by Mark Paul
“Who do you like in the first race, gringo?” Miami asked Dino.
Dino always spoke fast…very fast. “I couldn’t care less about a cheap group of broken-down Mexican horses in a $1,800 claiming race.”
Miami watched Dino keep his focus, thinking about the future running of the Kentucky Derby. Dino was staring, transfixed, at the betting windows.
It takes a special kind of gambler not to get distracted by the action, noise, and excitement of all the betting opportunities around him. Las Vegas is full of stories of guys dropping $2,000 at the blackjack table because they were just trying to walk over to the $7.95 buffet table.
Dino pushed his chair back, walked up to a betting window, and asked the Mexican ticket seller to confirm the exact current future book odds for the Kentucky Derby, the Super Bowl, and the NBA World Championship. He was at the window for nearly 10 minutes asking about the odds on certain teams and several horses, and a long line of anxious horse bettors was growing angry behind him, getting more and more pissed as they worried about being shut out from making their wagers on the first live Tijuana horserace.
A swarthy American gambler behind Dino heard what odds he was asking about, and shouted, “Asshole! The NBA Championship is in six goddamn months. Let me bet on this fucking TJ race that’s going off in three minutes!”
“Find another window,” Dino shouted back at him.
Miami saw the reaction, and it wasn’t good. The guy looked drunk and glassy eyed. He grabbed Dino’s shoulder and spun him around hard.
Miami moved in fast. At six-foot-three, 210 pounds, blond and blue eyed, he stood out at the Mexican track, and now towered over Dino and the short drunken gambler. Miami put his hand on the shoulders of the two men. “Whoa, guys…let’s have some fun and win some money…let’s settle down. Hey, amigo, go make your bet…no problems here.” Miami stared down into the drunk gambler’s eyes.
Then Miami took Dino by the arm and led him back to his table. “Dino, let’s not get killed here…OK? I need you alive. Why are you always getting into trouble?”
Dino was oblivious to the party and other gamblers around them. The unique thing about Dino was that he was a proven winner in a game of constant losers. Other gamblers wanted the action, the lifestyle, and the girls, but all Dino wanted was to win money. Miami would start having cocktails early in the day, but Dino would stay up until four a.m. drinking coffee while studying past race performances or team statistics, getting ready to make a well-planned strategic wager. Miami learned to stay with Dino and keep him out of trouble; if he were focused on a bet, Dino wouldn’t notice an incoming mortar attack.
Several times, Miami missed out on huge money-making payoffs because Dino had made a bet while Miami was courting women, enjoying cocktails, or working out in the gym. Miami had learned to keep Dino in his sights at the Las Vegas race books, or at the track, because when Dino hit the betting windows, Miami wanted always to be a part of that. Miami made far more money than Dino in his day job, but Dino was the bigger gambler for sure. Dino bet big money on the daily horseraces, future book sporting events like the Super Bowl or NBA playoffs, and select NFL football games. Dino could tell you exactly the type of offensive or defensive game statistics it took to win a Super Bowl, and what the strength of schedule was for every NFL playoff contender. Dino was cheap with his money, until he saw a betting opportunity, then he would bet with both hands and no fear.
For example, during the past summer, in 117-degree heat at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, Miami and Dino were at a three-day horse betting contest. They had been losing money consistently for two and a half days and finally Miami had gotten tired and disgusted of repeatedly losing bets. He went to the craps table to take a break. Miami left Dino alone for thirty minutes, and when he came back, Dino was standing at the cashier’s window collecting $4,800 in cash from a 23-1 shot he keyed in the exacta in the final Santa Anita race of the day.
Never again was Miami going to let that happen and now he stayed with Dino like a big protective guard dog for his smaller friend.
Professional horse gamblers typically purchase the past performances newspaper published by the Daily Racing Form. They’ll study for hours to handicap a horse’s past performances, hoping to find a winning bet opportunity. Dino would study the horses’ past performances, the trainers’ records, and even the horse owner’s patterns.
When Dino and Miami started going to the track together, they were only 16 years old. Young Dino noticed that owners who looked like they were cast from the Mafia movie The Godfather would often win races. So, Dino started betting on horses whose owners and trainers last names ended in a vowel. If there was a Corleone, a Gino, or a Vito in the name, Dino was hammering him at the windows, and they won more than their share, often at big odds. One day, Dino picked a winning horse that paid 22-1 because the owner’s last name was Romano. That tip turned $200 into $4,600 for Miami and Dino.
The hardest part back then for Miami and Dino was just getting into the track, as at only 16 they were underage, but still they found ways to get in to gamble. After school, the boys would wait at the front gate and give a degenerate looking gambler a free betting ticket if he would let them accompany him through the front admissions gate. They learned to wear suits and ties to the track to look older, and carried men’s briefcases with them, trying to look like distinguished young businessmen. It usually worked at the tracks because what 16-year-old kids could possibly be betting at the $50 and $100 large wagers windows? It was also true that they’d be thrown out on a regular basis for being underage. When it happened, they changed hats as a disguise and came back through another entrance.
Now adults in Tijuana at Agua Caliente, an attractive cocktail waitress with shiny, thick black hair tied in a red bow, wearing a short black skirt and red heels, came over to their table to deliver the bucket of beers on ice Miami had ordered. She smiled directly at Miami, and then asked them both, “What are your names?”
Miami glanced at her nametag and said, “Dino…meet Camila. Camila, meet Dino. I’m Miami. Camila, Dino is a big gambler and is here to make all our dreams come true. You should join him. If all goes well today at the track, you will never have to work again.”
Camila seemed to be grasping about 10 percent of what Miami was saying and smiled while asking Dino if he wanted her to open a beer for him. Dino declined and ordered a Coke as she left.
“I’m starting to like it here,” said Miami. “Dino can you not get into another fight at the betting window, because I want to live.”
Dino looked at the full bucket of beers on ice and said, “Miami, you have to drive us home!”
“If you keep arguing with the customers we won’t have to worry about the drive, because we’ll be stabbed to death long before my driving is an issue.”
“How much money do you have on you?”
“Enough for the beers and…I don’t know about the Winning Colors bet.”
“Miami, the odds are incredible here…way better than Vegas. We need to start coming here every month.”
Another thing about Dino that was different than any other gambler Miami had met was Dino’s specialty with long shots. Where most big bettors would bet $5,000 on a football game at basically even money odds, Dino would bet $5,000 or $10,000 on a team to win the Super Bowl at 6-1, 10-1, 20-1 or more. Sure, he lost far more bets than he won every year, but when he cashed, he really cashed for big money. Same thing on horses, as Dino would bet only on long-shot horses offered at 6-1 odds or higher. If he lost five in a row and then won one race, he was going home with a big profit.
Now he was on to another big opportunity. “Our horse Winning Colors, she is still 50-1, that’s incredible. When she wins…our $5,000 bet will pay out $250,000. I have my $2,500,” said Dino.
“You are serious about this, aren’t you? I need to keep a few bucks on the side for beers, margaritas, and dinner. I know you told me to save up for this bet…but man, I’ve got nothing working! Nothing.
” Miami shook his head. “My office deal in escrow cancelled Friday. I really should just keep this money for my car payment, pay bills, and maybe just take Ava out to dinner.”
“I get it…things are tight…but this is different. Even if you don’t bet another race this year…you gotta make this bet!”
“If you say so. Dino…I believe in you, man…here’s $2,500 for your horse.” Miami handed Dino a white envelope under the table. “I don’t think we should make the bet until right before we leave. I don’t want these assholes to see we have real money with us. I think they would kill us for 20 bucks.”
“No way! Let’s bet her now before the odds go down! This is the bet of a lifetime.”
“Holy shit, Dino, you have never said that before…ever. You’re usually quiet about your betting opinions.”
Now Miami knew Dino was there to make a serious wager. He believed one of the richest horse owners in the world might enter his female horse in the 1988 Kentucky Derby. A billionaire so rich he had owned an NFL team. Dino knew the former NFL owner’s horse could win the Derby. Dino believed this horse would win the Derby. Traditionally only male horses, colts, enter the Kentucky Derby, and in 113 years, only two female horses had ever won the race. Dino thought that was about to change with a filly named Winning Colors.
Dino was a slow walker and could never keep up with his tall friend—outside of a gambling venue, that is. When they got within 500 yards of a betting facility, suddenly Dino could move like a racehorse on methamphetamines. Dino would then suddenly be walking so fast Miami would struggle to stay in sight of him. Dino had perfected a form of gambling radar that allowed him to dart in and out of pedestrians in order not to get shut out of a bet. Now on the betting floor of Agua Caliente, Dino’s senses were fully alive, and he knew that the betting decisions he was about to make could change his life.
Dino didn’t wait. He jumped up and dashed to the betting window like a 350-yard quarter horse at Los Alamitos racetrack. Miami thought, Damn I’ve got to see this, and came up on Dino’s right side, at the betting window.
Miami listened as Dino told the ticket writer, “Five thousand US dollars on the Kentucky Derby future book. Winning Colors at 50-1, to win $250,000 on the race.”
The ticket writer’s eyebrows raised, and he became agitated. “Jefe ven aca! Mas dinero en Winning Colors,” he shouted to his supervisor.
An older man with a gold tooth and an expensive looking shirt came into view. He spoke in Spanish with the ticket writer; the men went back and forth, and then he said to them, under his breath in English, “Another bet on this stupid bitch of a horse? Un momento por favor.” The supervisor then walked to a back room, out of sight.
Now Dino looked worried. Miami asked, “What’s up, Dino?”
“I think someone else already made a huge bet on her to win the Derby. Probably way bigger than our bet. That’s what I have been afraid of and why I woke you up so early today. With our bet they can lose another $250,000 if she wins. It’s too big a bet for him to accept himself. Too much risk to the track. He needs approval. Man, I hope they take this bet. Miami, if they do they are idiots because 50-1 on her is a gift.”
“Someone’s an idiot here,” Miami responded, “and I hope it’s not us.”
The supervisor came back out to the window with a good looking, much younger man with dark wavy hair, much like an Elvis impersonator. The new man was dressed in a crisp white shirt and groomed perfectly in the way only handsome Latin guys can look. “Señors…a girl horse cannot beat the boys in the Kentucky Derby, my friends. Are you sure? Save your money, amigos.”
Dino didn’t hesitate and said, “I know we are crazy…but still we would like to make that bet, and please make it into three or four separate smaller, different tickets, thank you.”
The young Mexican boss waited a long time, thinking before speaking. Then he smiled with his perfect white teeth and said to the ticket writer, “Take their money. A filly will not win the Kentucky Derby.”
Chapter 3
Cartel Trouble
Racetracks breed more rumors than horses. The bettors are afraid of secret information known only to the insiders on fast horses that they fear will beat their personal selections. Every track’s grooms, bartenders, and valet parking attendants have a hot tip that only they seem to be privy to. Track regulars call these “steam horses,” and some will bet double or triple their normal amount on questionable information, often given from a blue-collar worker.
Miami had once seen one of the best handicappers in the country, the famous “Professor” Gordon Jones, drop his own best bet of the day because some Las Vegas based guy called him on his cell phone with a supposed steam horse. This steam horse ran last in the race.
Dino, who toiled for hours each night viewing the horses’ past performances to find betting opportunities, wondered why anyone would trust a bartender or a car park attendant to get betting information. He always asked the information suppliers the same question, “What kind of car do you drive?” Dino figured if inside information was working so well for him he should have a new high-end model parked out front.
Miami and Dino were hearing rumors about other track regular bettors that had also made futures Derby bets on Winning Colors in Las Vegas and even at the Mexican track. The best source for track betting information was a man named Twenty Percent Tim who had a good gig working at Santa Anita and the other tracks in Southern California.
When a winning track ticket exceeds odds of 300-1, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) is suddenly a partner to the bettor on a winning ticket. That winning ticket requires cashiers to ask for the gambler’s social security number and other form of identification before cashing out a large payout. The IRS keeps 20 percent withholding of the proceeds, and the gambler must report this income on a tax return. The gambler can deduct documented betting losses against betting income, but few horseplayers bother to do the paperwork.
Twenty Percent Tim would stand around the cashiers’ windows after a long shot won a race, asking gamblers if they had a “signer,” meaning a ticket they had to sign for with an IRS form. If the gambler did have a signer ticket, Twenty Percent Tim would peel off hundreds or thousands of dollars out of pockets stuffed with greenbacks and pay cash on the spot for that gambler’s winning ticket—less 20 percent, of course. Bettors often don’t want to give out their personal information and seldom have their social security card for identification on them.
People who had so little income that they paid no taxes were friends of Twenty Percent Tim’s. He would get them to cash the winning betting tickets and give him back the tax refund. Dino had noticed that Twenty Percent Tim did drive a new Mercedes and wore an expensive suit to the track every day. Other than the practice was illegal, Twenty Percent Tim had a successful and thriving business on his hands.
After a day at Santa Anita, Dino, Miami, and Twenty Percent Tim were sitting in a bar near the track enjoying happy hour. Dino asked Twenty Percent Tim about Mexican futures betting at Agua Caliente racetrack, and he responded, “Great odds…if you get paid.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I heard the owner of the track is one of the richest men in Mexico.”
“First, that racetrack is in trouble and will go out of business soon. They have no horses there anymore because everyone is now satellite simulcasting races into their own local track, and they don’t have to cross the damn border to get some action down. Second, the Mexico track’s owner better be very damn rich. I know they already took one bet for $20,000 at 50-1 on your filly to win the Derby, and dozens of other bets like yours.”
Miami and Dino jumped out of their chairs to stand up next to Twenty Percent Tim. “Don’t fuck with us, Twenty Percent,” Miami told him while getting within inches of his face. “Who would bet $20,000 on her?” He looked Tim straight in the eye and told him, “I need to know who the big player is.”
“I would, but never in Mexico. Shit, they’ll kill you down there for 100 buc
ks. I know the guy that made the 20K bet and he thinks he is going to win $1,000,000 if your horse hits. I hear the owner of the racetrack is a cartel guy, too. I say no way they’ll pay this sucker. They’ll never find his body!”
Miami looked at Twenty Percent.
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“OK, don’t tell me, just direct me. I’m sure I know him already.”
“You do, for sure…think about who has had a big score recently.”
“Bernie…Big Bernie,” said Dino. “He hit a big Pick 6 at Hollywood Park in November, for $200,000 plus. I bet it’s him. He’s a big player and has the cash.”
Twenty Percent Tim was quiet but looked Dino right in the eye, held his gaze for five seconds, then nodded his head up and down before turning and walking away. Miami waited a few seconds, looked at Dino, and said, “Let me talk to him privately. Alone. Big Bernie is always asking me to take him out to the clubs after the races. He’s like 350 pounds now I would guess, maybe more. He wants me to introduce him to girls, but he thinks getting dressed up is putting on a new bowling shirt. I’ll have to take him out and get some booze into him.”
Dino sat down and was quiet. He was convinced that Winning Colors was the best horse in the likely Derby field. “I honestly wouldn’t change my selection for any other horse in the race,” he said to Miami.
“Well, she probably won’t win anyway.”
“Don’t say that! You’re wrong! She is maybe the best bet I have ever made in my whole lifetime of analyzing and betting horses, sports, real estate, anything, and I was actually going to tell you we should go back to Mexico and bet more on her after her next race!”
“Oh, great fucking idea, we can become bigger targets than we are already. I’ll take out a bigger second mortgage tomorrow and really get down on her. By the way Dino, do you know a life insurance agent?”
The next day the two friends started to research Agua Caliente racetrack and the track’s owner, Jorge Hank Rhon They didn’t know where to start and were hampered by inability to speak or read Spanish. Dino figured a library was the best place to start. He told Miami he would meet him at the one in Beverly Hills at 3:00 p.m.