Meet Me At Bob & Jude's

“Meet me at Bob & Jude’s,” the note read. It was signed, Dagger. I read the little note written on the back of a café receipt once more before turning into the back parking lot of Bob & Jude’s Roadside Stop, a roadside diner along a dusty, lonely Colorado road. I parked my black Impala in an open spot, put the gear in park, killed the engine, then locked my steering wheel in place. I got out, locked the door, and slammed it shut. It felt good to stand and stretch my legs. I had driven all the way from California to Colorado, which took seventeen hours, just to meet my source. But the leg cramps, long drives, and the possible looming threat on my life was all worth it. Honestly, this is why I chose journalism as my major in college. I wanted to uncover a giant government conspiracy like my idols Woodward and Bernstein—or Woodstein as they were called.

As I entered the diner, the little bell above the door tinkled and a waitress looked up from wiping down the bar. The diner was nearly empty, save for two or three other patrons quietly talking and eating in their respective tables and booths.

“Welcome to Bob & Jude’s,” the waitress, Annette, said with a warm smile. “How can I help you today?”

“Table for two, please,” I said, holding up two fingers. “Preferably in the corner.”

“Right this way,” Annette said, grabbing two menus. “Follow me.”

She led me to a quiet booth near the back of the diner and I sat down. After making sure I was comfortably settled, Annette set the menus down in front of me.

“Take your time,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” I said with a nod and a smile.

I looked around and noticed the diner’s décor for the first time. One wall was filled with license plates from all fifty states, another wall was filled with old-time records and albums—Elvis Presley, The Beatles, The Monkees, Abba, James Dean, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash, and so much more. Another wall was filled with the heads of dead game—deer, bears, antelopes, so on and so forth. There was a map of Colorado that covered one whole wall. It featured polaroid pictures of Colorado’s most popular tourist destinations—Rocky Mountain National Park, Mesa Verde National Park, Great Sand Dunes National Park, Garden of the Gods, Black Canyon, Pikes Peak, Red Rocks Park & Amphitheatre, Breckenridge Ski Resort… On the radio, Johnny Cash’s Flesh & Blood was playing softly.

I was getting too distracted and had to refocus on the task at hand. I pulled out the burner phone that Dagger had given me and proceeded to send him a secure text message.

I’m here waiting at Bob’s, I typed. I’m in the corner booth near the back. Where are you? Cloak.

I know, I saw you come in, came the quick reply. Sit still. I’ll be with you shortly. Dagger. P.S. Order a Denver omelet for me, will you? Coffee, black, two sugars.

Copy that, I responded.

Before long, Annette returned with her notepad and pen, ready to take my order.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I am. I’ll have a Burning Bear burger, please. Extra jalapeños with a side of fries. Thank you. And for my friend, a Denver omelet with black coffee, two sugars.”

“And for you?” Annette asked. “What would you like to drink?”

“Coffee,” I said. “With sugar and cream, thank you.”

“Would that be all?” Annette asked, writing down the orders.

“Yes, that would be all,” I said, nodding.

“So that’s a Burning Bear with extra jalapeños and fries,” Annette said, reading the items on the list. “One Denver omelet with black coffee, two sugars, and a coffee with cream and sugar.”

“Perfect,” I said with a smile.

“I’ll be back with your order,” she said, taking the menus from me and slipping her notepad and pen into her apron’s front pocket.

I took out the burner phone again and shot Dagger a text. Where the bloody Hell are you? I don’t play games and I don’t appreciate whatever game you’re playing here!

Patience, grasshopper, came the short, cryptic, infuriating reply. I was tempted to smash the phone on the diner’s hardwood floor. I had a national scandal to blow out of the water and I was running out of time—and patience. This was bigger than Watergate and the Kennedy assassination combined. The death of President Elbridge Thatcher—the second most hated president in American history after Donald J. Trump—was already making headlines. Something felt off about his death and my partner and I were hard at work to uncover the ugly truth. He is currently in Washington D.C., deep in enemy territory, chasing some promising leads. Our editor warned us to be cautious. Knowing Colton Sullivan, though, he’d be riding into the Gates of Hell with guns blazing and get himself killed. He was either brave, stupid, or both. I looked at the time on my regular phone and texted my source on the burner one last time.

Ten minutes, I texted. Ten minutes and that’s all I’m giving you. If you’re not here in ten minutes, I’m leaving. I have no time for this.

I told you to sit still, he texted me back. Your patience will be rewarded.

I tapped my pen rhythmically on the table to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic and tapped my foot at the same time, trying to hold on to that last inch of patience that I had. Just then, a tall thin man with sandy blonde hair came up to our booth with a tray in his hand. He set the burgers, fries, and coffee with cream in front of me and set the Denver omelet and black coffee on the opposite side. He set his duffel bag down on the seat opposite mine and slid into booth.

“Where’s Annette?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Who?” Dagger asked with a cryptic smile.

“Annette, the waitress,” I answered shortly.

“There is no waitress named Annette here,” he said, as he unzipped his bag and held up a red wig and a waitress’s uniform, with the nametag still attached.

“That was you?” I asked in both awe and annoyance. I felt as though I were in a spy movie or a spy novel. The codenames, the disguise, the remote location—it was Ian Fleming material.

“I didn’t want to risk anyone finding out,” Dagger said. “If anyone found out, I’d be dead. You’d be dead. Better safe than sorry.”

“Alright,” I said, as I bit into my burger. “What do you have for me?”

“Breakfast first,” he said. “Then we’ll get down to business.”

We made small talk while we ate, and before long, our plates were empty. He pushed our plates and utensils aside and spread out pages and photographs on the greasy, messy table—email communications and text messages from the CIA, FBI, Vice President Harry Burr—now President Burr, President Thatcher’s top generals and advisers, call logs, pictures of secret meetings and exchanges, and a list of potential assassins that they could employ. This was really big. The biggest story of my career.

“What are these names crossed out with red ink?” I asked Dagger.

“Those are the assassins who have failed to finish the job,” he said. “The ‘X’ right next to their names is a shoot-to-kill order from the top. They made sure to cover all their bases.”

“So all these assassins are dead?” I asked, making notes in my notepad.

“Exactly,” he said.

“Intereshting,” I mumbled, biting my pen. “And the one name crossed out with green ink?”

“The only assassin to succeed,” he answered.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, eager to take more notes. I was hungry—not for food but for information.

“The plan was for President Thatcher to be assassinated and for Vice President Burr to take over,” Dagger responded. “Then they would blame President Thatcher’s death on the Cubans, giving them an excuse to invade and wage war on Cuba. It’s a clever set up, if you ask me. Public outcry from Thatcher’s loyal constituents, President Burr’s vow of righteous retribution…”

Come to think of it, in the first half of his first term, there had been at least fourteen attempts on President Thatcher’s life. In the second half of his first term, there were twenty assassination attempts. Never have I ever seen such a hated American president in my life. It all makes sense now! Burr and his associates had planned this from the very beginning. They had an agenda—a war on Cuba—and they made sure no one would stand in their way.

“And it’s all in here?” I asked, after piecing together everything that I had learned.

“It’s all there,” Dagger confirmed. “Every communication, every money transfer, it’s all there.”

I had to call Colton. After many months of hard work and sleepless nights, we finally had our smoking gun. My hands trembled with a mixture of excitement and fear as I gathered the papers and stuffed them in my bag.

“No one must know that this came from me,” Dagger said. “Will you cite me as an anonymous source? Or at least don’t use my real name.”

“You have my word,” I assured him. “You will remain completely anonymous. No one will ever know who R.J. Dagger is.”

“Good,” he said, shaking my hand before leaving.

A few minutes later, “Annette” approached our booth.

“Can I take these for you?” she asked, taking the empty plates.

“Yes, please,” I said. “And I would like my bill.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll take care of these for you and I’ll be back with your bill, plus a refill of your coffee before you go.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Annette returned with my bill and a refill of my coffee. I reviewed my notes as I drank my second cup and then paid my bill. Annette returned with my receipt. At the back of it was another note.

“I just got word from the inside,” the note read. “Warn your partner. Your lives are in danger. There is a second kill list and your names are on it.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. It was time to hightail it out of there.

“The bathroom window in the men’s bathroom is open,” Annette said. “Use the middle stall.”

“Thank you,” I said, running to the bathroom. I left a dollar on the table for appearance’s sake before hastily retreating. I found the window above the middle stall open as “Annette” had said and I climbed out, jumping into the dumpster in the back. Gross. I’d have to change clothes somewhere along the way. But right now, the smell was the least of my worries. Right now, I had to get to safety and warn Colton about the threat on our lives. We had a story to write and we had to be alive to write it. I got in the car, unlocked the steering wheel lock, turned the key in the ignition, and sped out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust and smoke behind me. I drove down the highway with all my windows open while John Denver’s Country Roads, Take Me Home played on the radio and I watched as Bob & Jude’s Roadside Stop shrank in my rearview mirror.