As the bright Southern California sun rose and warmed the car through the open roof, they grew more awake and talkative. A gambler’s blood pressure always soars on the way to an event. The prospect of winning or losing hundreds, or in the case of Miami and Dino, thousands of dollars that day was adrenalizing, at least for Miami. Going to a different country to get the action down heightened Miami’s anticipation, but Dino appeared unfazed.
“Dino, do you know what the last three miles from border to the track have been called for over 70 years? The Road to Hell. Man, this is Tijuana. TJ! Be careful of these guys down here, Dino.”
“It’s the road to a huge score for us Miami…as long as they are still offering Winning Colors at odds of 50-1. I’m scared all right…scared they’ll lower her odds, or they won’t even take our bet on her to win the Derby.”
“I tapped out on the Lakers last night.”
“I watched. Great game! Kareem had 24…right? And they came from behind to win by one.”
“Yeah…but they were favored by eight. They are the world champions, for God’s sake. Against the Knicks…who suck…but last night they looked good. I hate Ewing.”
“I told you, I bet the Lakers’ futures again…to win back-to-back titles. I think they will. Do you have your money for the bet? I told you to save your money for this.”
“Kind of,” said Miami as his hands gripped the steering wheel. “I swear I am never making a bet that you don’t make with me again. I suck at picking winners.”
Four hours later, Miami parked on the US side of the border. The two friends walked across the International Bridge catwalk to enter Mexico. The crossing was swarming with both Americans and Mexicans, and as they always did in close quarter gambling environments, Dino and Miami put their wallets into the front pockets of their pants and kept their hands in front of their bodies to fend off pickpockets. Moments after they crossed into Mexico, taxi drivers besieged them and tried to herd them toward waiting cars. They chose a dark green taxi and told the driver, “Agua Caliente Racetrack.”
Miami was sweating in the hot cab, even on a January day, but he was afraid to open his window, as he’d seen people in the middle of the street holding chickens and all kinds of crazy goods, with hundreds of vendor carts lining the roads, hoping to attract the tourists walking and driving by.
“Why in the hell are they selling us live chickens in the road?” Miami asked Dino. “Like what the hell would we do? Take a few live chickens home to our houses for dinner tonight? ‘Hey honey, here’s a few live chickens for you. Fry ‘em up.’”
The vendors were selling everything from live iguanas to leather underwear. When the taxi stopped at a red light, vendors surrounded the car, swarming them while motioning them to roll down the windows and buy their wares. A young teenager climbed onto the hood of the taxi and started washing the front window before the taxi driver yelled an obscenity in Spanish at him, and he bolted away.
Miami looked at Dino who seemed at peace. Dino appeared blissful. Miami had seen this with Dino many times before, at California tracks like Santa Anita, Del Mar, and Hollywood Park, and in the Las Vegas mega hotels. Dino was in a hyper-focused gambling trance.
Both men were 30 years of age, but Dino was much shorter and heavier than Miami. He was wearing blue jeans, a blue golf shirt, and expensive New Balance running shoes. Miami doubted Dino had ever run a mile in his life. Dino always looked like he got dressed in a hurry. He could make an expensive suit look disheveled. Dino was a real estate appraiser for a commercial firm based in Los Angeles. He spent his mornings analyzing spread sheets and valuations, and afternoons pouring over horseracing data to uncover betting opportunities for his own bankroll.
As a commercial real estate broker, Miami worked early in the morning on the telephone with wealthy East Coast clients buying California income properties. This left him with free time in the California afternoons and on weekends. In early 1988, the average interest rate on a mortgage was 10.5 percent. The prime rate was 10 percent. Real estate deals were all dropping out because of the high interest rates. Miami was learning a new reality; gambling was fun when you didn’t feel the sting of the losses or need the wins. He had always made money in real estate before, but he had zero deals in escrow now.
The smell of burning trash filled their nostrils as the cab got closer to Agua Caliente. Tijuana, on a Sunday morning, was brimming with business and Miami noticed that the children working alongside their parents wore mostly clean clothes despite the squalor alongside the road. When the cab hit a pothole, Miami’s head bounced into the cab’s low roof. He turned to Dino and said, “Man, you are incredible. You take me to a third world country to bet on a race still five months away. Where the hell did I find you?”
At the Tijuana racetrack the two friends could gamble on future sporting events like the Kentucky Derby, other big national thoroughbred races, and major sporting events, up to 11 months before the events were decided. Dino had done research and was excited to find that the Agua Caliente racetrack’s future book gave much bigger odds than what could be gotten (legal or illegal) the day of the race or game from a Las Vegas bookmaker. The odds were much, much
