by Mark Paul
Ava asked, “If she doesn’t run in the Derby, what happens to the money you bet on her?”
“They keep it, and we get second jobs at McDonalds,” said Dino.
The next morning, Miami called Dino early to say, “I’m thinking it’s time for a change of scenery, buddy. I hear the desert is nice this time of year. Where could we go to in the desert?”
“You thinking like the Hoover Dam? Or some museums? If we go, we need to make reservations.”
“Viva Las Vegas, baby! You worry too much, buddy. Vegas is just one giant hotel room. No problem ever getting a room. They have more rooms there than people to fill them, but I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about a thing except your liver.”
“OK. I can call in sick.”
“Yeah baby! Vegas. Ava’s traveling on business anyway. I’ve traded Ava for you… it’s not the best trade…but let’s do this!”
Later that afternoon, Dino picked up Miami in the Impala. Miami had the much nicer car, but it was not the best vehicle for the five-hour drive to Las Vegas from Los Angeles. The boys were far bigger bettors on horses than on the Las Vegas gaming tables, but still liked to take a flyer at the craps table with all the yelling and screaming of the hopeful bettors. Miami was doing the driving and had hit 96 mph though the desert, anxious to get a first cocktail under his belt.
Dino looked scared and his eyes looked like they were bulging because of the lenses of his wide glasses. “I don’t mind gambling, but is an older Chevy Impala supposed to go 100 miles an hour?”
“There’s nothing to worry about, as long as I keep my hands firmly on the wheel at all times.” Miami hit the gas harder, took his hands off the wheel…and showed them both to Dino.
Dino couldn’t see that Miami was steering with his knees on the wheel. He screamed, “You’re going to get us killed! Stop it. Goddamn it!”
Miami backed the speed back down to 90 mph, mostly because he was laughing too hard to drive properly. They got to the Strip in four hours and 30 minutes.
They arrived in Las Vegas, parked the car, and walked into The Mandalay Bay Hotel to go straight to the Sports and Race Book to see the odds offered on Winning Colors to win the Derby. They were surprised to see only 12-1 offered, after her loss the day before, but they also knew that futures book odds tend to only go down after good races and not up much in odds after poor prep races.
Next, they visited the craps tables. Miami bet far more than Dino, which was the opposite of their norm at the track where Dino would often bet three or four times more than him. Miami liked to bet and party, but Dino liked to bet to win money, and a random bet at a craps table offered him no insider’s edge that he believed he had at the racetrack when he was betting against the other horse players, and not betting against the house like at the casino.
After they lost a few hundred dollars at the craps table, they headed over to the lobby to get a room.
“Sorry sir, we’re all sold out for the convention,” said the desk clerk.
Dino said, “Miami, you said you would take care of a reservation. Please…tell me you made a backup reservation at Caesars Palace. They always take care of me.”
“No worries mate, we’ll get a great room. They love you at Caesars Palace. We’ve seen it every time.”
The two men left the Mandalay and went to the place they felt represented everything that was great—and also wrong—about Las Vegas. This hotel has towering Roman statues and gaudy columns that allow it to morph from garish to classy. The fountains in the front of Caesars Palace set the heart of every gambler fluttering the moment they head down the long entrance driveway. For two Los Angelinos used to seeing Rodeo Drive, this place made Beverly Hills look like Topeka, Kansas.
Dino noticed the décor and asked, “Miami, what the fuck do white statues of prancing horses and angels blowing trumpets have to do with gambling?”
“I think those are all gambling images going back to the Bible or something. Those early Bible people really liked to gamble. That’s why they invented chariots. Chariot gambling was big back then.”
“Yeah…I would have probably been a professional chariot racing gambler back then.”
Unfortunately, despite Dino being on their comped players list, there were no rooms at this inn, either. People in for a food convention had taken over the town. The concierge was sympathetic, but said, “Mr. D, if you had called ahead I’m sure we could have arranged something nice for you.”
Miami and Dino hit the craps table to regroup. There they ran into one of Dino’s appraisal clients. Working all day then flying to Vegas for the night was common for this guy. Dino placed small bets on the table next to the client and the dice began to get hot for them. The client asked Dino, “Where are you staying in Vegas?”
“You wouldn’t know it. It’s smaller hotel just outside of town.”
“I know this town really well. What’s it called?”
“The Hotel Impala. Small place…yellow…very intimate…off the main drag.”
“Yeah…we have two separate suites,” added Miami.
The boys played a few hours longer, lost about $250 each, and were zombie-level tired. Miami could no longer keep his eyes open and told Dino he needed to sleep. It was now after two a.m., and after driving and casino hopping for 12 hours both men were inebriated, exhausted…and had neither room nor bed.
Miami went to the pay phone and called every hotel outside of the Strip. When he gave it up, he said, “Dino, let’s just sleep a couple of hours in your car until the morning and then I’m sure we’ll find a ton of rooms when some people check out.”
It became their plan. They found a well-lit parking space behind a cheap casino and tried to sleep, but with no blankets or pillows, they were cold and uncomfortable. It was 36 degrees Fahrenheit outside the car…a cold, windy, winter Las Vegas night.
Miami had an idea. “Let’s turn on the car heater for 15 minutes. I’ll stay up until it warms up and then turn it off.”
Dino was not having it. “No friggin’ way! I know we’ll fall asleep and die of carbon monoxide poisoning. It’ll be the perfect ending to a perfect weekend.”
“Don’t worry, man, I’ll stay up. Remember I used to be a long-distance sailor and can sit a damn watch for 15 damn minutes. I’m trained for this. Buddy…look it’s four a.m. now, at 4:20 I’ll turn off the car and sleep. You take the back suite…seat.”
Dino gave in, nodded off, and was soon snoring.
At 6:00 a.m. Miami was smacked in the face with a folded racing program. “What the hell! You said you would stay up and turn off the car. We could have died in this cheap, dumpy casino’s parking lot.”
“Sorry. Sorry, man. I guess I dozed off, too. But hey, we are OK! We’re alive! We broke our losing streak! Come on, breakfast is on me.”
“The rest of my life is on you.”
They had breakfast at the same Denny’s Luis and his buddies dined at two months earlier and then cruised to Caesars Palace to plead for a room. They got one but were told they could not check in until after two p.m. Relieved, they pulled from their small suitcases toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, one hairbrush, and some hair spray. In the marble ambiance of the men’s room, Miami and Dino spent a good 20 minutes manscaping.
“You don’t look much like Don Johnson now,” said Dino talking to the mirror image of his friend. “That cotton teal sports coat looks more like a wrinkled dinner napkin than a ‘Miami Vice’ jacket.”
Dino’s hair was sticking straight up, but only in parts. “Yeah,” said Miami, “and you look like those guys that play in the band Devo.”
Two other men were brushing their teeth. “See…this is no big deal,” Miami said in a whisper.
Dino threw the can of hair spray at him. It missed Miami’s head and tumbled, clanging, across the floor. “Stop speaking to me. Ever.”
They left the restroom and headed to place bets at the race book on East Coast horse races. Dino did well and won a photo finish on an 8-1 shot
at Gulfstream Park racetrack in Hallandale Beach, Florida. That win got them both nearly back in the black.
At 1:00 p.m., they checked with the desk and learned a room was ready. They were escorted to a nice suite, not a full high roller penthouse, but an upgraded view room on an upper level floor, stocked with champagne and liquor. Dino tipped the bellman two bucks. Miami noticed the pissed look on his face and handed him $10 more when Dino wasn’t paying attention.
“Now we’re talking, Dino. I told you we’d get rooms!”
“We? We, kimosabe? We didn’t get us a room. I got us a damn room.”
“No…you got us a roof view suite, baby!”
Miami popped open a chilled bottle of French champagne and poured two glasses. “Why is it that free liquor always tastes better?”
They made reservations for dinner at nine p.m. at the Bacchanal gourmet restaurant, and then took naps.
Upon waking, Miami hit the electric shades on the living room window and the bright Las Vegas Strip lights came into full view. The iconic round towers of the Sands Hotel were dwarfed by the huge Bally’s sign touting Dean Martin as headliner, with Sammy Davis Jr. noted as coming soon. The Frontier featured Siegfried and Roy, and the Desert Inn highlighted Crystal Gayle. Miami loved the Desert Inn, as he had hung out with Howard Cosell at the bar one night there, and it had a smaller, classy feel to it.
“What do you think…should we bring Ava and Amalia here?” asked Miami.
“We have never even thought about bringing girlfriends to Vegas.”
“I don’t know…I think Ava would love the lights of the Strip.”
The conversation ended without any resolution as they dressed for dinner.
Dino and Miami were escorted to a VIP table and opened huge menus the size of small desks. They ordered another bottle of French champagne, appetizers, and then a 1975 George Latour, B.V. Estate, Cabernet Sauvignon, along with bone-in, prime aged steaks, mushrooms, and Florentine stuffed potatoes.
“Just like the Hotel Impala…huh, buddy?” Miami said, between bites.
“Not quite…I miss the carbon monoxide and you snoring. Man, this is what it was probably like to be Frank Sinatra every night of his life.
Seeing an opening for more serious conversation, Miami told Dino that things were getting serious with he and Ava.
“I’m glad for you, but does this mean you won’t be going to the track much? Name one guy we know that goes to the track three times per week who is married or has a steady girlfriend.”
“Nothing will change, my brother. Maybe I won’t go on her birthday and stuff.”
Despite the great meal, and being with his best friend, Miami felt lonely. He wanted to share the meal with Ava and take her to a show. Or, maybe just sit in the lounge with her and listen to the singers. Then again, why mess it up by getting married? I love my life, he thought. Still, a couple of my own baby fillies and colts could be cool too…one day.
When the check came, all that was required was for Dino to sign the comp slip, and Miami put down a $100 bill as a tip. They went to the tables looking for a hot craps pit. Craps was their game; it had the best odds for the players, and they always played the same way. They limited losses to $100 each at each table and played aggressively. If they won, they increased their bets, and kept pressing if they were hitting some numbers. Their number one rule was to never chase. If either lost $100, they’d move on to another table. Playing by this method, they knew being “hot” could mean a lot of cash; going “cold” wouldn’t hurt much.
After several hours of rolling dice, drinking free cocktails, and losing about $500 each, Miami and Dino went over to the vast, now empty Sports Book about two a.m. They sat down under the giant odds boards in comfortable, oversized, light brown leather chairs. The Caesars Palace Sports Book was nirvana to them, and they smiled at each other, now at total peace with their world. This location was the center of each man’s personal universe.
Miami thought it was like the way Ansel Adams felt when hiking in the wilderness, or how Mark Spitz felt about swimming. “You know Dino, most people are unhappy because they never find out what they really like. They are always searching and traveling to find out what will make them happy. You and I knew the first time we set foot into a racetrack. Me, it was Hollywood Park at age 14.”
“For me, it was Santa Anita at age four.”
“We are lucky men.”
“Damn right we are,” said Miami as they sat staring at the odds for the Super Bowl, the coming NBA summer playoffs, and tomorrow’s odds for the horse races from California to Florida.
“Can we live here?” Dino asked.
After two nights in Vegas, Dino had to be back in Los Angeles by Tuesday evening. Miami as usual woke up early, despite going to bed after three a.m. He missed Ava and hoped to see her that night when he got home. He knew she was at a trade show in San Francisco, knew the hotel where she was staying, and knew she planned to take the one-hour flight home that same afternoon. He called the hotel and asked for Ms. Bouchon’s room. It was eight a.m. The phone rang eight times, and he hung up.
After three minutes, he called again. After the fourth ring, he heard noises…it sounded like the phone had been dropped. Then more noises. A man’s sleepy, gravelly voice mumbled, “Yeah…what?”
He heard Ava say, “Who is it?”
Miami was uncertain what to do…or say. He felt like an idiot for missing her…while being in Vegas, for Christ’s sake. “Tell her it’s Mark.”
He hung up.
Dino and Miami grabbed two large coffees at the breakfast bar, fortified with three Tylenols each, headed straight to the Impala, and hit the long open road back to Los Angeles.
The first three hours of driving were quiet. Miami knew Dino wasn’t used to being hung over. He didn’t feel like talking anyway. He thought of telling Dino about Ava but didn’t feel up to sharing it, and Dino was still pissed off at him because of the hassle with travel arrangements.
Dino started laughing. He said that he’d totaled the combined hours of sleep they had accomplished in the past 48 hours. The number was less than seven! “And we look like roadkill.”
About 90 miles southwest of Vegas, they stopped at the run-down Bun Boy coffee shop in Baker, California. Miami told Dino, “Baker is not the end of the world, but you can see it from here. Look at that sign. We are only two miles from The World’s Largest Thermometer, which is Baker’s only apparent claim to fame, other than us dining here at the world-famous Bun Boy. The end to a perfect fucking day.”
Dino pulled his head up and squinted at Miami. He waited a bit then asked him, “What’s wrong, man?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. We can talk about it later.”
“OK. Well, what about going to Santa Anita next week?”
“I’ll skip it,” said Miami. He didn’t really want to rule it out, but he also didn’t want to commit to going with Dino after the time they’d just spent in Vegas.
“Me too,” Dino concurred.
Three hours later, Dino dropped Miami off at his condominium, and then arrived a bit later at his apartment in Santa Monica.
Chapter 6
Girls Don’t Belong
Three days after Winning Colors’ first career loss to Goodbye Halo, the whooping sound of helicopter blades startled the horses. It was in the early morning and Lukas had just flown in on the new private Sikorsky helicopter acquired in partnership with Klein. Lukas and Klein were meeting at Lukas’s office in Rancho Santa Fe to discuss plans for her next start.
Klein did not look well. He seemed to have aged rapidly since their last meeting, and his hair had turned completely white. Something was wrong. Lukas realized Klein was no longer flying in to watch his horses run in the big East Coast stakes races. Instead, Klein had been flying to Las Vegas to watch in an air-conditioned casino on wide screen TV. Lukas was worried for his friend’s health and was aware that he might lose his best client.
Lukas asked Luis to come into his tra
ck office to give a report to Klein. Luis told them both that Winning Colors was in good shape. Sometimes, after a hard-fought loss, a horse will go off their feed and become listless, but Winning Colors apparently had no memory of her loss. She bounced back as feisty as ever. That morning, when Luis called to her, Winning Colors went for his shirt pockets with her muzzle and bit through his clothing, as if insisting he must have some treats for her hidden somewhere. When she couldn’t find a treat, she lowered her head and threw it up at him, tossing him backwards like a rag doll. He found two sugar cubes in his jean pockets and held them under her nose. She chomped them down and proceeded to bite through his shirt pocket looking for more.
Klein shook Luis’ hand, and while thanking him for the great job he’d been doing with her, handed him three $100 bills.
Luis tried to give him back the money and said, “Señor, no es necesario,” but the owner insisted, and Luis smiled as he tucked the bills in the torn pocket of his work shirt. The bonus was nearly one week’s pay to Luis, and he knew they appreciated what he was doing for her.
After Luis left the meeting, Lukas told Klein, “Let’s just bring her right back at Halo in the Santa Anita Oaks.”
“Do whatever you want, buy what you want, run ‘em where you want,” Klein responded, “but if you start losing my money, I’ll jerk the rug out from you.”
The Oaks was the biggest race for 3-year-old fillies of the meet, now just two weeks away. Lukas was famous for working and running his horses hard. The legendary trainer Charles Whittingham had told Lukas, “Racehorses are like bananas. They spoil quickly,” so Lukas believed in running them when they were healthy. Despite being the most successful trainer in the world, Lukas felt he hadn’t received the credit he deserved. At every venue he had ever trained, from the cheap, quarter horse tracks in Oklahoma, Kansas, or New Mexico, or the big sprint tracks like Los Alamitos, he had been hugely successful. In 10 years, he had made the transition from quarter horse trainer to be the winningest thoroughbred trainer in America.