The owners and the trainers know that the single racing question they will always be asked is, “Did you ever win the Derby?” Lukas had entered 12 other horses and had never won, despite winning nearly every other stakes race. Despite his leadership in the national earnings stats, his lack of success in the Derby bothered him.
Woody Stephens, trainer of Forty Niner, also bothered him. Woody was a Hall of Fame trainer and was at an age where he said whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He’d said to the press, “Winning Colors does not belong in the Derby and will not win the race.”
Lukas would not be bullied and responded to Woody’s comment: “I don’t expect Forty Niner to be able to handle the Derby distance.”
Their dislike of each other was real.
Back in Los Angeles, Miami conceded to Dino and agreed to go to Agua Caliente to watch the race on the Tijuana track’s television screens during the Kentucky Derby. If Winning Colors won, they’d cash the bet and get the hell out of Mexico fast and alive. They still couldn’t decide if they would declare their winnings at the border. They’d agreed to make the decision last minute on the way from the track back to the US Customs station.
The night before the Derby, Miami made what he thought was a good suggestion to Dino: “Let’s take two cars. If one of us gets stopped, we won’t lose all the money. Just half.”
“No way I’m driving around Tijuana with hundreds of thousands in cash on me in the Hotel Impala. That car is old and not dependable. Even more, I have a terrible sense of direction. I’ll never be able to keep up with you and I know you won’t wait for me. If I get lost, what am I supposed to do? Stop at a gas station? Are you nuts?”
Miami smiled. “You forgot to mention you drive like your grandmother, too. Can they confiscate my car if we don’t claim the cash at the border and get caught? I don’t want to lose that car, man. I love her. I’ve got a lot of history in that baby.”
They agreed to take Miami’s 300Z because it was faster, and Miami’s response was, “What smuggler would be brash enough to smuggle drugs back across the border in a red sports car, for Christ’s sake? They’ll see a blond California-looking guy driving a convertible and wave us right back into the good old USA!” Still smiling, Miami said, “Dino, I need you to dye your hair blond and learn how to talk like a surfer.”
Around eight the next morning, Miami was wearing his usual white, short-sleeved silk jacket when he left to pick up his friend. He found Dino in front of his Santa Monica apartment building holding a big white suitcase. It had a pink handle.
“What the fuck is that? It’ll never fit in my trunk.”
“It’s my mom’s. I told her to bring a suitcase and she brought hers, not my dad’s. What could I do? It was late last night, and we need one for the money, right?”
The suitcase barely fit into the car.
Now Miami was driving fast and being talkative about the day’s adventure. Dino was feeling sick to his stomach.
“Dino! Don’t worry, man! Look, two guys drive to a Tijuana racetrack in a red Z to bet on a filly to win the Kentucky Derby against 16 of the best male horses in the country and if she wins they collect 250 grand from suspected Mexican cartel members. Then they drive the money, like a bat out of hell, from the racetrack to an international border, where they don’t declare the money. Dino, what could possibly go wrong?”
Miami pulled off at a freeway exit south of San Diego to get some cheeseburgers and purchase car insurance for Mexico. Jimmy, the sales manager, was nervous about the fact that Miami wanted to insure the car for over $200,000.
“OK, Jimmy…say the Mexican federales confiscate my car. Will I be insured? How about if the US Customs guys seize my car and I am found not to have drugs? I want it in writing that if that happens I’m fully covered.”
Jimmy asked, “How many days will you be on vacation in Mexico?”
“Like five, maybe six hours.”
Insurance policy done and cheeseburgers consumed, Miami and Dino drove south. Dino had a map of Tijuana in his lap.
Their world changed the instant they were waved through the Mexican border. Miami said, “Apparently, few people sneak things into Mexico.”
The two gamblers kept driving into roundabouts with cars entering from five different entry streets, and the taxis were playing a game of chicken with all the other cars, and even with the trucks. They saw two near misses in one roundabout. Dino named them, “circulos de accidentes.” The trucks did not have mufflers, and each one was louder than a thunderstorm. Miami watched the road signs and exits knowing he would soon have to drive back through these streets. He worried about being chased by criminals at the same time, possibly in the dark.
It took 20 minutes to get from the border crossing to the Agua Caliente parking lot. Dino and Miami had planned to do a dry run practice drive from the track back to the border, but the traffic heading north was already too heavy. They scrapped that plan and Miami told Dino, “The hell with that…I need a drink.”
“Miami,” Dino said, pleading, “take it easy today. I need you at full power, mi amigo.”
They entered the race book about 12:30 p.m., still three hours before the Derby post time. Despite Miami’s request to leave it in the car, Dino wheeled in the pink handled
