RENO CARSON

“Reno Carson was no friend of mine. Let’s make that clear from the get go. Where he was headed or where he was destined, I have no idea, nor concept. He dealt cards with a higher order, and frowned upon those that couldn’t keep up. I was one of the latter. He shuffled off, is all know, and it’s bound to be all I can tell you.”

Another fella spoke up. Why he offered the information I don’t know, but I was grateful for it. “There was some said he headed north, but North of here is plenty far north. I don’t think you want to be caught North. My bets either, West…or East…or maybe, South.”

I thanked him for narrowing down the parameters. He said, think nothing of it, so I dismissed it. I had my hands full and no help getting a start.

“He may even be in a big city. Someplace back East. Sittin’ pretty.”

That thought had crossed my mind as well, and if that’s the case, I am at a loss. I simply do not have the men nor resources to carry out such a manhunt.

And would he survive in a Philadelphia, New York, or even Atlanta...Miami was out of the question, but New Orleans…? 

South was Mexico, and if he made it, he had it made, but that was long trek.

Out West, there was both solitude, and opportunity…he’d be ready for each.

I’ll sleep on it, but tomorrow just might find me on a westbound trail.

That was five years ago and the dust on the trail had settled to nothing. Nothing was stirring. I was piss outa luck. By this point, I had landed in a bar in Bakersfield where I had taken up semi-permanent residency, at least for the time being. The bar shall go nameless, which it was – Nameless. Which is lame, but just the same, coincidences happen, and happened to be at this bar. 

A guy comes in and sits down next to me…a couple stools down, and for the longest time we stare at our beer, raise the glass, then order another. Finally, I turned to look at him (all this time we were communicating, and very little, as reflections in a smudged mirror). I was struck...Reno Carson!

It turns out he was just released from a Canadian prison. He had tried to steal an auto-mobile, with little success, and had been incarcerated all along.  He was arrested as ‘Wendell Hamilton’, which, apparently, was his real name. All those years, and no one knew. No one had reason to check otherwise.

I told him my story. I made it the condensed version,

He shook his head and said, “Oh man, I’m sorry,”

“So am I.”

We sat there and drank, and, still do so, on a regular basis. 

"You still need to catch me?"

"No. The hunt is over…been over a long time. I just didn’t know."

V