Mona steps into Desmond’s Tavern with a loan shark’s swagger.
She yanks the leash:
C’mon, shithead…
The Young Mutt slinks behind her, ears pinned back, wary of the REO Speedwagon blaring.
She squints, scanning the bar:
Seamus pours tequila shots at the elbow for a group of rowdy acting students.
A shaky postman nurses a neat bourbon, eyeing the kids like an escape.
A drunk firefighter teeters like a penguin in front of the digital jukebox, unlit cigarette between his lips.
A sun-baked, shrunken woman chomps gum, bopping her head between sips of Chablis, memories flickering.
Gerard dunks two teabags in a pint glass of boiling water, lost in a crossword—until he senses Mona and The Young Mutt.
I’m sorry, miss.
You can’t have that dog in here.
I’m meeting someone.
I don’t care who you’re meeting.
The board of health’ll crucify me.
Seamus bellows:
It’s okay, Gerry.
She’s here for Boone.
Boone?
It dawns on him:
Wait…
I know this dog.
And I know you.
You do?
Yes.
You were in Truffles.
Oh, well…
She blushes, then flips her hair:
Guilty as charged.
You were brilliant.
My wife and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Thank you so much.
It’s my pleasure.
May I buy you a drink?
That’s so kind.
The least I can do, madam.
What’ll it be?
Vodka-soda.
Gerard tosses cubes into the glass and thumbs toward the seated area in the rear.
Boone’s typin’ away back there,
givin’ that Dell a real beatin’.
Back down the bar, the students observe her, murmuring. They wave.
She nods back cordially. Gerard places the drink in front of her.
Cheers on that one, darlin’.
Thanks.
She raises the glass to her lips—the leash jerks taut, causing her to spill.
She grimaces:
The fuck’s your problem?
Chill.
The Young Mutt cowers and sits.
The back of the pub is empty—just Boone, sitting at a corner table, hammering at his laptop, sweaty pint of pilsner beside him.
She takes him in, relishing his oblivion. Old tenderness. Wistful.
Then, The Young Mutt barks.
Boone waves them back to his table with a brusque, director’s gesture.
She drops the leash. The Young Mutt rushes over to his feet. Boone lights up.
Marlon Brando—
What’s up, dude?
The dog rolls over. Boone rubs his belly.
Mona’s eyes half-roll, begrudging:
Looks like one of us missed you.
Of course, he did.
Rubbing becomes scratching. He finds the spot—the leg goes frantic.
Look at that—
Watch ‘em play that fiddle.
A final two-pat to the belly, signaling an end to the session. The Young Mutt hops to his feet.
How’d it go?
He shit on my rug.
I want an extra five bucks.
He snickers.
Sorry about that.
He pulls a fat roll of cash from his pocket.
I appreciate all your help.
Anything for the craft.
That’s the spirit.
He rolls the rubber band back and peels off six twenties atop the table.
That’s for the week.
And three more shits on your rug.
She gathers the bills, impressed.
Production work pays well?
Not bad.
Good enough to fund our next show?
If I work enough.
She catches herself being charmed—dials it back, sips her drink.
I didn’t know production jobs paid cash.
My buddy pays me…
I’m like a subcontractor.
Mm-hmm….
She’s not convinced.
Buy you a drink?
The bartender already bought me one.
I’ll buy you another.
I don’t want another.
Just came to drop the mutt off, huh?
And collect my money.
She stirs her drink, casual:
So…
What are you working on?
He leans in—like he’s been waiting for her to ask.
Only the best fuckin’ monologue I’ve ever written for you.
Really?
Oh yeah…
This is gonna be your Woman Under the Influence.
Let’s just hope it’s not my Opening Night…
Awkward silence. Easy familiarity.
She grins, dares to remember.
Watching those Cassavetes films at your place…
She cues the doll eyes.
The words slip easy off his tongue:
We hooked too early,
didn’t we?
We got it out of the way.
Did we?…
Hard stares—pinning one another.
Seamus smashes the moment:
Sorry to interrupt.
He places a fresh drink in front of Mona.
Courtesy of the acting students at the bar.
Said they’re from the American Academy of—
Dramatic Arts?
That’s the one.
Oh my God!
I went to AADA.
They’re aware.
Hence, the drink.
I think they’re fans.
Mona pivots toward her young admirers, then back to Seamus, brimming.
They know who I am?
Yes, ma’am.
They’d like for you to join ‘em at the bar—
If you don’t mind.
Mind?
Of course I don’t mind.
She turns to Boone:
Do you mind?
Not at all.
Do you wanna come?
Lemme pack up here.
I’ll be there in a sec.
She rises to walk over—
Beg your pardon,
they wanna meet the dog too.
Oh…
Well, of course.
She crouches to The Young Mutt’s level.
C’mon, Marlon.
Let’s go meet our fans.
She snatches the leash from the grimy floor and marches toward the bar.
Once she’s out of earshot, Seamus turns to Boone:
Have you told her what you’re doing?
No.
What d’you tell her?
I told her I have a production job.
Boone closes his laptop. Seamus chortles in disbelief.
A production job?
That pays cash?
Christ, Boone…
I finagled it.
It’s fine.
You think you can trust her?
They watch from the back of the pub: the students heap praise upon Mona as she basks.
No point in risking it.
She shoots Boone a smile and beckons him over. He raises a finger, buying another moment.
Smart man.
Jon wouldn’t approve.
Don’t forget, pal—
I vouched for you.
There’s fresh menace in Seamus’ voice. It takes Boone by surprise.
I won’t.