Mario Masaveu, onetime bodyguard and now director of security for the casino, was one person who stayed with Battle through thick and thin. In Battle’s suite, on those occasions when the boss wasn’t occupied watching The Godfather I, II, or III, Masaveu would chat with the man he always referred to as Padrino.
In late 1994, an article about Battle appeared in a major newspaper in Lima. For the first time Alfredo Walled was identified publicly as José Miguel Battle, a notorious crime figure from New York and Miami. Battle had finally been outed, and Masaveu, meeting with Battle in his suite, expected that El Padrino would be upset. But he was not. Battle was in a sanguine mood. He told his security director details about his life that were not in the article, from his time with Brigade 2506 to his involvement in certain gangland-style killings in New York City. He told Masaveu that the reason he had come to Peru and opened the casino was that he had to get out of the United States. He was certain he would soon be arrested there and was living a kind of glorified life on the run.
For the first time, Masaveu saw Battle as a tragic figure, a perennial exile whose reputation as a Mob boss was not something he was ashamed of but instead cherished. Because at this point in his life, it was all he had.
BACK IN MIAMI, SHANKS AND HIS SQUAD WERE ATTEMPTING TO APPLY PRESSURE IN certain diplomatic circles to get Battle deported from Peru. They were aware of the article that had appeared in the Peruvian newspaper and sensed that this perhaps represented a shift in attitude toward this larger-than-life Cuban American who had made such a big splash with his Casino Crillón.
Two agents from the Diplomatic Security Service in Miami were assigned to the case. One of them, Robert O’Bannon, had worked in the embassy in Peru for many years. He had connections in the Peruvian National Police, who began looking into the case of Alfredo Walled. Once it was established that a false passport had been used, getting Battle deported should have been a mere formality. But Battle had his own connections among the military and governmental people he had lavished with complimentary chips and money at his casino.
It took five months, but in April 1995 it was announced that José Miguel Battle was being deported as an “undesirable alien.” But he was not put on a plane to the United States. Instead, he was able to fly to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he hunkered down and began plotting a way to get back into Peru.
In exile, Battle came to the conclusion that many of his enemies were behind the deportation. First on this list was Juan Solano Loo, Effugenia’s former boyfriend, who had returned to the casino as soon as Battle was banished from Peru. Reinstated as the casino’s accountant, Solano made the argument to the shareholders that Battle had become a major liability to the casino’s prospects of ever recouping its losses. He proposed that Battle’s shares be sold off to the highest bidder. Through his internal spies, Battle learned about this meeting and about Solano’s proposal. He was irate. Mostly, he blamed Luis DeViliers and Nene Marquez, his two closest associates at the Crillón, for even taking part in such a discussion.
From his hotel room in Buenos Aires, Battle stewed in his own toxic brew of bitterness and resentment. Every day he was on the phone with various contacts in Lima, plotting his return. Evelyn, his wife, and her stepfather, Velario Cerron, were sent as emissaries to see the deputy minister whom the casino had once treated to a private sex show featuring the Chin Chin Girls. It was time for the deputy minister to return the favor.
The man told Evelyn and her stepfather that it would be difficult. Battle’s case had now garnered international attention, with much pressure being applied at the highest levels of government. The implication was that not only would the deputy minister need to be compensated for his efforts, but he also would likely have to spread the money around. He required a payment of $250,000.
“No,” said Battle. It was a special level of ingratitude when an old man, a deputy minister, who has been given a sex show with strippers dancing over him while he lay on the floor, tried to take advantage of a friend in need. The price was too high. Battle would find his own way back into Peru.
Among the calls Battle made to Lima on a daily basis were those to Nene Marquez. His brother-in-law, for better or for worse, had become his first line of defense, both his confidant and whipping boy.
Over the previous year, Nene had had to do more than his share of cleaning up after José Miguel. Nene had watched Battle become more and more unhinged, drinking every day and using cocaine as if it were a condiment. Nene never stood up to him, neither publicly nor privately, but he had begun to have his doubts about El Padrino’s fitness to continue as an owner of the hotel. Now that Battle was in exile in Argentina, Nene expressed these doubts. Battle heard about this and had now added Nene to the list of betrayers who were out to screw him over.
Battle called Marquez. What he didn’t know was that Nene had recently begun taping his conversations with José Miguel. By now it was almost standard practice within the universe of the Corporation for people to be taping one another. Battle taped Ernestico; Ernestico taped Battle. Charley Hernandez taped Chino Acuna. A recording device was placed on all phones at the bolita offices, to record the bets. The cops had placed dozens of wiretaps on Corporation phone lines all over South Florida. Voices on top of voices were being recorded in the midst of various levels of collusion and betrayal.
As soon as Nene heard that it was Battle, he clicked on the recorder. Battle was in fine form, inebriated and possibly high on coke. He began speaking as if the conversation had already been under way for hours. “Why?” he said. “Why do they want what’s mine? Tell me why.”
“Who wants what’s yours?” said Nene. “Nobody wants what’s yours.”
Whenever they were on the phone, the boliteros spoke obliquely. There was always the possibility that cops could be listening. Marquez explained to his brother-in-law that he was guilty of nothing. It had not been his idea that Battle’s stake in the casino be divested. He had merely attended a meeting to hear what was being suggested.
Battle wasn’t having it. He boasted that at every turn, when money was needed to keep the venture afloat, he was the one who provided the cash. “Nene, when you guys haven’t had the money to bring, that’s when I sent it, Nene.”
“Okay, okay, I agree with that. I agree.”
“Listen to me, Nene. Because I haven’t stolen a penny. I’m not a thief.”
Now Marquez became emotional. Battle was accusing him of stealing from the casino. “I would never in my life say something like that to you. But now you’ve said that to me.”
“I’ve said that to you because you want to take what’s mine. My share.”
Marquez was being accused; he struggled to maintain his composure. “Listen, listen, let me tell you one thing. You’ve been handling everything for one year or whatever, I haven’t involved myself in anything. What you’ve wanted has always been done.”
Battle turned his anger to the subject of Luis DeVilliers. “But Nene, Luisito was negotiating, which I knew, with Fefer and the others. Luisito was negotiating while he was telling us stories.”
“Well, that’s possible. Look, I don’t care what Luis does. Luis can do whatever he wants.”
“But you back him up, Nene. I’m telling you, if you guys don’t take care of that problem, kill me. Kill me, because if you don’t I’m the one who’s going to kill.”
Marquez was startled to hear Battle speaking so openly on the phone. “All right, all right,” he said, trying to pacify his boss.
Said Battle, “I do things straightforward, Nene . . . I’m afraid of you guys now, of an attack from you guys.”
This annoyed Marquez. “Look, listen to me for a minute. I’m definitely not afraid of being killed. You can have it at your disposal whenever you want, you know?”
“Your life is not at my disposal, Nene . . . I’m not a traitor like you guys.”
“I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid at all.”
Battle finally got to the point of his call. �
��Call that faggot Solano, that sodomite . . .” He could barely contain his anger.
Nene interrupted. “I’m asking you a favor, listen to me. You’re not listening to me.”
Battle got quiet. “Tell me.”
“Okay, look, I’ll be there tomorrow. I’m going to make a decision for Luis, for me and for you, for the three of us . . . Now, you tell me what you want me to do, who’s going to be the boss, who’s going to conduct the orchestra, who’s going to do what you want. Just tell me that.”
“Remove Solano from there,” said Battle. “Valerio is director for me until I arrive.” He explained, “They’ve been able to get me out of there, but it’s not going to be forever. I’ll get in with another passport through somewhere else. And once inside I’m going to raise hell . . . So call Solano. I don’t want to call him because I don’t want him to record the threat that I can make to him. I won’t hold back . . . Damn. I’ll kill them and I’ll kill myself first. I’m willing to give my life for that, Nene. I’m not going to let you guys make fun of me, Nene.”
Nene groaned. This was the part where José Miguel started to feel sorry for himself. “Nobody wants to make fun of you or ruin your reputation. Nobody.”
Battle wasn’t listening. “Because unfortunately my heart breaks apart for saying this, Nene, but I’m an honest man. I’m going to die like that, Nene. What more could I want than to trust my very own brother, my brother for twenty years. What a bitter thing to swallow right now, Nene. The only thing that makes me happy is my wife. This woman I have who’s worth gold, Nene. Because, look, a young girl leaves her school behind, she leaves everything behind to follow her husband, huh? She said to me, ‘I’ll go with you, married or not married. I’ll die with you.’ She told me, ‘My sweet old man, I’ll die for you.’ ”
“All right,” said Nene. “Well, never in my life did I expect to hear this.”
“And, fuck, it breaks my heart that my very own brother, my best friend, to see him betray me, dammit. I’d rather die before having to see this, Nene. I’d rather die, Nene.”
Nene could hear Battle weeping over the phone. “All right, all right,” he said, trying to calm him down.
The conversation continued, with many emotional highs and lows. The crux was that Battle wanted Solano fired immediately, but there was a deeper context. Was Battle drunk, or was he losing his mind? Certainly he was wallowing in a deep funk. The only thing that snapped him out of it was when he chose to remind himself that he had the power. “I have friends, Nene. Don’t think because I’m here now in exile that I’m not going to have friends anymore . . . Because our family with problems or without problems is always a family.”
Nene almost smiled. This was Battle doing his Don Corleone imitation. “Well,” he said, “let me tell you something. You have a man here, you know, and no one has ever been able to prove to me otherwise.”
“I’m also a man, Nene. And let’s see if we’re ready to die. Let’s see if we’re both ready to die for the same cause.”
“Exactly.”
“If fate puts us against one another, may God have mercy on us.”
“Well, it’s not going to be because of me.”
“Because of me neither . . . Because I have the balls to impose my rights, I don’t want a war between you and me. I don’t want it, Nene. You’re the father of my grandchildren, my sister’s husband, Nene. And I love you a lot, Nene. Take care of things for me, brother.”
“I always take care of things.”
“Brother, take care of it.”
“Always, always.”
“Take care of it, my dear brother, take care of it.”
“Okay.”
It was like soothing a baby to sleep, Battle repeating “Take care of it, brother” like a mantra, and Nene saying, “I got it, everything’s fine.”
The conversation lasted forty minutes before the two men said goodbye.
BATTLE SNEAKED BACK INTO PERU. IT WASN’T DIFFICULT. HE FLEW FROM BUENOS Aires to La Paz, Bolivia, where he was met by Mario Masaveu and his other two personal bodyguards. Using a newly created false passport, he was driven across the border into Peru. He arrived in Lima early on a morning in late April. One of the first things he did was go to the Casino Crillón—early—before any of the managers or directors had arrived for the day. These men, he believed, were engaged in a campaign to screw him over and likely had played a role in his being exiled. They never thought he would get back into Lima. Well, he had a surprise for them.
Standing on the floor of the casino, cell phone in hand, he first called Luis DeVilliers. When DeVilliers answered, Battle said, “Luisito, good morning. You’ll never guess where I am.” He held the cell phone next to one of the slot machines, slipped in a token, and pulled the lever. The machine made its usual rattling, clanging, cacophonous sound—the unmistakable sound of a casino in operation. The massage was clear: Take that, maricónes. El Padrino is back!
Battle’s time of gloating was short-lived. As soon as the Peruvian government learned that he was back in the country, a court order was issued to have him apprehended and expelled. He hired a local attorney and fought the order in court. The lawyer put forth the claim that Battle, because he had married a Peruvian citizen, should be given the rights of a citizen. Lawyers for the government countered that since Battle had married Evelyn Runciman under a false name, that argument was not valid. So Battle quickly ran out and married Evelyn again, this time using his actual name, José Miguel Battle.
The government wasn’t swayed. Battle’s lawyer informed him that he was certainly going to receive an unfavorable ruling on his petition. In all likelihood, he would be deported, this time back to the United States.
Battle didn’t wait around. He and Evelyn Runciman, using false passports, hopped on a flight to the Caribbean island of Curaçao. He believed they could hide out there until he came up with a new strategy.
Battle was traveling under the name Franklin Pena Jr., and Evelyn under the name Elsa Montes. Immigration officials at Hato International Airport in Curaçao recognized that the two travelers were using fake passports. They were held in custody and their baggage searched. Inside Battle’s bag were various false identifications and his recent marriage license to Runciman. The immigration agents asked themselves, Who are these people? They contacted the local U.S. consulate, which was able to determine that it was Battle and Runciman. The two forged passports were seized, and the two offenders were put on a plane and sent back to Lima.
Police officials were waiting. Battle was immediately taken into custody. Evelyn, a Peruvian citizen, was released under her own recognizance.
The date was May 21, 1995. Battle was escorted onto a plane and flown back to the United States. Half thinking he might be arrested as soon as he arrived at Miami International Airport, he had arranged for his attorney to meet him there. He was not arrested, though he had reason to believe that the long arm of the law would be reaching out to embrace him sometime soon.
19
PRESIDENT IN EXILE
DAVID SHANKS AND HIS SQUAD WERE BUSY. THE ILLEGAL GAMBLING AND MONEY-laundering cases against the organizations of Raul Fernandez and Luis Bordon seemed to be never-ending. Gulf Liquors was still under surveillance. Shanks had compiled a dossier on both organizations that included close to one hundred names. What they needed now were potential witnesses. What followed was a scrupulous fishing expedition. Shanks and Boyd separated out the players who had criminal records or criminal matters currently pending in court. Those people were served with subpoenas. Shanks himself did the honors, with Boyd there to translate, if necessary.
They were usually brought in to the U.S. Attorney’s Office to be interviewed. Almost always, they would start by invoking their Fifth Amendment rights. Shanks explained, “Look, we are investigating your bosses for various crimes. You have not been charged—yet. In other words, we are offering you this opportunity as a witness. Fifth Amendment doesn’t apply.” Shanks would then show them what
is called a queen-for-a-day letter. The letter specified that under the agreement, the witness could not be charged with anything he revealed during the interview. He was free to tell the truth. If he lied, however, that was a different story.
Even with such a strong motive to be truthful, in Shanks’s experience, they always lied. That’s when the cops applied pressure.
“Okay,” Shanks would tell the potential witness, “all that you just told me is bullshit.” He would explain to the person how he knew it was a lie. “So now you’ve violated our agreement. What do you want me to do? Throw you in a cell with your boss on a racketeering charge? I’m not playing with you. I’ll give you one last chance. Let’s start all over from the beginning.”
It was through this process of cajoling and manipulating that the cops acquired useful information and began to assemble potential witnesses in their case against Fernandez and Bordon. Shanks was careful not to mention Battle’s name, because he noticed that when he did, people clammed up. It wasn’t loyalty that made them quiet; it was fear.
Even so, the investigators never lost sight of Battle. The gambling and money-laundering cases were seen as stepping-stones to their dream of a RICO case against the Corporation. That dream seemed to have taken a big step toward reality with the news that El Padrino was back in Miami.
Four days after Battle’s return, the cops set up two surveillances in South Miami, one at a cockfighting arena where they thought Battle might show up, and another at El Zapotal. Kenny Rosario and another detective were watching the house. In the early evening, they saw Battle pull up to El Zapotal in a car driven by José Aluart. The cops knew Aluart to be one of Battle’s drivers, bodyguards, and gofers in Miami. Aluart was five foot seven, with black hair, and he had a permanent kink in his neck that caused his head to be crooked to the right. His nickname among associates in the Corporation was “Cinco a las Seis,” Five Minutes to Six, a reference to the angle of his head.
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