Wanted Man

“I’ve got to get out of this hot town,” Jacob Daniels murmured as he scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off.

Jacob had slept on a mere piece of cardboard. He had found the sheet of shipping container someone had tore from a used box the night before and made it into a bed. His backpack was his pillow.

The 28-year-old homeless man removed his T-shirt and wiped the sweat off his body. He put the cotton material over his head and rubbed the cloth vigorously, drying his sweat-soaked auburn hair.

“I’m tired of this,” Jacob whispered in disgust, “every damn morning it’s the same thing, wake up in filth and sweat!”

“You’re lucky to have wakened up,” Little Tom, who was aroused by Jacob and was now on his own feet as well, said.

“It never cooled down last night,” Jacob said to the smaller, much older man.

“I know it,” Little Tom said, nodding, “The heat came right through the sidewalk last night like we were sleeping on a grill.”

“Must still be ninety degrees and it isn’t even seven o’clock yet.”

“The ground temperature is always ten to twenty degrees or hotter than the air temperature,” Little Tom explained, “During the daytime the sun bakes the infrastructure and these sidewalks so much they never seem to cool down.”

Jacob slipped back into his soaked T-shirt and looked up and down Foremaster Street. The two homeless men had camped out midway up the street. On the hill, near Main Street, no one seemed to be stirring. That was where the hard-core drunks and drug addicts stayed. Cuban gangs and a mix of life’s misfits, rejects from society, lived there. They had makeshift tents made out of disaster blanks tied to the iron fence behind them. They were a noisy bunch, kept you up all night with their yelling and screaming and fighting. They’d party well into the morning hours until they passed out from abusing their gods, or got knocked out by someone who didn’t want to listen to them anymore, which ever came first.

Below, his eyesight flowing down the hill, toward Las Vegas Boulevard, most of the homeless who had slept on the sidewalk was stirring or were already aroused. They were at different stages of morning life. Some were already on their feet, packing up their gear. Others with backpacks and bedrolls slung over their shoulders were heading out in various directions up and down the street, some toward the coffee line, some toward the bus station, some on foot to go off to some purposeful destination, maybe the smoke shop on Main or the library on the boulevard, or someplace to find daytime shade in some park under a cool shade tree.

A couple of men were watering the fence posts twisting their necks constantly as they urinated keeping an eye out for cops.

Others were still sleeping in, some on pieces of cardboard, or sheets of newspaper. Some on blankets they found when they came in over night. Others slept, motionless forms, inside real sleeping bags. They’d be roused soon, for any moment now the battalion of Las Vegas Police vehicles, SUVs, patrol cars with emergency lights flashing and bullhorns blasting, and uniformed police foot soldiers converging on both side of the sidewalk would be coming down around the corner of Main Street and down the hill of Foremaster, followed by a large column of City of Las Vegas “Rapid Response Team” trucks and heavy-duty equipment like dump trucks pulling trailers loaded with bobcat bucket loaders. It gave the appearance of a large column of military vehicles, moving into a defenseless territory and with Soviet-style aggression oppressing the poor people whose community was invaded.

It happens every morning—the invasion on Foremaster—and it stays here. It stays here in Vegas like lots of things do.

The outside world never hears of such things as like this.

They would come soon, sure enough, like they did almost every morning.

Jacob Daniels wanted to be out of there before they came. Little Tom wanted to be out of there, too. No, he had to be out of there. So, Little Tom struggled to catch up to Jacob who was already well ahead of him, heading up the boulevard toward the library's direction.

“So, where are you going to go, back home?” Little Tom asked Jacob, his breath coming short.

“No, I can’t go back there.”

“Well, let’s pick someplace good and I’ll go with you,” Little Tom said, now stepping side by side of Jacob.

“Naw, I’d rather stay by myself,” Jacob said. He knew Little Tom was a wanted man and he didn’t want that kind of baggage holding him back. One could never tell what might come down keeping company with a wanted man, or when.

“I thought we were buddies, you and me,” Little Tom said, looking up at Jacob who was looking straight ahead.

Jacob didn’t say anything. Little Tom seemed to understand. It was always that way with friends he made on the road. When ever someone learned he was a fugitive from justice, they didn’t want to hang with him for much longer.

For a long time they walked without words.

Then Little Tom started telling Jacob places he could go. After all, he should know, he had been on the run for a long time and he knew all the homeless shelters and camps across the country.

"LA is bad, too big. Denver is no good. Neither is Detroit. If you go down south, it can get hotter than here. Up in Utah, Salt Lake ain't bad. If you go back east, New York, Jersey or someplace like that, it's okay, but it's damn cold in the winter time and...."

Suddenly from behind them came the sound of police sirens and tires screeching. Overhead a police helicopter soon hovered. Over the public address system of the patrol car came the announcement, “Get down on your knees on the sidewalk and keep your hands high above your head where we can clearly see them.”

“I’m done for now,” Little Tom said glancing up at the loud, low hovering chopper. “Ain’t no way for me to escape with that bird crapping right on top of my head.”

It seemed like eternity as the two men waited for the police to take action.

"Those damn street cameras," Little Tom sighed, "They don't miss a trick. I should of known."

“I’m sorry, Little Tom,” Jacob said, as he, too, knelt with his hands over his head.

“You ain’t as sorry as I am,” Little Tom laughed, “I should have been getting up earlier and moving out while it was still dark. But no, I had to get lazy and sleep in and let them get a good look at me on camera.”

The police officers were surrounding Little Tom and Jacob with guns drawn. Officers behind the two were putting handcuffs on the homeless men. Then they helped them to their feet and moved them in front of the patrol car.

“Are you Thomas Brite?” The police Sergeant asked Little Tom.

Little Tom nodded, “I am.”

“You are wanted in Fort Worth, Texas on a felony warrant.” The sergeant stated.

“Let the kid go,” Little Tom said, “He ain’t got nuthin’ to do with me, he don’t know nuthin’.”

“We’ll decide that, once we run a check on him,” the sergeant said as he led Little Tom to the backseat of the cruiser, “Watch your head.”

“See ya, Jacob,” Little Tom said, to his street buddy just before he climbed into the back of the cruiser and the door was closed.

A few moments later, after Jacob was clear of any charges or outstanding warrants, his backpack and person searched, the police released him. He stood on the sidewalk and watched Little Tom being hauled off to city lock up and would soon be proceeded for a return to Texas to answer the violent felon charges.

Jacob waved to Little Tom as the cruiser pulled away, and the other patrol cars and chopper resumed their duties elsewhere.

Alone, Jacob walked toward the library and then beyond toward the downtown transportation center. “These cops are good,” Jacob said out loud to himself, “Fugitives don’t have a chance in this town.”

And it was true. The Las Vegas police had an extraordinary record apprehending wanted fugitives.

Jacob felt sorry for Little Tom. He didn’t know the particulars of his crime, but he knew he seemed like a nice guy for the time he had known him. And, he knew Little Tom had been on the run for a long, long time. Now he wouldn't have to run any more if that was something good which could come out of a bad situation for him.

Like many of Jacob’s friends, good and bad, it always seemed like someone was always leaving.

What Jacob decided it was time he, too, was leaving.

And, so it was, after he reached the downtown transportation center, he cut across the lot and made his way up to Main Street, in front of the Main Street Station Hotel and Casino and then up past the Plaza Casino until he reached the Greyhound bus depot, where he purchased a one-way ticket to New Jersey.

Vegas would soon be just a memory.

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