Terry Riley's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Tyto Albo. White owl. The name circled Riley's head like a bird that would not land. He had said it without thinking, and that bothered him more than the break-in. He needed food. He needed to sit. He pointed his boots toward the little lakeside shack everyone called the 10/6 FoodSpot and let the fog swallow him. The shack sat low and warm on its wood deck, awning striped and faded. A clock ticked behind the order window. Riley took his usual tray — two chili dogs, fries, a tall root beer — and carried it to a bench out back. The first bite was perfect. The second tasted like nothing. He set the dog down and stared at the water. "Mind if I sit?" The man was already sitting. Purple three-piece suit. White hair. Glasses he did not need. He held a small glass of something amber and smiled like he had been waiting all evening. Riley did not answer. The man took that as yes. "Joey Bronson," he said. "You've been saying my owl's name all day, friend. Tyto Albo. Pretty bird. Horned, white as a sheet. Rare in the city." He sipped. "You should come hear some music. There's a place across town. The Swamp Ness. Blue sign, you can't miss it. Tonight would be a good night." Riley set his soda down slow. The jazz club had a name now. So did the man behind the feather. Bronson stood, brushed his sleeve, and tipped two fingers off his brow. "Make of that what you will," he said, and walked off into the fog. On the bench beside Riley's tray, a single pale feather lay where the man had been sitting. Riley picked it up. His chili dog had gone cold. He did not care. He had a name, an address, and an invitation, and he meant to take all three.