“She’s a filly, not a mare. She’s only 3-years-old.”
The three fighters and Big Bernie had been pulled from the car about 3:30 p.m., and it was now approaching 8:00 p.m. Miami could hear Agent Contreras talking on the phone from the neighboring office because the door was open. “Yep, we have some surfer guy dressed like Don Johnson here, and some Italian guy named Dino that got away and is holding out at Del Mar racetrack. Then we have three Chinese professional fighter bodyguards that claim not to speak English, and some huge guy name Big Bernie. They have $39,600 on them and the dogs found a bunch of old marijuana roach butts in the ashtray. Yeah. That’s about it.”
The supervisor—or some official on the other end—spoke for a while, because Contreras went silent.
Contreras then asked, “What about the money?”
Silence. Then, Contreras said, “OK. Got it, boss.”
Agent Contreras went to the back of the complex, and came back in 20 minutes with Big Bernie, Jimmy, Choo, and Peanut. All were dressed. He handed a large envelope with $39,600 in it to Miami and said, “You are all free to go.”
Big Bernie broke into a wide smile and put his fist into the air.
Peanut, suddenly remembering English, smiled and looked at Agent Contreras and said, “Thank you very much, Agent Contreras.”
They all buckled up in the Camry with Miami driving, Big Bernie in the passenger seat, and all three fighters stuffed in the rear.
“We didn’t tell them anything Miami, not even your name, boss,” Jimmy said, as Choo and Peanut nodded their heads and smiled.
They headed for Del Mar racetrack. A bit later, Miami stopped to call Dino who answered on the small new cell phone.
“We lost all the money, man,” he said. “Big Bernie’s in prison and the fighters are being extradited. We need you to come back down immediately and pay our bail.”
Chapter 11
Mariachi Madness
Dino’s new black Lincoln Continental wound its way down Highway 10 from the US border toward Rosarito, Mexico. The town’s coastline was pristine, with blue waves and white foam breaking onto its wide sandy beaches. Miami was driving, and Ava was in the front seat next to him, trying to read a Mexican map resting on top of her long white skirt. Amalia and Dino sat in the back seats.
“Where the hell is this motel, anyway?” said Miami.
It’s now a hotel, not a motel. It has a restaurant and a bar,” said Ava. “I think you turn right here. Yes…head toward the beach, it says.” Ava was reading from the wedding invitation that she’d helped design:
Te Invitamos a Celebrar Nuestra Boda
We Invite You to Celebrate Our Wedding
Isabel Cuevas
and
Don Bernie
Saturday, the eighth of April 1989
Half past five in the afternoon
Winning Colors Hotel
Rosarito Beach, Mexico
They pulled onto a long driveway with bright white fencing that swept up to a two-story white stucco building with a large yellow and blue sign: The Winning Colors Hotel. Valet parking attendants in white pants and shirts took over parking the Lincoln as Bernie ran down steps from the bar to meet them. “Miami, Dino, Ava, Amalia! Welcome to your second home, my amigos!” He put his long arms nearly around them all at the same time and squeezed with the enthusiasm of an old friend.
“Big Bernie! We’re so happy to see you again!” said Miami.
“It’s not Big Bernie anymore. First…you can see I’ve lost 30 pounds. Isabel makes them cook healthy for me. I am now Don Bernie. I am a land baron…and a hotel owner, and a restaurant owner, and a bar owner. Show a little damn respect, Miami…I can have you arrested at any time here in my city, amigo.”
“Si…Don Bernie…lo siento Mr. Don Bernie,” shouted Miami as they all headed to the bar.
The bar sat atop a bluff looking down at the Pacific Ocean. A lovely young woman in a bright floral Mexican dress was singing a familiar song, but in Spanish, and with a twist: “The Boy from Ipanema.” A young man playing a keyboard accompanied her. Don Bernie ordered grande margaritas for everyone—tart, strong, salt on the rims cutting into the tequila—perfect for the hot weather that day.
“When do we get to meet Isabel? I want to spend some time warning her about Miami’s bad influence on you and Dino,” said Ava.
“Not until tonight of course. You are going to love her, Ava. Dino, you will too. Miami…she is way too smart for you and probably won’t like you.”
The wedding was small, just 40 guests, and over half were from Isabel’s family. Don Bernie had hired nearly as many staff as guests, with three young bartenders making margaritas, servers passing hors d’oeuvres, and a kitchen full of chefs. At the end of the pool and bar was a white pagoda with trellises covered in red, yellow, and purple wildflowers. The margaritas flowed; Miami noticed Ava working her way through a third one.
Miami told Dino, “Any wedding that has a party like this…before the wedding even starts…is my kind of party.” He looked at Ava. She looked stunning while being photographed with the other bridesmaids. “I better be careful with this filly,” he confided to his friend.
“The Las Vegas futures odds are dropping fast on your single days,” said Dino.
Margaritas and pictures continued until 4:00 p.m., when everyone retreated to their rooms to get ready for the ceremony.
At 5:45 p.m. the sun was still high in the west when the seven-man mariachi band members began playing and singing. It sounded as if the band wanted to produce relaxing background music for the wedding, but they just weren’t made for it, especially with three trumpet players adding lively input, as the guests were seated. Don Bernie walked his mother to the front row and watched Isabel’s mother be led to her seat by a handsome, heavy-set, young brother of the bride.
The ocean’s evening coolness was setting in
