLY A SLEEPY TOWN. THE DOWNTOWN SKYLINE WAS unimpressive. The port was modest compared to other port cities in the Gulf and on the East Coast. Miami Beach was a haven for retired Jews, mostly from New York City, with few tourists or nightclubs. The city’s Cuban population was expanding at a rapid pace, and so Little Havana was a lively neighborhood, but the peak crime years in the city were a decade away. Since the days of Henry Flagler, Miami’s founding benefactor and booster, the place had been promoted as the Magic City. But in the mid-1970s, few would have viewed Miami as one of the nation’s glittering hot spots.
When David Shanks first became a police officer, the Miami police and the Dade County police, known as the Dade County Public Safety Department, were two separate entities. More and more, local police were handling cocaine cases, and occasionally violent crimes stemming from narcotics transactions gone bad. The annual homicide rate was climbing higher each year.
Shanks was a local boy, born and raised in Little Havana, within walking distance of the Orange Bowl football stadium where President Kennedy back in 1963 addressed surviving members of the 2506 Brigade. Shanks knew about Cuban culture; he grew up with the aroma of lechón asado wafting through the neighborhood. He had experienced the botánicas, where various accoutrements of the Santería religion are sold. He knew about bolita, how that was the community’s true religion, with pretty much every little old lady or recent émigré betting the number daily.