“Give me a minute to talk to my guys,” said Miami as he huddled up with Dino and Big Bernie away from the fighters. “Guys, what do we do? These three aren’t going to scare anyone from messing with us.”
Dino said, “They are really dangerous guys, Miami. One of them…I don’t know which…I think the short one…is a Brazilian Tae Kwon Do champion, and undefeated.”
“Which one is the short one? What weight class? Ninety pounds and under?” asked Big Bernie as he and Miami tried to stop laughing.
Dino wasn’t laughing. “Miami…stop it…they are going to beat the shit out of us. We gotta pay them either way…it can’t hurt to take ‘em with us.”
So, they put the three fighters in the gold Toyota with Big Bernie and headed south to Mexico to collect their cash.
Several hours later, they were all in the car insurance office in San Diego to buy two policies—one for each car. This time, when Miami insured a six-year-old Toyota Camry for $200,000 for twenty-four hours of coverage, he was again met with skepticism.
Miami had heard the fighters’ Asian real names but could not remember or pronounce them. He’d renamed them Jimmy, Choo, and Peanut. Over a lunch of cheeseburgers, they planned their ticket-cashing plan, and called it “Operation Gringo.”
Operation Gringo went into effect the second they crossed the border into Mexico. Miami led the elite team into the Agua Caliente parking lot. It was all but empty on Thursday at 2:00 p.m. as they backed the two cars into front-exit-facing positions. Dino went to the Camry and brought out eight large green backpacks he’d purchased. He intended to ask for $20 bill denominations this time.
They left the cars and headed for a cashier window cage on the betting floor, and it was there that Dino asked where he could cash a “futures bet.” The cashier pointed down the hall to an office. They followed the directions to find what resembled a bank, with thick metal bars on the front two windows, and a half-dozen employees in the back office area.
Big Bernie and Choo stayed outside in the main race book as lookouts. Dino brought out a $2,000 ticket now worth $100,000 and handed it to the clerk. “Please pay in US $20 bills…thank you.”
The clerk held one finger up and left the cage. He came back in under one minute with an older man who said, “You need to come back into the office. El jefe wants to talk to you. Just you two.”
Dino looked at Miami. “I don’t like it.”
“What else can we do?”
Dino and Miami followed the older man and two guards down a long hallway, deep into the old racetrack, then down two flights of stairs, and into a large dark room, with one light bulb dangling from the ceiling and an old, beat-up fan on a desk. The guards stayed out in the hallway. A large Mexican man was sitting at the table, smoking a fat cigar, and filling the small enclosure with heavy smoke. There were no chairs for the two gamblers to sit.
“Buenos dias, señors. I see you are back with us again.”
“We are good customers,” said Miami. “We are thinking of moving to Tijuana.”
“Don’t get smart with me. Do you know who you are dealing with?”
“We know who the fuck you are,” said Dino. “And we know about El Gato’s murder, and about who is the main suspect. We contacted the LA Times and told them we are coming today...and when and why...they even have copies of our betting tickets...if we disappear you are going to have a real international problem! The front page of the LA fucking Times...and the San Diego Tribune. Your boss is going to be on the fucking cover...so do whatever you want...but it will be the god damn end of this track and its owner.”
The man looked at Miami. “Tell your little friend here to calm down...and don’t talk shit to me. How much money did you bet on her?”
“Not much…like $5,000. Nothing for a huge place like yours.”
“I think you bet much more. Do not lie to us. We want to be fair.”
Dino walked right up to his face. “Then pay us! You took our money to win the Derby. We won. Stop this shit.”
The man smiled at Miami, and said, “Tell your small friend to calm down. We are businessmen. We think that you bet over $25,000…so you won like $1,250,000. That’s a lot of money in Tijuana. We want you to be safe…we can give you the money in pesos.”
“No fucking way!” Dino shouted. “We bet US dollars and you’re re going to pay us in US dollars.”
Miami said, “Hell…we will probably lose most of it back this year. We only want to cash a $250,000 ticket today.”
The man’s eyebrows went up. He nodded his head. He pursed his lips. “Only $250,000? You are some rich gringos if $250,000 is small to you.”
“I told you, we are good customers.”
The man left for over 20 minutes. Dino began to pace circles in the small office. Miami sat down in the man’s chair, reached for a fresh, big cigar laying on the table, and lit it, blowing the rich smoke into the dark room.
“Don’t smoke those things, they are bad for you.”
Miami began to laugh. “We are in a member of the Tijuana Cartel’s dungeon, trying to collect a quarter million from these guys...and you are worried about my smoking habits?... Man... where did you think of that LA Times story? Brilliant.”
“It just came to me.”
Finally, the man reappeared. “Señors, we never want to see you here again. Ever.”
“Agreed,” said Miami.
The older man led them back up the steps to the bank-like area, taking them to a teller’s countertop. Miami whispered to Dino, “I think he was worried we were going to collect on Bernie’s $1 million too.”
At the teller’s window the older man used a key to open a drawer below their line of sight. The man
