Inside Desmond’s Tavern, the afternoon air smells of last night’s pints—the wood bar and floorboards sweating it out through sticky residue and stale beer reek.
Boone tips back the last swallow of pilsner and slides the empty glass conspicuously toward the service well. There’s an impatient glimmer in his eye as he looks down the bar, where Seamus is preoccupied with a small group of tourists.
The Banker’s Box sits on the stool next to him. The label reads: Personal Effects—Boone in purple permanent marker and flowery cursive. The box is sealed with a piece of blue painter’s tape, a strand of Margot’s gray hair caught beneath the strip. He plucks it free:
Fuckin’ unbelievable.
He flicks the hair and rips off the lid, popping the tape and drawing a few looks in the quiet Murray Hill pub.
Seamus gives him a nod from behind a pair of coke-bottle glasses.
Boone nods back, sets the box atop the bar and examines the contents.
At the top of the heap: a half-empty bottle of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid and a toothbrush wrapped in aluminum foil. Beneath them: a Knicks beanie, a pair of watermelon-printed swim trunks and a rolled-up navy T-shirt.
He unravels the shirt and holds it up to reveal a gold WVU logo with half a decade of wear. He sets the shirt aside, revealing a framed photo of him and Margot seated at Les Halles, a smiling Anthony Bourdain leaning in behind them—glasses raised mid-toast.
The next layer is a manuscript, which is printed on three-hole-punched white copy paper, bound by three brass brads. The title page reads: Truffles by Boone Whitaker. He checks the inscription inside to see if it survived: To Margot, to whom I owe everything.
He sets the script aside and continues digging—a heap of published plays: True West, American Buffalo, Buried Child, Fool for Love, and Little Murders—beaten, battered, dog-eared and marked-up.
Seamus’ gravelly brogue brings him back to reality:
You know he used to be in here all the fuckin’ time.
He looks up—Seamus delivers the pint while pointing at the autographed headshot of Anthony Bourdain behind the bar:
I’m here all the time.
I’m aware.
Sorry…
These fuckers have me in tour guide mode.
Boone repacks the stuff and lids the box. He sets it on the stool next to him and raises his glass:
Here’s to sifting through wreckage.
He takes a long drink.
She did bankroll two of your plays…
Boone winks:
Plus a handsome stipend.
Seamus seizes a bottle of Jameson and pours them two shots:
Fuckin’ the British is good sport.
He sets one of the shots in front of Boone, then raises his own:
Down with the Crown,
Up with the Town
They toss back their shots and slam the empties atop the bar—Seamus removes them.
Moments pass. Something gnaws at Boone until he breaks:
Did you call that guy for me?
I did.
What’d he say?
He said that he’d give you a call.
Do you think he will?
I gave him your number.
Expect a call.
So, that’s it?
That’s it.
What’s his name?
His name’s Jon.
He’s an old friend.
He’s gonna help you out.
Sounds like easy money.
Sure…
If you don’t mind the whole legality issue.
I don’t.
Perfect job for a writer too.
A lotta sittin’ around the pub,
when you’re not runnin’ around.
Sign me up.
Gerard comes up from the basement with a fresh till and a copy of The Daily News under his arm—his white shirt untucked, black tie limp, reddish hair like a toupee that isn’t. He spots Boone at the bar.
Hey there, Boonie Tunes!
What’s up, Gerry?
They shake hands.
How’s the play going?
We close tonight.
I tell ya’—
The Wife and I really enjoyed it.
Thanks.
That dog is one helluva actor—
without a single line of dialogue.
You can’t teach that kind of brooding presence.
No, you can’t.
You know—
I read that review in The Times.
I didn’t think it was that terrible.
Really?
The critic just really liked the dog’s performance.
That’s not an indictment of the other actors…
Certainly not the play itself.
He described my writing as masturbatory.
Gerard shrugs:
It’s only an insult if you think masturbation is bad.
He takes notice of the Banker’s Box on the stool next to Boone.
What’s this?
You get fired or something?
Sort of—
Gerard slaps him on the back.
Ah, buck up!
That’s the life of a writer, ain’t it?
Poverty is good for the pen.
Is it?
So I’ve read…
Speaking of reading.
Did you see this?
He tosses the tabloid on the bar in front of Boone.
The cover reads: IRAQI GIRL RAPED, FAMILY SLAIN BY U.S. TROOPS.
I saw it.
Gerard cringes:
She was 14.
I tell you, this fucker—Bush.
Seamus snarls:
He’s a fuckin’ war criminal!
There’s protests down at Union Square all week.
The Wife, Seamus and me are going this weekend.
You wanna come?
No thanks.
You’re against the war, ain’t ya’?
I am…
I just don’t see the fuckin’ point.
World’s on fire, lad.
Boone picks up his pint:
It was burning when I arrived.
It’ll be smoldering when I leave.
Seamus and Gerard trade glances, conceding the point.