the tunnels – part 16

Jude asked me to meet him for a late Sunday afternoon brunch at a cafe on Carmine and Bedford.   The place was tiny and relatively empty.  It faced out on to one of those confusing West Village triangles.  Although there was a sprinkling of sidewalk tables, I found Jude at a small table in front of a rectangular pole – next to the bar.  He was drinking what looked like vodka on the rocks and staring off into space.

“Hey, Norah,” he said, sheepishly, as he slid out of his chair to stand up.

“Jude,” I gave him a weak hug.

“You’re late,” he grinned.

“I know,” I smiled.  “I don’t get around like I used to.”  And it was true.  My hip was sore and I liked to rest on the weekends – though it was good for me to get out.

“So, order something – anything you like,” Jude said kind of stiffly.

“Thank you,”  I said, opening the menu and eyeing the blackboard specials.

“Their eggs are pretty good.  How have you been? You’re working finally,” Jude said, wryly.

“I am.  I’m happy,” I lied, although part of me was happy to be leading a simpler life.  “How about you?”

“Well, I’m back from the beach for awhile,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

“How was it?  Fruitful?” I asked.

“I’m just here for a couple of weeks,” Jude said, ignoring my question.

A disheveled waiter, who looked exhausted and possibly hungover, or both, approached our table.

“I’ll have the eggs rancheros,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t eat a bite. “And coffee.”

“So what are you doing at ‘The Record?’” Jude asked.

“I’m working on local crime stuff mostly,” I said.  “You know, finding people who don’t want to be found and making their lives miserable,” I said.

“Well, well, well,” Jude smiled. “What has happened to our star producer?  She’s become a beat reporter at a local paper.”

“I suppose I have,” I grinned.

“And you had such potential,” he said.

“To?” My coffee had arrived and I was grateful.

Jude took a sip of his drink.  “I thought you might have worked for us one day,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I thought so too.  There were times I wanted to throw myself on your mercy and come work for the dark side,” I shifted my weight off my bad hip.  “But I remembered I was a journalist and someone has to stay objective,” I said.

Jude burst out laughing.  I laughed with him.  “Ah, Jude.  not everyone can be bought,” I said.

“It’s nice to know you feel that way,” he said.

“I’m sorry I can’t say the same for Lauren Parker,” I said.  “I’ve thought of you a few times since she went to jail.”  Lauren Parker was currently serving time in prison for not revealing who one of her sources was in her WMD stories.

“I don’t know why she won’t cooperate,” Jude said.  “It’s a matter of national security.”

“She’s doing something reporters are allowed to do.  She’s protecting a source,” I answered.  “Do you think someone got mad at her?  Dropped a dime on her?  Didn’t she play nicely?”

“It’s good to see you working for a local paper,” Jude laughed.

“Don’t be so sure I can’t change things from where I sit now,” I smiled.  “Perhaps Osama reads the tabs,”  I winked.

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