Boone emerges from the subway on the corner of Off-Off-Broadway and Canal, carrying the Banker’s Box through a sea of sweaty tourists and street hawkers.
He walks three blocks south on Broadway, leaving Chinatown and entering Tribeca. He stops in front of what looks like an office building.
He sets the box down to hold the door and emerges with a sandwich board bearing an illustrated poster: a truffle hunter and his dog with their bounty, a young woman looking on. Beneath it, the text reads:
Truffles / A Play by Boone Whitaker / Starring Henry Pearson and Mona Waggler
He gives the poster one last prideful glance, picks up the Banker’s Box and goes inside.
The performance space is an open loft with large picture windows, wood-plank floors and a set in the middle built to resemble a rustic cabin, complete with a bed. Bleacher-seating for 75 faces center stage.
Red leather, yellow leather—
Red leather, yellow leather,
Red leather!
Mona lies on the bed, projecting loud-voice exercises at the ceiling:
The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue!
The tip of the tongue,
The teeth,
The lips!
Henry sits cross-legged on the floor in a meditative state, wearing a pair of DJ headphones plugged into his iPod.
The Young Mutt lies feet away, gnawing on a chew toy shaped like a hot dog—erratic squeaks with every chomp.
The door screeches with Boone’s entrance—its sharp steel bottom rakes across the uneven planks.
Mona pops out of the bed and onto her feet—her voice lilts:
Yo, yo, yo!
He walks over to the bed.
Hey…
He shoves the Banker’s Box underneath.
What’s with the box?
Just a prop.
A little last-minute texture?
Something like that.
Henry pulls off his headphones, anxious to rattle off the words:
Hey, dude—
I brought Marlon Brando’s shit…
The squeaking stops—The Young Mutt looks up, taking in the scene.
Crate’s in my dressing room.
The little bastard is all yours.
Great.
Leave it in there.
I’ll get it tomorrow.
You’re taking him tonight.
That was the deal.
This show is over.
I’m done with that fuckin’ mutt.
All right.
Fine.
Relax…
Don’t tell me to relax—
I’ve had it.
Okay.
I get it.
Good…
The squeaking starts back up.
Henry pivots:
So where’s Margot taking us tonight?
Mona groans:
Anywhere but Les Halles…
Margot’s not coming.
She sneers:
What d’you mean?
I don’t know how much clearer I could be…
Suspicion puckers her face:
Why wouldn’t she come?
She leans in and gives him a sniff:
Have you been drinking?
Rhetorical questions don’t suit you.
Mona scoffs:
What did she do?…
Shitcan your ass?
She and Henry chuckle—trade a look of panic as realization hits.
Henry sighs:
Jesus Christ…
She spits:
Is that it?
She fuckin’ dumped you?
Boone shrugs.
Mona snaps:
What did you do?
Nothing.
I somehow find that hard to believe…
Boone’s phone rings. He looks at the caller ID: Unknown.
Is she pulling her funding?
Henry throws up his hands:
Welp—
it was fun while it lasted.
Another ring.
Mona presses:
We’re fucked, aren’t we?
Boone edges toward the door:
Let’s discuss this after the show—
No!
Asshole!
We discuss it now.
A third ring. Boone’s urgency ratchets up:
I gotta take this—
Run your lines…
Henry grabs his crotch:
Bite me.
The steel door slams shut.
Boone enters the stairwell and answers the phone.
Hello?
The voice on the other end is calm, sophisticated, with a mild Brooklyn accent:
Is this Boone?
This is Boone…
He fumbles his phone—it tumbles down the stairs.
Fuck!
He rushes to pick it up.
Hello?
Are you there?
I’m here.
He exits the stairwell and the building.
Sorry—
I dropped my phone.
The voice remains tranquil:
No need to apologize.
I’m a friend of Seamus’.
He told me to call you…
You know why I’m calling?
Boone lights a cigarette and walks down Broadway:
I do.
You still interested?
I am.
Good.
Seamus vouched for you.
I trust him dearly,
so I just need to get a look at you.
Give you a rundown of things.
See what you’re about.
How’s that sound?
Sounds great.
You got a pen?
He puts the smoke in his mouth and pats himself down.
No, I don’t.
Aren’t you some kind of writer?
I’m one kind—
How does a writer not have a pen?
I type on a laptop.
A long silence…
Hello?
I’m here.
Oh…
Sorry.
Stop fuckin’ apologizin’.
Okay.
Listen:
There’s a cafe on the corner of Twelfth and Avenue B.
It’s called B Cup.
Be there tomorrow at 1 p.m.
How’ll I know it’s you?
You’ll know.
Just be there.
Got it?
Boone swallows hard.
Got it.
Jon hangs up. Boone casts a reluctant look back toward the theater then takes a long drag from his cigarette.