Jindo Felas enters the basement bar. The bar is empty except for the Bartender who sits smoking, reading a magazine. Murky sunlight streams in through a small window.



Jindo: Give me a shot of Mr. John Daniels, Esquire.



Bartender: Bar's not open yet.



Jindo: What?



Bartender: [pause] Bar's. Not. Open. Yet.



Jindo: What time does it open?



Bartender: 3 o'clock.



Gina, a waitress, early 30's, pretty, enters from the kitchen, rear.



Gina: Manolo just called. He's not coming in tonight. He says he's sick.



Bartender: [very quietly, still reading magazine] Fucking terrific.



Gina: So I don't know who's going to cook tonight. I'm certainly not going to. I don't come here to fucking cook.



Jindo: Listen to me. I want that shot. I want a shot of Mr. John Daniels, Esquire. I'm asking you nicely now.



Bartender: [pause] Yeah. Sure. Why not. Coming right up. [continues to read magazine]



Gina: So if Manolo isn't coming in, not too much reason for me to stick around. I got other things I could be doing.



Bartender: Like what?



Gina: Excuse me?



Bartender: You heard me.



Jindo pulls out a handful of crumpled bills and begins to smooth them on the bar.



Gina: [noticing Jindo for the first time] None of your business.



Bartender: [going back to magazine, impassive] You fucking crank whore. Listen, before you leave do me a favor and pour our insane friend here a shot of J.D. He's getting on my nerves.



(to be continued)