“Stop that shit! Quit fucking around!” said Dino as he turned the radio off.
“Hey, I don’t look Mexican…I’ll be fine… You, I’m not so sure.” Miami was smiling and laughing as they came up to the customs agents. The two customs agents barely looked at the Z and waved them on through.
Dino’s eyes—Miami’s too—were each looking into a side view mirror, focused on Big Bernie’s Camry two cars behind. Miami rolled into the right emergency lane to wait for the Camry to be waved through.
The Camry inched forward, and two US Customs agents motioned Big Bernie to stop. The agents circled the car and then two more appeared and wheeled a device with mirrors on it under the Camry. Another agent brought a drug-sniffing dog around the car. The German Shepherd leaped and barked, pulling aggressively against his leash, showing his teeth, and trying to get into the car. The dog had found something, and he was desperate to get to it fast. The agent nearest Big Bernie told him to move the car to the right where a large dual-language sign read “Secondary Inspection/Inspection Secundaria.” The inspection area was under a covered awning 30 yards away from the main border checkpoint. The Camry’s occupants were now in the United States of America.
Razor sharp barbed wire fronted the car. Metal poles on each side separated each vehicle stall area. Three customs agents with hand-held rifles stared down at them. An agent walked up to Big Bernie and yelled, “Stay put in the car.”
“Yes, sir.”
A second agent came around the car. He was surveying the fighters and the car’s interior with a long black flashlight. Its light was shining through the windows, despite the daylight. His other hand was firm on the pistol handle on his right hip.
“All of you,” said the agent, “please step out of the car.”
The German Shepherd was allowed to enter the car, on leash. It barked, just inches from the ashtray. The customs agent holding the leash opened the ashtray and found remnants of two marijuana joints left there by the car’s owner.
The fighters and Bernie complied with the directions they were given. The four were escorted into a building with bars on the windows and razor wire around the perimeter. They were seated on a bench under the eyes of two agents with rifles drawn. The second agent with the nametag “Contreras,” asked them, “Do you speak English?”
“No,” said Jimmy.
“Nope,” said Choo.
Peanut did not respond.
Bernie smiled and said, “I do.”
“Come with me.” Big Bernie was led down the hallway into a large room where he was asked to strip down to his underwear. He was patted down and searched. He then followed directions to put the contents of his pockets onto the counter. Moments later Big Bernie stood there in his boxer shorts, with $9,900 on the counter, and freezing in the air-conditioned holding cell. Contreras interviewed him for 20 minutes then left him alone. But...Contreras took the money.
Next Jimmy was given the same treatment, and again placed $9,900 in twenty-dollar bills on the counter. When asked questions by the border agent he replied in broken Cantonese dialect, “I work for Mr. Big.” He refused to answer more questions. When they asked, he shook his head from side to side.
The same scenario played out for Choo. “I work for Mr. Big. Ask him…I not speak English.”
Peanut, dressed only in his underwear, put his $9,900 on the counter and didn’t respond to questions. After 10 minutes, agent Contreras gave up on talking with the diminutive fighters. He had no idea where he could find a Cantonese interpreter in a US/Mexico border customs office.
The fighters were then left locked in cold, small detention rooms, each alone.
Miami and Dino sat on the side of the 805 Freeway as hundreds of cars accelerated past them toward San Diego. “There goes $40,000,” said Dino.
Miami clenched his hands, and then banged his fists together. “Man! What about Big Bernie? Man, we can’t leave him. He is there because of us. We can’t go back with $200,000 in cash on us. What do we do now?”
“We can’t sit here, Miami. I’m sure we are raising suspicions by just sitting here.”
“Yeah...you’re right.”
After several minutes Miami said, “OK, Dino…you take the car, the cell phone, and the money and go to Del Mar racetrack. There are lots of guards there, and cops. You and the money will be safe. I’ll walk back and try to get them out. If they call you from customs, remember we won $10,000 each. That’s it. Got it?”
“How will you get to Del Mar?”
“We’ll figure it out. Give me $2,000 and go. Now. Fast. And don’t gamble there, buddy.”
Miami took the money from Dino, exited the car, and walked back toward the border crossing.
The border agents watched Miami closely as he approached, and then led him into the main office. “Ah, you must be Mr. Big. So glad you came back. Why do they have drugs in the car?” asked Agent Contreras.
“Who’s Mr. Big? What are you talking about? Drugs? The fighters have drugs on them?”
Contreras’s brow wrinkled, and he crossed his arms. He then pointed a finger directly at Miami’s face. “Fighters? These guys are like Asian terrorists or something?”
“No. No. No. Well…yeah…they are professional fighters but not like terrorists…today they are just protecting me.”
Agent Contreras interviewed Miami and heard the story of Winning Colors. All facts—except for the amount they had wagered, bringing the total bet amount down to $1,200.
Agent Contreras knocked his closed fist on the table several times and looked hard at Miami. “So, OK. OK…let me get this straight. Mr. Big...you are really named Miami, you each have thousands of dollars in cash on you…and have three paid professional fighters as full-time body guards to protect you…with drugs in their car…and you are crossing the US/Mexican border on a Thursday afternoon…and I’m supposed to believe it’s all because you bet on a mare to
