by Mark Paul
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 win the Kentucky Derby? You are going to be here for a while. Like for years, Mr. Big.”
“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 as Miami and Dino, wearing white tuxedos without bow ties, walked with bridesmaids Ava and Amalia in their red strapless dresses to the front of the room. The band was eager to play the familiar “Wedding March” tune with the trumpet players again taking a spirited lead. It was a unique version that set a happy tone.
Isabel’s father, looking dark, suave, and impeccably groomed in a black tuxedo appeared arm-in-arm with the bride. Isabel was dressed in a flowing white gown with subtle colored flowers embroidered on the upper portion of the dress. She was not tall, maybe 10 years younger than Bernie, with perfect skin and a pretty, round face, with fresh flowers in her hair. When she smiled at her father, and then at Don Bernie, it was a smile filled with love, warmth, and happiness.
Miami and Don Bernie exchanged a long look, a smile, and a nod. Tears of happiness could be seen in the corners of Big Bernie’s eyes.
The room was filled with colors. The room was filled with winners.
At a barn far away, in a comfortable corner stall, stood Winning Colors. She looked out at wide, green meadows, pawed the ground, and waited to run again.
A $1,000,000 Score
Winning Colors Kentucky Derby -Photo Finish (Photo by Bettman)
Mexican Federal Police Forces (Photo by Frontpage)
Zeta Magazine Coverage of Narco Trafficking
Saratoga Race Track (Photo by Barbara Livingston)
Miami Paul - Tijuana, Mexico
Wayne Lukas (Photo by Barbara Livingston)
Santa Anita Race Track (Photo by Cheryl Ann Quigley)
Ava Bouchon and Miami Paul
Miami Paul - 1988
Zeta Magazine Continuing Coverage of El Gato’s Murder
LAS VEGAS (Photo by Claudio Zaccherini)
Jockey Gary Stevens (Photo by Cheryl Ann Quigley)
Jeff Lukas and Wayne Lukas 1988 (Photo by Barbara Livingston)
Churchill Downs Kentucky Derby Day (Photo by Barbara Livingston)
Miami Paul - Praying at Race book - Las Vegas, Nevada
Miami Paul - Los Angeles 1988
Map Route - San Diego to Agua Caliente Racetrack
Winning Colors 1988 (Photo by Barbara Livingston)
Saratoga Race Track (Photo by Barbara Livingston)
Acknowledgements
Grateful acknowledgment is given for the contributions of Dino Mateo, Ken Stovitz, David Freehling, Rusty Weber, Richard Zien, Stephan Tow, Rick Edwards, Howard Parelskin, Joel Adelman, Steven Semprevivo, Chris Powel, George Vasquez, Robert Robotti, and my mentor and first editor Mary L. Holden.
A special thanks is in order for jockey Gary Stevens and his wife Angie who allowed me to interview them. They both added much detail and color to this story.
For inspiration, I thank author Laura Hillenbrand for writing Seabiscuit—the greatest book about horses and racing ever written.
I thank my wife Renee, for without her enthusiasm this book would never have been completed.
Bibliography
Books
Beltran, David Jimenez. The Agua Caliente Story: Remembering Mexico’s Legendary Racetrack. Eclipse Press, 2004.
Basave, Daniel Salinas. La liturgia del tigre blanco: Una leyenda llamada Jorge Hank Rhon. Océano, 2013.
Bossinakis, Christina. Sermon On The Mount. Lukas Enterprises, 2019.
Devito, Carlo. D.Wayne: The High-Rolling and Fast Times of America’s Premier Horse Trainer. McGraw-Hill Education, 2003.
Hillenbrand, Laura. Seabiscuit: An American Legend. Random House, 2001.
Kaufman, Mervyn; Stevens, Gary. The Perfect Ride: Gary Stevens. Citadel Press Books, 2002.
Klein, Gene. First Down and a Billion: The Funny Business of Pro Football. William Morrow & Company, Inc., 1987.
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BloodHorse
Daily Racing Form
Harvard Business Review
Proceso
Sports Illustrated
All of the following magazine and newspaper website references
were accessed between November 26, 2018, and December 9, 2018.
Editor. “Animal Blood.” Proceso. May 6, 2006. Web. https://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=es&u=http://www.proceso.com.mx/97248/sangre-animal&prev=search
Johnson, J. Keeler. “Legends: Derby Filly Winning Colors.” BloodHorse. March 3, 2016. Web. www.bloodhorse.com/horse-racing/articles/209906/legends-derby-filly-winning-colors
Kirby, Julia. “Passion for Detail.” Harvard Business Review. May 2004. Web. www.hbr.org/2004/05/passion-for-detail
Nack, William. “Another View from the Top,” Sports Illustrated Vault. May 9, 1988. We
b. https://www.si.com/vault/1988/05/09/117615/another-view-from-the-top-just-four-years-ago-gene-klein-fled-the-nfl-and-lit-into-racing-with-a-daring-strategy-and-a-big-bankroll-now-hes-americas-most-successful-owner-of-thoroughbreds
Nack, William, “Lady’s Day,” Sports Illustrated Vault. May 16, 1988. Web. www.si.com/vault/1988/05/16/117677/ladys-day-churchill-downs-rocked-as-the-filly-winning-colors-rolled-over-16-colts-to-triumph-in-the-kentucky-derby
Privman, Jay. “Thirty years after Winning Colors Lukas still in with a shot.” Daily Racing Form. April 30, 2018. Web. www.drf.com/news/thirty-years-after-winning-colors-lukas-still-shot
Ranft, Patricia. “Horse of a Winning Color.” Kentucky Monthly. Web. http://www.kentuckymonthly.com/lifestyle/featured/horse-of-a-winning-color/
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Agencia Fronteriza De Noticias
Frontline/PBS
KentuckyDerby.com
LAWEEKLY.com
Los Angeles Times
Mexico Perspective
New York Times
Proyecto Impunidad: Crímenes Contra Periodistas
Reuters
San Diego Reader