“Are you betting a lot more now since your score?”
“No. I’m betting less most days than before my score, because I know I have capital now to make big bets when I see something I like at good odds. I’m making fewer small bets and more big bets. Miami, I swear I’m not going to give this money back easy. Hey, tell me a track story of your own.”
Miami was feeling pretty lit after three drinks.
“OK. Back on July 7, 1977, that’s 7-7-77. Right? I’m at the track. The first race comes in…sure enough the number seven horse wins. The second race comes in. Yep, the number seven horse again. So we have a seven-seven daily double. The place is going crazy. We are all waiting for the seventh race of course.”
“So what happens in the seventh race?”
“The number seven horse is like 20-1 on the morning line, but the fans hammer him at the windows, betting him down to like the 2-1 favorite!”
“What happens?”
“Sure enough Bernie…he comes in seventh!”
The two men belly laughed for several minutes until Miami steered the conversation back to the Derby. “What do you know about the financial health of Agua Caliente? I hear they are going to go bankrupt. How can they pay us if they’re frickin’ broke? I’m also hearing some scary things about the owner of the track…that he is mixed up with the cartel down there. I am worried they’ll have us robbed or killed on the way from the track to the US border. If you hit your $1,000,000 on Winning Colors, how in the hell are you going to get that kind of serious money back into the country? And, Big Bernie, what about taxes?”
Big Bernie smiled. “That’s just it, Miami. I’m not bringing the money back.”
Miami looked at him like he was drunk—which he was. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Big Bernie leaned forward, his eyes got wide, and for a moment, Miami thought he was about to cry. “Miami,” he said, “you have always been a good friend to me. You treat me good, just like you treat everyone else. But look at me. I weigh almost 400 pounds. What jobs do I get in Los Angeles? Just phone sales jobs, selling loans, or bathroom appliances, or crap. Funny thing is I’m great at it, I’m always the top sales guy everywhere I’ve gone.”
“Man, that sucks.”
“I hate it. I don’t get girls. I’m just the fat guy.” He stopped talking and sat back in the dark booth. Miami could see he was about done talking for the evening, but somehow…it seemed as if he still wanted to tell him more.
“Big Bernie, man, I’m with you, I want to win on this filly, too. I’m worried about you, and about Dino, and about myself, too.”
Big Bernie paused. Then he sat up, leaned forward, and said, “Here’s my deal. I know a guy who works at the track’s race book. I trust him…I think. If Winning Colors wins, I’m going to put my money into the Agua Caliente race book betting account. They take really big bets there. Bigger than Vegas. I won’t leave the track with the money, at least for a few weeks, or two months tops. I figure they won’t kill me if I deposit the money with them. Shit…they probably figure I’ll just lose it back. Then I’ll have my Mexican attorney transfer the money to his legal trust account, or a Mexican real estate escrow account. Miami, I won’t lose it back! I’m going to buy a motel on the beach in Rosarito, 10 miles south of Tijuana. I’ve already picked it out. It’s so beautiful! You will love it. You and Dino can come down and party with me on the beach. Bring some girls. It’s like a one-hour drive south of the Del Mar racetrack.”
Big Bernie was smiling and open. His beefy arms were wide open, and he held his palms up. “Miami, if our filly wins the Derby, man I’m staying in Mexico. I’ll own my own motel right on the beach, and I’ll never have to work again. I’ll be known as ‘el jefe Bernie.’ No, I’ll be Don Bernie, you know, like in the Godfather movie…Don Corleone.”
By now, Miami was exhausted. He called a cab to get them both home. He didn’t want to say anything that would ruin Big Bernie’s dream. He now wanted Winning Colors to just stay healthy, and get into that Derby starting gate, not just for him and Dino, but even more for Big Bernie.
Chapter 8
Newspaper Execution
The morning of Wednesday, April 20, 1988, was cold and raining in Tijuana, Mexico. Hector Felix Miranda, known by his famous Zeta newspaper pen name, El Gato, awoke to get ready for his workday. In this city of great poverty, and great wealth, the bachelor El Gato followed an unwavering schedule. He woke, dressed, and had breakfast at the same café every morning. Often, he met with people during breakfast to learn new content for the gossip and news column he wrote, but his favorite subject was always Jorge Rhon.
As he got dressed, El Gato did not notice it, but he was being watched through binoculars. He also did not notice the black Trans Am sports car that was parked across the steep street. He donned his Members Only gray jacket, grabbed
