Chapter 3
Cartel Trouble
Racetracks breed more rumors than horses. The bettors are afraid of secret information known only to the insiders on fast horses that they fear will beat their personal selections. Every track’s grooms, bartenders, and valet parking attendants have a hot tip that only they seem to be privy to. Track regulars call these “steam horses,” and some will bet double or triple their normal amount on questionable information, often given from a blue-collar worker.
Miami had once seen one of the best handicappers in the country, the famous “Professor” Gordon Jones, drop his own best bet of the day because some Las Vegas based guy called him on his cell phone with a supposed steam horse. This steam horse ran last in the race.
Dino, who toiled for hours each night viewing the horses’ past performances to find betting opportunities, wondered why anyone would trust a bartender or a car park attendant to get betting information. He always asked the information suppliers the same question, “What kind of car do you drive?” Dino figured if inside information was working so well for him he should have a new high-end model parked out front.
Miami and Dino were hearing rumors about other track regular bettors that had also made futures Derby bets on Winning Colors in Las Vegas and even at the Mexican track. The best source for track betting information was a man named Twenty Percent Tim who had a good gig working at Santa Anita and the other tracks in Southern California.
When a winning track ticket exceeds odds of 300-1, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) is suddenly a partner to the bettor on a winning ticket. That winning ticket requires cashiers to ask for the gambler’s social security number and other form of identification before cashing out a large payout. The IRS keeps 20 percent withholding of the proceeds, and the gambler must report this income on a tax return. The gambler can deduct documented betting losses against betting income, but few horseplayers bother to do the paperwork.
Twenty Percent Tim would stand around the cashiers’ windows after a long shot won a race, asking gamblers if they had a “signer,” meaning a ticket they had to sign for with an IRS form. If the gambler did have a signer ticket, Twenty Percent Tim would peel off hundreds or thousands of dollars out of pockets stuffed with greenbacks and pay cash on the spot for that gambler’s winning ticket—less 20 percent, of course. Bettors often don’t want to give out their personal information and seldom have their social security card for identification on them.
People who had so little income that they paid no taxes were friends of Twenty Percent Tim’s. He would get them to cash the winning betting tickets and give him back the tax refund. Dino had noticed that Twenty Percent Tim did drive a new Mercedes and wore an expensive suit to the track every day. Other than the practice was illegal, Twenty Percent Tim had a successful and thriving business on his hands.
After a day at Santa Anita, Dino, Miami, and Twenty Percent Tim were sitting in a bar near the track enjoying happy hour. Dino asked Twenty Percent Tim about Mexican futures betting at Agua Caliente racetrack, and he responded, “Great odds…if you get paid.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I heard the owner of the track is one of the richest men in Mexico.”
“First, that racetrack is in trouble and will go out of business soon. They have no horses there anymore because everyone is now satellite simulcasting races into their own local track, and they don’t have to cross the damn border to get some action down. Second, the Mexico track’s owner better be very damn rich. I know they already took one bet for $20,000 at 50-1 on your filly to win the Derby, and dozens of other bets like yours.”
Miami and Dino jumped out of their chairs to stand up next to Twenty Percent Tim. “Don’t fuck with us, Twenty Percent,” Miami told him while getting within inches of his face. “Who would bet $20,000 on her?” He looked Tim straight in the eye and told him, “I need to know who the big player is.”
“I would, but never in Mexico. Shit, they’ll kill you down there for 100 bucks. I know the guy that made the 20K bet and he thinks he is going to win $1,000,000 if your horse hits. I hear the owner of the racetrack is a cartel guy, too. I say no way they’ll pay this sucker. They’ll never find his body!”
Miami looked at Twenty Percent.
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“OK, don’t tell me, just direct me. I’m sure I know him already.”
“You do, for sure…think about who has had a big score recently.”
“Bernie…Big Bernie,” said Dino. “He hit a big Pick 6 at Hollywood Park in November, for $200,000 plus. I bet it’s him. He’s a big player and has the cash.”
Twenty Percent Tim was quiet but looked Dino right in the eye, held his gaze for five seconds, then nodded his head up and down before turning and walking away. Miami waited a few seconds, looked at Dino, and said, “Let me talk to him privately. Alone. Big Bernie is always asking me to take him out to the clubs after the races. He’s like 350 pounds now I would guess, maybe more. He wants me to introduce him to girls, but he thinks getting dressed up is putting on a new bowling shirt. I’ll have to take him out and get some booze into him.”
Dino sat down and was quiet. He was convinced that Winning Colors was the best horse in the likely Derby field. “I honestly wouldn’t change my selection for any other horse in the race,” he said to
