“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
