The Night Listener : A Novel

from a table in the back.
    I looked away, ashamed of my ridiculous need, then slapped money on the table and left.
    It was snowing now, really hard, and the flakes were gross and misshapen, not at all the miracles of symmetry they’re supposed to be. The air was suddenly much colder, so I turned up my collar and hurried back to the car—or where I thought it should be—but the snowbank I’d parked against had disappeared. For a moment, I admit, it all seemed part of a theme, as if some giant celestial eraser was rubbing out everything familiar to me. Panicking a little, I picked up my pace and changed directions on Henzke Street, then studied the storefronts carefully until I found the Mail ‘n’ More. I sighed with relief when I spotted that anonymous white vehicle around the corner, just where I had parked it. This is my base camp, I thought, my only true constant in this shifting wilderness.
    I started the engine and turned on the heater full blast, rubbing my hands together furiously. The windshield had been whited out by the snow, so I reached for the wiper knob, only to stop when I noticed something strange: a pattern of sorts, like a runic inscription, etched on the glass. A passerby—some kid, no doubt—had written something there that was disappearing rapidly in the latest flurry.
    The letters were cursive and impossible to decipher in reverse, so I climbed out of the car and studied the thing head-on. It was a short word—no more than five or six letters—but its meaning wasn’t readily apparent. The second letter was probably an O, the last a D or a T, though I couldn’t tell anything for sure.
    What was wrong with me anyway? Why was I looking for clues in such a random and offhanded act? Worried for my sanity, I climbed into the car again and turned on the wipers without a second look.
    What now?
    I drove around for almost an hour, longing for the shock of recognition in a place I’d never seen. There were several streets with the kind of bungalows I’d envisioned, but many more were lined with new brick condos and town houses, any one of which could easily have harbored Pete. Meanwhile, the light was beginning to fade and the snow was becoming a serious threat. It led me into a ditch, in fact, when I could no longer distinguish the line between street and sidewalk. I escaped after a brief spinning of wheels, but the message had been delivered just the same: You don’t know where you are or where you’re going or even how to drive in this mess. Why don’t you go home, pilgrim?
    Home for the moment was the Lake-Vue. I took a hot shower, changed into sweats, and dug out a joint I had stashed in my shaving kit. I smoked it on the bed as I considered my options, wishing Jess were there to egg me on, to curb my unending cautiousness. Jess would have a plan, even now, some risky renegade scheme that would scare the shit out of me but end up, as usual, working very nicely.
    Why not call him? I needed to touch base again, if only to tell him he’d been on my mind in the midst of this frustrating quest.
    I picked up the phone and dialled. It was midafternoon in San Francisco, a good time to reach him usually, and I figured he’d be at his place then. He answered after three rings, laughing uncontrollably. At least I assumed it was him.
    “Jess? What’s so funny?”
    “Who’s calling?” asked a man whose voice I didn’t recognize. He was laughing even harder, as if somebody there was goosing him repeatedly. Could this actually be Frank, the motorcycle buddy?
    My blood turned to ice water. “This is Gabriel…Noone.”
    “Oh…hang on.”
    A muffled moment or two, and then: “Hi. Where are you?”
    “Is this a bad time?” I asked coldly.
    “No…no…not at all.”
    “Sounds like it is.”
    “Oh, that’s just Tom from down the hall. Being silly.” Jess knew what I was thinking, and was trying hard to sound matter-of-fact, either because my fears were unfounded or because they weren’t.
    “He came over to watch a documentary on Jung,” Jess added. “He doesn’t have a TV.”
    And you do? I thought. When did you get a TV? You’re not even supposed to like TV. You gave me hell about it constantly, called it a drug and a depressant, a brain-rotting waste of time. And why would you lay out that kind of money, if you have any intention of coming home?
    “Have you found him?” asked Jess.
    “Who?”
    “Pete.”
    “Oh.” My mind was no longer working, at least not on our