How did the deal get done? Lobbying helped. The Havenicks employ three lobbyists — Quinton Greene, Manny Prieguez and Ron Book, or Ronnie, as Izzy calls him, who has been with the family since "I was 10" — for about $200,000 a year. In addition, pari-mutuels gave $1.6 million to political campaigns in 2008, according to the National Institute on Money in State Politics.
Legislators such as state Sen. Dennis Jones and the House majority whip, Miamian Carlos Lopez-Cantera, were some of the main proponents of the tax break. Unsurprisingly, they were among the top ten beneficiaries of political industry contributions in 2008, receiving nearly $100,000, with Lopez-Cantera getting $15,500. "It's not a bone we're throwing them," he says. "If they make money, we make money. It may not be the windfall they're expecting, but if the state doesn't suffer, I don't see the harm in it. If the state makes money and they make money, that's great. That's capitalism."
Jacek Gancarz
Magic City Casino now and then: Greyhounds and old-timers are its bread and butter today, but it was once the White House of dog racing.
Jacek Gancarz
The casino beats to a steady bass line of shuffling plastic chips, loudmouth players, and shrill slot machines.
Because of the money guaranteed for schools, the measure was backed by teachers unions. In fact, the state Legislature's Office of Economic Research forecasts that more people will be playing slots — so the total amount received by the state should grow back to its present level of about $113 million annually by 2013.
Gov. Charlie Crist signed the measure into law last week, and it takes effect in July. He called it "an example of elevating problem-solving over ideology."
The management office at Magic City is Izzy Havenick's shabbier home away from home. The 32-year-old leaves his $1.5 million house in Miami Beach every morning with his bullmastiff, Kitty, and drives to an office that overlooks the now-impressive dog track. He's the opposite of the slender greyhounds that run here weekdays — a chubby poodle of a man with pudding cheeks and a golfer's tan. He walks around in khakis and a Magic City guayabera. Only his hair, which is sooted with grey specks, suggests he's the guy in charge.
On his desk, there are blueprints to develop the track's old racing theater, a soundstage-like facility that's been empty since Hurricane Andrew tore off its roof.
He'd like to bring back the flea market and then build stores and cafes around the building, much as Gulfstream did at the recently opened The Village at Gulfstream Park. "Our family is invested in this project," he says. "We definitely see a future of retail, restaurants, and bars, not just the casino and the dogs."
Those plans will likely work out. Combined with earnings from slots, jai alai, dog tracks, and race tracks, the Florida gambling industry earned a total $1.1 billion in 2009, according to the Florida Department of Business and Professional Regulation.
That will go higher, says Bob Jarvis, a gambling law professor at Nova Southeastern University in Davie. The Seminole compact opens the door to hotels and amusements that have made gaming a $4.3 trillion industry in Nevada. "Eventually the Legislature will decide the horse is so out of the barn we might as well have full-scale gambling in Florida," he says. "And if you have that, prepare to see the Steve Wynns, the Donald Trumps developing all along the beaches."
And eventually, the racing and jai-alai will disappear. "Even the owners don't want dogs," Jarvis says. "Horses you gotta feed and jai alai players can go on strike. If [owners] could just have 24/7 gambling and get rid of horses and dogs, they'd do it in a heartbeat."
A few hours with Isaac Delvalle will convince you Jarvis might just be right. Two days after his first beating, Delvalle is back at Magic City after leaving the Miccosukee casino at dawn. He didn't do well; in fact he was thrown out when he called a dealer a hija de puta. He'd borrowed $60 to play there, and he's at Magic City to recoup the loss.
He spends the next several hours getting gob-smacked and winning small pots. A 29-year-old, curly-haired, pregnant beauty with a nose ring takes him for a $32 pot, but at the end of the night, he leaves with $40 on a $20 investment.
"What do you think I'm going to do next? Of course I'm going to Miccosukee. They have high hands all night long."
