In his wake he leaves the world as this friend's most unforgettable character, should Reader's Digest wish to inquire. Did you know him?
        I crossed paths with Charlie somewhere around 1969 in Spokane. There were common friends and there was Playfair Race Track. Always the warm smile, always a mysterious ability to vanish into thin air, which became part of his legend. 

        Charlie, at the age of 18, had been out on the road with a dying old man, a gambler, a gentleman who had spent his life around paddocks, watching horses run, with a vested interest. Horses only, no other gambling, a purist. Before passing, he had seen something in the Tuna, that suggested he had found a worthy heir to the vast knowledge he had acquired, on endless rainy nights at the race track, a solo act, away from the mainstream. It was a science and there was a method. 
        In those years on the road, Bay Meadows, Boise, Portland, Hollywood Park, even a turn or two around the "fair circuit," Tuna never bet. It wasn't part of the training. He watched films, he met trainers, he learned about injuries to the animals and their recovery time, he could see a jockey straining to slow a winner, as an 11-1 shot glided by in the stretch. The old man taught him well. 

        Somewhere in there, in the early 70s', I lost track of Charlie. After relocating in Portland, on a sunny Sunday afternoon at the Meadows, he pops up. Good to see him, same smile - says he's staying in a room downtown. I tell him to move out, come stay with us as long as he is here. "Can you run me by the hotel to get my bag?" Sure Charlie. 
        Downtown, the car running, here comes Charlie with his "bag," a brown paper sack with a toothbrush and some clean underwear. And a plane ticket south, for that year's Hollywood Derby or some such grand affair. Meanwhile, he's in Portland briefly, picking off some "crooks" as he calls the owners and trainers at small racetracks.

        Charlie in his frumpy ski jacket, worn jeans and tennis shoes, a full-bodied giggler, seldom bet. He would while away the hours, watching the monitors of the race reruns at the track, leaning over the rail on foggy mornings when the horses, the exercise boy and Charlie could all see their breath. He would endear himself somehow to trainers with his sincere charms and then, after a month of such learning and watching, he would march to the betting window with $2,000, for one long-priced horse which he would say "The crooks are setting up," pick up his $10,000 after the race and leave town sometime that night. That was the Tuna. We never knew just what he saw, but when he did, it was a payday. 

        Never could ask him though. He worked for his knowledge and had little interest in anyone, even his friends, messing with that tote board on account of his sharing a hunch. It was all business.  Not that we didn't try to follow him to the betting window or get a glimpse of his wild marking on a program. He wasn't sharing. Except once. 
        He had arrived at the Northeast Boys Club, a fine old Irvington neighborhood house some of us boys shared in Portland. There was always a couch for Charlie, and he never needed to announce his impending visit. On this night, my business partner Peter and I, reeling from the poverty that goes hand in hand with a new business, in our case a import music store, were watching something or other on the TV when Tuna walked in, handed me a pack of Viceroy cigarettes and plopped down. 

        Now, the Tuna, somewhat of a legend amongst our group, had an irritating habit of never saying goodbye. He would lean in the kitchen, say, "I'm going to the store, does anyone need anything?" "Sure Charlie, get me a pack of Viceroys wouldja."
        Six months, nine months, a year and a half later, Charlie would show up, hand you your pack of Viceroys and blend in as if he'd been gone 15 minutes. It became known as "pulling a Tuna." So we began to try to catch him. Force him to say goodbye. Unsuccessfully. He would go to all ends to slip away without a parting word. He'd leave change of $18.25 on the bar, with his first drink and a quick trip to the bathroom,  then we'd see him 200 days later. We tried canvassing bus stations, airports and even had people watch his car, but it was a game we couldn't win, getting Charlie to say goodbye. 

        On this night, Peter and I were a little too broke to run out to the Meadows with the Tuna, who was headed to California the next day to bet on Telly Savales's horse, "Telly's Pop" in the Hollywood Derby. We must have looked a little jealous because Charlie asked, "How much you guys got on ya?" Between us, it was less than $20. "Wanna go to Hollywood Park with me?" Yeah - right Charlie. 

        Long story short - we follow him to the Meadows, he disappears as usual, shows up seven races later with the news that our $20 is now $700 and we can either have it, or let him roll with it, he just thought he'd give us the choice. The next morning, we're calling our equally-poor partner from the airport ("Can't open the shop - going to the Hollywood Derby") and getting on a plane to LA for Derby Day, and have more than $500 apiece to wager - from the previous night of sharing a twenty and wondering about the next meal. Great day, never saw the Tuna till we were back at the airport, him with $8,000 of new money, us trying to scrape up money for smokes. Tuna smiling sadly,  shaking his head as us, the buffoons that we were. But oh Lord, what a day it was. 

        Tuna grew to love us, show up whenever he was in the state. He kept a place with his crazy old mom near Auburn. But he really didn't live anywhere. For most of his life, he stayed under the radar. Didn't trust banks, didn't trust the government, but as well-read as anyone, in terms of current events. Somewhere on that land, he told me one booze-saturated evening, he had been burying money in coffee cans for decades - "for Mom and me," he said. A family man at heart, the first thing he would always ask you is, "How's your folks"? or "How's that sister of yours?" No way anyone would peg him as a gambler.

        Charlie, at 54, was bitten by a spider a while back and started to have some trouble in mid-January with flu-like symptoms. By the time he got to the hospital, it was "flesh-eating disease" and he was gone twice before he went for good I'm told. His 85-year old mother is said to be very lonely already, and the hope here is that the Tuna gave her a map to the coffee cans. Quite sure that he would have.
        There's said to be a gathering being planned to celebrate the Tuna's colorful existence.. I wouldn't miss it. The crowd will be huge and compelling. Captains of the horse racing industry,  shaky old railbirds from the empty-pocket-and-a-long-walk-home side of the business, those of us who only saw him bi-annually, like a visiting comet ?? all shedding real tears for a true original. 
        Somewhere in time, if I live long enough, when the Tuna's will is sorted out, I know I'm going to get the last pack of Viceroys he bought for me before he ducked out for the last time. Six-to-one says I'm right.

(OMED: "Charlie the Tuna" is a "runyonesque" moniker.  To find out what that means, click here..)

© 2003 Michael O'Brien, who works the sports desk for the Tillamook Headlight Herald