The Greatest Gambling Story Ever Told Read online

  It was time to brainstorm. They needed a plan to collect the money. It was agreed that $1,000,000 in cash was too much cash to risk. Big Bernie wanted to stay with his plan and get a check cut to his Mexican attorney’s banking account. Big Bernie was still cash-flush from his Pick 6 score but did admit to Miami and Dino he had lost about $30,000 since then in the Santa Anita Pick 6 betting pools.

  All three men were angry that the track’s owner had broken the code.

  “You always pay your gambling debts first,” Miami told them. “I think this proves they are going out of business. If they didn’t pay us, then they didn’t pay maybe hundreds of other smaller bettors on Winning Colors. When this news gets out, that track will be toast. Nobody will ever go there and bet again.”

  “Nobody goes there now. Simulcasting is killing them from Del Mar,” said Big Bernie. “They probably don’t even care.”

  “I’m going back to get my money. Our money,” said Dino. “They can’t do this to honest, hard-working gamblers. I’ll sue them.”

  “Can you sue the cartel?” Miami asked. “We can’t go back there alone…not like yesterday. I don’t think taking an armored car works. If they are going to rob us…then they are going to rob us. I see only four scenarios: One: They pay us, and we go on our way. Two: They file bankruptcy in Mexico. Big Bernie, ask your Tijuana attorney about this. Three: They set us up with some local banditos…you know…not professional guys…they pay us…then just have some locals knock us off and split the money with them. Four: We are dealing with real cartel guys here…in which case we are dead. Period.”

  Amalia and Ava looked at the men. They were horrified. Ava said, “Maybe you can hire some off-duty Los Angeles cops or something to go with you.”

  “I have a guy who knows professional fighters,” said Dino. “I’ve never seen them, but my buddies go to their matches all the time. These guys like…they mix regular boxers with kickboxers and karate and shit.”

  “I heard those guys are badass. Remember when Muhammed Ali fought against some wrestler guy, and they fought to a draw…but Ali got really messed up?” said Big Bernie.

  “OK, Dino. Set them up.” Miami was serious. “Get three of them. My plan is for Dino and me to go in my car, and we hire these professional fighters to drive Dino’s Impala to help collect the money.”

  “No way you guys are going without me!” Big Bernie said as he jumped, nearly spilling his coffee over Amalia and Ava. “You guys stayed with me, and I’m going with you guys for sure. End of story.”

  Miami looked at Dino and said, “Big Bernie you shouldn’t risk your life on this. Man, you’re going to be rich, and should be done with all of this…forever.”

  “No. No way. It’s the three of us, and we are seeing this thing through together, man. All the way. I’m coming with you.”

  “OK, OK. You’re in…you crazy son of a bitch! I’m giving you a new nickname when this is over…Kick Ass Bernie.”

  “Don’t take the Impala, guys. It’s not working well,” added Dino.

  Miami had another idea. “I know a guy who works with me. He owes me. He has a four-door Camry. He’ll loan it to us, and I’ll drive my Z.”

  “Guys…I don’t like any of this,” Amalia said. “Can’t you just forget the whole thing? Dino, you told me you liked the races because the horses were so pretty…and now you’re gambling with cartel guys? I’m just a librarian, but I’m Mexican. You don’t understand what it’s like in Mexico. They run the place. They own the police and the politicians. Guys, please don’t go...it’s not worth the risk.”

  Amalia was now in tears.

  Later that day, Dino called Agua Caliente racetrack to find out the days and times when the cashiers’ windows were open. Dino didn’t want to alert them as to when they were coming back, but they planned to go Thursday morning at 9:00 a.m. It had dawned on Miami that maybe three tough fighters whom he’d never met were also a threat to their $250,000 windfall, but he just couldn’t go there now, and put the thought aside.

  May 12, 1988, Westwood, California, and Tijuana, Mexico

  Thursday arrived clear and hot. Big Bernie, Dino, and Miami waited at the café rear parking lot as planned. Miami arranged to borrow the Toyota from a fellow real estate broker he knew, who was more interested in drinking and taking drugs than caring about loaning his car to people who’d drive it into Mexico. They were waiting for the arrival of their bodyguards, the “fighters,” or, “The Muscle,” as they called them.

  Dino and Big Bernie were in a disagreement as to who had to make the day’s 10-hour drive with the professional fighters to and from Mexico.

  Miami told Big Bernie that having Dino drive would add three hours to the trip because he drove so damn slowly. Big Bernie agreed to pilot the mercenaries back and forth across the border. Miami was paying the three fighters $250 each for the trip.

  “I hope these big guys fit in the Camry.”

  To pass the time, Miami showed off his latest purchase—a small Motorola cell phone. It weighed less than four pounds and did not have to be connected to a battery pack for the first 45 minutes of calling. He gave Big Bernie the phone number but cautioned him it was three dollars per minute of talk time; “…so don’t call for fun.”

  The professional fighters showed up 20 minutes late. They arrived in a beat-up, lime colored, four-door Isuzu sedan, with the radio antenna hanging off the side of the right bumper. Three young Asian men got out and walked over to the men. The tallest of them was five-foot-five, and he towered over the other two. Miami looked at Dino and the laughter began. Big Bernie joined in laughing so hard he had to lean on Miami’s car to hold himself up.

  “Man!” said Miami, “we have nothing to worry about from those cartel guys now, huh Dino?”

  “The track will probably pay us extra, just so we don’t hurt them,” said Big Bernie, as they continued to laugh.

  The fighters saw the gamblers laughing at them. They didn’t like it. The tallest came forward and put his face six inches from Miami’s face. “You think we can’t fight, surfer dude? I kick your ass right now! Right here.”

  “Take it easy…take it easy, man. We were just expecting some…you know…big guys to scare people with. I’m sure you could kick my ass. I’m sorry…you just don’t look like bouncers.”

  “You pay us to go, or you pay us not to go. We don’t care,” said the tallest fighter.

  “Give me a minute to talk to my guys,” said Miami as he huddled up with Dino and Big Bernie away from the fighters. “Guys, what do we do? These three aren’t going to scare anyone from messing with us.”

  Dino said, “They are really dangerous guys, Miami. One of them…I don’t know which…I think the short one…is a Brazilian Tae Kwon Do champion, and undefeated.”

  “Which one is the short one? What weight class? Ninety pounds and under?” asked Big Bernie as he and Miami tried to stop laughing.

  Dino wasn’t laughing. “Miami…stop it…they are going to beat the shit out of us. We gotta pay them either way…it can’t hurt to take ‘em with us.”

  So, they put the three fighters in the gold Toyota with Big Bernie and headed south to Mexico to collect their cash.

  Several hours later, they were all in the car insurance office in San Diego to buy two policies—one for each car. This time, when Miami insured a six-year-old Toyota Camry for $200,000 for twenty-four hours of coverage, he was again met with skepticism.

  Miami had heard the fighters’ Asian real names but could not remember or pronounce them. He’d renamed them Jimmy, Choo, and Peanut. Over a lunch of cheeseburgers, they planned their ticket-cashing plan, and called it “Operation Gringo.”

  Operation Gringo went into effect the second they crossed the border into Mexico. Miami led the elite team into the Agua Caliente parking lot. It was all but empty on Thursday at 2:00 p.m. as they backed the two cars into front-exit-facing positions. Dino went to the Camry and brought out eight large green backpacks he’d purchased. He intended
to ask for $20 bill denominations this time.

  They left the cars and headed for a cashier window cage on the betting floor, and it was there that Dino asked where he could cash a “futures bet.” The cashier pointed down the hall to an office. They followed the directions to find what resembled a bank, with thick metal bars on the front two windows, and a half-dozen employees in the back office area.

  Big Bernie and Choo stayed outside in the main race book as lookouts. Dino brought out a $2,000 ticket now worth $100,000 and handed it to the clerk. “Please pay in US $20 bills…thank you.”

  The clerk held one finger up and left the cage. He came back in under one minute with an older man who said, “You need to come back into the office. El jefe wants to talk to you. Just you two.”

  Dino looked at Miami. “I don’t like it.”

  “What else can we do?”

  Dino and Miami followed the older man and two guards down a long hallway, deep into the old racetrack, then down two flights of stairs, and into a large dark room, with one light bulb dangling from the ceiling and an old, beat-up fan on a desk. The guards stayed out in the hallway. A large Mexican man was sitting at the table, smoking a fat cigar, and filling the small enclosure with heavy smoke. There were no chairs for the two gamblers to sit.

  “Buenos dias, señors. I see you are back with us again.”

  “We are good customers,” said Miami. “We are thinking of moving to Tijuana.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. Do you know who you are dealing with?”

  “We know who the fuck you are,” said Dino. “And we know about El Gato’s murder, and about who is the main suspect. We contacted the LA Times and told them we are coming today...and when and why...they even have copies of our betting tickets...if we disappear you are going to have a real international problem! The front page of the LA fucking Times...and the San Diego Tribune. Your boss is going to be on the fucking cover...so do whatever you want...but it will be the god damn end of this track and its owner.”

  The man looked at Miami. “Tell your little friend here to calm down...and don’t talk shit to me. How much money did you bet on her?”

  “Not much…like $5,000. Nothing for a huge place like yours.”

  “I think you bet much more. Do not lie to us. We want to be fair.”

  Dino walked right up to his face. “Then pay us! You took our money to win the Derby. We won. Stop this shit.”

  The man smiled at Miami, and said, “Tell your small friend to calm down. We are businessmen. We think that you bet over $25,000…so you won like $1,250,000. That’s a lot of money in Tijuana. We want you to be safe…we can give you the money in pesos.”

  “No fucking way!” Dino shouted. “We bet US dollars and you’re re going to pay us in US dollars.”

  Miami said, “Hell…we will probably lose most of it back this year. We only want to cash a $250,000 ticket today.”

  The man’s eyebrows went up. He nodded his head. He pursed his lips. “Only $250,000? You are some rich gringos if $250,000 is small to you.”

  “I told you, we are good customers.”

  The man left for over 20 minutes. Dino began to pace circles in the small office. Miami sat down in the man’s chair, reached for a fresh, big cigar laying on the table, and lit it, blowing the rich smoke into the dark room.

  “Don’t smoke those things, they are bad for you.”

  Miami began to laugh. “We are in a member of the Tijuana Cartel’s dungeon, trying to collect a quarter million from these guys...and you are worried about my smoking habits?... Man... where did you think of that LA Times story? Brilliant.”

  “It just came to me.”

  Finally, the man reappeared. “Señors, we never want to see you here again. Ever.”

  “Agreed,” said Miami.

  The older man led them back up the steps to the bank-like area, taking them to a teller’s countertop. Miami whispered to Dino, “I think he was worried we were going to collect on Bernie’s $1 million too.”

  At the teller’s window the older man used a key to open a drawer below their line of sight. The man pulled up dozens of stacks of $20 bills, bound by paper wrappers printed with the words “Agua Caliente.” The clerk next to the man asked in passable English, “Do you want to count each stack, señors?”

  Dino looked at Miami and Miami nodded his head side-to-side.

  “Señor, each stack has 100 bills. There are100 $100 bills per stack, or 2,000 US dollars.”

  The clerk then counted 50 stacks of $20 bundles. Dino fanned through each one briefly to confirm they were all filled with $20 bank notes. He filled one backpack with $40,000 in cash, and then another. He put $20,000 in a third backpack and let Miami get to the front of the window.

  Miami handed the clerk another $2,000 face value ticket. Under the watchful eye of the older man, the clerk counted out another 50 stacks of $20 bill bundles. Miami fanned them, then handed them to Dino who had now filled five backpacks, totaling $200,000.

  Miami handed him the third and final $1,000 face value ticket on Winning Colors.

  “Señors…we do not have more $20 bills. We will pay you in hundreds,” said the older man, “un momento, por favor.”

  Then he went out of their view. They waited for five minutes. Miami smelled the scent of fear and sweat coming from his own body. He whispered to Dino, “I want to get the money and get the hell out of here.”

  The man came back carrying a brown burlap bag with an Agua Caliente logo on the side. He set it down with a heavy thud in front of the young clerk. The clerk deftly counted out five stacks of $100 bills, each with 100 bills per stack, and handed them to Miami. He placed them in a sixth backpack.

  With this transaction over, Miami gave a $100 bill to each of the men. “Muchas gracias, gentlemen.” Then Miami saw a guard with a rifle over his shoulder standing outside the counting room and handed him a $100 bill. Miami motioned the guard to follow as he and Dino exited.

  Before they left the counting room, Miami stopped with Dino. They had agreed that Dino would pull a $100 bill out of each stack of bills from a $40,000 backpack, and he handed that backpack to Big Bernie as they re-entered the main race book.

  When they got there, Miami looked at Big Bernie and Dino, smiled, and said, “Come on guys…we have time for just one grande margarita.”

  Big Bernie smiled and nodded a “yes.” Dino scowled and threw three of the backpacks onto his shoulder and headed straight out the giant main archway toward the cars, with his two partners, plus Jimmy, Choo, and Peanut now fanned behind him, and the armed Mexican guard walking alongside Miami.

  They loaded into the cars. Big Bernie reached into the backpack Dino had given to him and gave each of the three fighters a $9,900 stack of money to hold and take across the border. Miami let Big Bernie drive the Camry out first from the Agua Caliente parking lot to head for the US border. He and Dino followed in the Z right behind.

  Everyone on Operation Gringo had been assigned where to look—front, to the roadway sides, and rear—for fear of an ambush on the way from the racetrack to the US border. They initially headed into light traffic but as they approached the international line, traffic was a near standstill. Miami’s eyes were darting to every car behind him, watching for a door to open, and men to come out of it. They were now stopped dead, as the traffic was not even inching toward the border. He noticed a van behind him that had also made the same last few turns and lane changes as the Z.

  “Shit. How can the traffic be like this on a Thursday afternoon?” Miami asked. Without waiting for an answer, he asked Dino another, more important question. “Are you sure you’re OK with not declaring the cash with customs?”

  “I’ve waited my entire life for this score, and I’m not declaring the money. We look pretty clean…like tourists. I’m sure they’ll wave us through. I’m way more worried about Big Bernie, Jimmy, Choo, and Peanut. They look sketchy even to me.”

  “What do you want to do if they don’t make it through
?”

  “We have to move on,” said Miami. “They’re behind us now and we can’t turn around once we have $200,000 clean and through the border. But…I know. We can’t leave Big Bernie. He is doing this for us…not for him.”

  The cars were now moving, crawling toward the border, and street vendors were coming up to them one after another. A man in his mid-twenties, with tattoos on his arms and neck, was at Dino’s window, motioning him to roll it down.

  “Don’t even look at him,” said Miami.

  The guy was persistent and stayed with them as they moved forward. Dino rolled down the window three inches. “Get the fuck out of here,” Dino yelled at him through the window crack.

  The guy left.

  A boy hopped onto the hood of the car and began to clean the front windshield. Miami reached through the window, gave him a $20 bill, and motioned him to go away. He smiled and ran off.

  Miami steered the car toward the “US Citizens Only” lanes, where no passports or IDs were required, unless tourists were stopped for further questioning. Miami saw what looked like a US Customs guard standing in between the rows of cars, wearing aviator glasses and a bulletproof vest, peering into cars and talking into his radio. As they pulled next to him, Miami waved to him…and the agent waved him by.

  “Big Bernie is two cars behind us, Miami.”

  The Z was in a line behind 20 cars at the customs booths. The “San Ysidro Port of Entry” sign could be seen overhead as the cars were now led into 17 lanes, with 17 sets of US Border Agents at each crossing point. Dozens of other agents were standing behind them with German Shepherds on leashes. Miami reached down and turned on a Mexican radio station at high volume.

  “Stop that shit! Quit fucking around!” said Dino as he turned the radio off.

  “Hey, I don’t look Mexican…I’ll be fine… You, I’m not so sure.” Miami was smiling and laughing as they came up to the customs agents. The two customs agents barely looked at the Z and waved them on through.

  Dino’s eyes—Miami’s too—were each looking into a side view mirror, focused on Big Bernie’s Camry two cars behind. Miami rolled into the right emergency lane to wait for the Camry to be waved through.