Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

by Quentin Tarantino

  Bob’s hand inched toward his holster.

  Johnny blinked.

  Bob’s body jerked left as his hand grabbed the grip of the pistol, then his body violently jerked right as Johnny’s bullet burrowed smack-dab into his pumping heart.

  The pistol he had just cleared tumbled out of his useless fingers, bouncing off the wood porch into the powdery brown dirt. The big man dressed in black teeter-tottered on his black shiny bootheels and fell face forward down the steps into the street, tipping over a pickle barrel, spilling pickles and pickle water into the dirt.

  And so ends the impressive career of Business Bob Gilbert, Johnny thought. The man in the sangria-red ruffled shirt standing in the street with pickles by his feet pointed the still-smoking barrel of his gun in the direction of the three porch owl hoots, asking them in Spanish, “Anybody else?”

  When Johnny entered the saloon, seven of Caleb’s other land pirates, who were playing poker at tables, smoking cigars, or drinking booze at the bar, raised their eyes to see the fella in the red ruffled shirt who put Bob outta business. No one looked too angry at the turn of events. I guess Bob didn’t make it his business to make friends. Then, from way above his head, Johnny Lancer heard shouted out, “Johnny Madrid!”

  His eyes rose and he found his ole’ buddy Caleb DeCoteau standing on the second-floor landing, leaning against the impressive wood banister, looking down at him with a smile on his hairy face as big and wide as Texas.

  “How long’s it been?” the bad man in brown asked the bad man in red.

  Johnny didn’t have to think; he knew. “Oh, since that time in Juarez. ’Bout three years ago.”

  Caleb blew out smoke from the cheroot in his mouth and said, “Well, come on in and have a drink.”

  As Johnny crossed the saloon floor heading toward the foot of the staircase, he asked, “So I don’t gotta wait till Ladies’ Night?”

  The two tough guys made their tough-guy jokes. “Well, rules were made to be broken.”

  Ha ha, Johnny thought. “Well, in that case,” Johnny offered, “buy ya a drink, Caleb?”

  “Sure, Johnny,” Caleb said as he slowly descended the staircase. “How ’bout some mez-cow? Like that time in Juarez.”

  Johnny let out a soft chuckle as he shook his head at the memory and said, “A lot of people died that day.”

  “Yes, they did,” Caleb said as he finished descending the stairs. “But we had a good time, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we did,” Johnny replied with a conspiratorial smile at the grim but lively memory. Then, gesturing toward the long brown bar across the room, Madrid said, “After you, DeCoteau.”

  As the two men walked in step toward the bar, Caleb called out to the pathetic wreck that owned the establishment, “Pepe, get your be-hind behind that bar—I got a guest!”

  As Johnny crossed the length of the floor, his eyes took in the Gilded Lily. It was actually an impressive saloon, befitting a town built by cattle money. He also contemplated his next plan of action. Or at least he would have if he had a plan. Once he learned he’d receive one-third of a fortune for killing an old friend, it just naturally seemed appropriate to reintroduce himself. But to what end, exactly? Well, exactly, he hadn’t quite figured out yet. Since he knew Caleb, if he was backing Murdock’s play, it seemed like a smart move to offer DeCoteau his services. Then he could work from the inside. Well, if that was still the plan, then it was a good one, provided Caleb wasn’t privy to the knowledge that Johnny was Murdock’s son. If he was, it would be Johnny’s funeral. So if the plan was to stop Caleb and get his father’s beef, so far so good. But ever since he was twelve and he broke ground on his mother’s grave, Johnny had another plan: Make Murdock Lancer pay for what he did to him and his momma. And, frankly, in that department Caleb was doing a better job than Johnny ever could. The old man was at the end of his rope. He was desperate. So the real question was, what did Johnny want more? Money or blood? His father’s ranch or his mother’s revenge? Security or satisfaction?

  Pepe moved behind the bar and took the two men’s orders. “Dos mescal,” Johnny said. Then the cowboy asked in Spanish, “Any food?” Pepe answered, “Just beans and tortillas.”

  Johnny turned to Caleb. “How’s the beans?”

  “I’ve had worse,” was his reply.

  Johnny turned to Pepe and said in Spanish, “Give me a plate of beans.”

  “One dollar,” was Pepe’s hostile reply in English.

  Johnny turned back toward Caleb and remarked, “A dollar for beans is kinda steep, or am I crazy?”

  Smashing some peanut shells on the bar with his fist, Caleb justified, “Hey, Pepe’s got a right to make a livin’ too.” He then picked out the peanuts from the pile of smashed shells and popped them in his mouth.

  Johnny snorted, “What, your boys aren’t big spenders?” Mr. Madrid slapped a big coin on the bar. Pepe noisily slid the coin off and into his hand, made a face at Johnny, and fetched the mescal bottle. He poured it into two clay cups.

  “A toast!” Caleb declared, as he raised his cup in the air. Johnny did the same. “To my wife and all my sweethearts—may they never meet.” Johnny and Caleb clinked clay cups, then tossed the fiery-tasting booze down their gullets. Caleb gestured to a lone brown table located toward the back of the saloon. “Señor Madrid, would you care to join me at my table where I entertain my guests?” Johnny did a slight bow and assured him, “I would be delighted, Monsieur DeCoteau.” Caleb headed toward the table, barking over his shoulder, “Take the bottle witcha.” Johnny turned on his heels and snatched the mescal bottle off the bar.

  The lead land pirate scraped a wooden chair noisily out from under the table and dropped his ass into it. “So, Johnny, what brings you to Royo del Oro?”

  “Oh, you know me, Caleb,” he said as he poured both himself and his host another snort of mescal. “Money.”

  Caleb knocked back his firewater and asked, “Who’s payin’ you ’round ’ere?”

  Johnny took a sip of his drink and said, “I hope you.”

  Giving his guest his full attention, Caleb asked the million-peso question: “And what have you heard about me?”

  “I heard about the Lancer Ranch,” Johnny told him truthfully. “I heard about all the cattle you’ve appropriated. Lotta land, lotta cows, lotta money, no law to speak of. And nothin’ but an old man and some Mexican ranch hands to shoo ya off.”

  Pepe arrived with a big plate of runny beans and a big wooden spoon and placed it in front of Johnny.

  Caleb poured himself more hooch and asked, “And what pray tell business is that of yours?”

  “Same business as Business Bob’s. I want me a job,” Johnny said, straight no chaser. Then added, “And seein’ as you’ve just had a opening, I’d like to fill it.”

  “Doin’ what?” the outlaw asked.

  Johnny took another sip of booze, then, after a small dramatic pause, said “Killin’ Murdock Lancer.”

  That raised his ole’ buddy’s bushy eyebrows.

  Johnny picked up the lime wedge that came with the mescal and squeezed it over his plate of beans. “You pushin’ that old man pretty hard. But that old man’s got money. And Lancer’s wealth is trouble with a capital T when it comes to you, Caleb old boy. ’Cause sure as God made little green apples, sooner or later, one of these days he’s gonna hire some guns and push back. And that ain’t gonna be his fellas versus your fellas, and best fellas win. The name of that game is gonna be Kill Caleb DeCoteau.”

  That statement caused Caleb to make a face.

  Johnny picked up a little jug filled with hot sauce and began to sprinkle it over the beans, as he continued, “With you dead? All these prairie dogs you got workin’ fer ya will find some new hole to live in. With you dead? Life goes back the way it was. And when you’re Murdock goddamn Lancer, life’s pretty fuckin’ sweet. Yeah,” Johnny said, as he scooped up some of the beans he’d just prepared in the big wooden spoon, “Murdock Lancer will pay a pretty penny for that.
” Johnny put the spoon in his mouth and began to chew.

  The outlaw narrowed his eyes at him and said, “Maybe he already has.”

  “Maybe,” Johnny said with his mouth full, then he swallowed and said, “But maybe I don’t like Lancer, and maybe I don’t like his boots.”

  “What’s not to like about Murdock Lancer’s boots?” Caleb asked.

  “How he uses them,” Johnny replied.

  “How’s he use ’em?” Caleb asked.

  “To step on people,” Johnny answered.

  Then, pointing his finger across the table at his host, Johnny added, “But you, Caleb, you I like. I’d much rather work for you stickin’ a weed up that old man’s ass than fight against you defending Murdock Lancer’s cows.” Taking a dramatic pause, Johnny finished, “Provided you can pay my price.” After Johnny said that out loud, he realized, That ain’t too far from the truth.

  Caleb smiled and inquired, “What’s your price these days, Johnny?”

  Johnny stuck the wooden spoon filled with frijoles into his mouth, chewed a bit as he thought, then said with his mouth full, “Well, I think today I’m worth more than you paid Business Bob,” swallowing and grinning at Caleb.

  Caleb smiled back and ordered, “Git your horse. Put him in our stable.” He pointed at one of the doors at the top of the stairs. “You’ll sleep there tonight. We hit the Lancer Ranch tomorrow morning. I pay quality men in fourteen-karat-gold coin.”

  “How much?” Johnny asked.

  Caleb pantomimed a medium sack of gold with his hands. “Oh, ’bout this much.”

  All the time Johnny had contemplated killing Murdock Lancer, he’d never contemplated turning a profit on it. But he sure as hell was contemplating it now, as he smiled and said, “I kill Murdock Lancer”—Johnny pantomimed a larger sack with his hands—“I want this much.”

  Caleb lifted up his clay cup and clinked it against Johnny’s cup. Both men brought the fiery liquid up to their lips and drank.

  But what exactly was he toasting? The execution of a successful undercover operation that placed him on the inside of his father’s enemies? Or a newfound collaboration with an old friend against a bitter enemy? What was more important to him, his future or his past? Was he Johnny Lancer or Johnny Madrid? Looked like Johnny had till morning to figure that out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “My Friends Call Me Pussycat”

  When Cliff noticed the film with Carroll Baker playing at the Eros on Beverly Boulevard was rated X, he thought there was a good chance of seeing Carroll Baker really fucking somebody. No such luck. Unlike I Am Curious (Yellow), where Lena Nyman actually looks like she’s fucking on film, the Italian Carroll Baker movie was just movie fucking.

  European movie fucking, which was more lurid and violent, but nobody was actually getting fucked on set.

  Too bad.

  But it was a pretty good mystery anyway, and it had a great twist at the end. All in all, not the worst way to spend an afternoon. However, if he knew Carroll Baker wasn’t really fucking on film, he would’ve probably seen Ice Station Zebra at the Cinerama Dome.

  On 93 KHJ, the Real Don Steele introduces the new song by Los Bravos (the “Black Is Black” guys), Bring a Little Lovin’, as Cliff speeds down Forrest Lawn Drive, makes a right on Hollywood Way, and pulls into the left-hand turn lane. He sits idling, waiting for the light to change to green, at which point he’ll negotiate his left-hand turn onto Riverside Drive.

  Digging the forward momentum of the high-energy Los Bravos tune, Cliff slaps out the song’s rhythm against the steering wheel with his fingers.

  Then he spots her on the corner of Riverside Drive and Hollywood Way, standing in front of a bus stop advertising local Channel 9 newscaster George Putnam. Just like she was when he saw her standing in front of the Aquarius Theater, she’s hitching a ride.

  Except now she’s alone.

  Jesus, Cliff thinks, what are the chances of seeing the same hitchhiker three times on the same day in three different parts of Los Angeles? He thinks, Who knows, with all the kids hitching rides these days, maybe that’s not such a big deal. It sure seems like a big deal. But this time this slinky little sexpot is going in Cliff’s direction. In fact, once he receives his green directional arrow, he’s going to turn right into her. A quick ride could easily turn into a behind-the-wheel moving blow job (Cliff’s favorite kind). Or at least a twenty-minute French-kissing session. He rises a little bit in the driver’s seat at the anticipation of what this ride could lead to.

  As Cliff contemplates this thought, the brunette hippie pickle girl spots him idling in the cream-yellow Cadillac.

  As soon as she sees him, she leaps in the air and waves frantically. Cliff acknowledges her. She sticks out the little fist that’s attached to her long arm and gives her protruding thumb a jerk, which indicates, Gimme a lift?

  He gives her a pointy salute back, which indicates, I’ll give you a lift.

  In response to his pointy salute, she screeches and does a spastic dance on the street corner. The dance she does could be best described as a combination of a pirouette and jumping jacks.

  Look at this little grasshopper on the corner, Cliff thinks. “Grasshopper” is Cliff’s name for slinky, sexy, tall girls who are all elbows and kneecaps. He calls them that because when they wrap their long legs and gangly arms around you, it’s like fucking a grasshopper.

  But Cliff thinks the idea of fucking a grasshopper is sorta sexy. So for him, it’s a term of endearment.

  Then, as Cliff sits in Rick’s Coupe de Ville, waiting for the light to change, he notices a blue Buick Skylark, going in the opposite direction on Hollywood Way, make a right-hand turn at the corner of Riverside Drive, pulling to a stop right next to the brunette hippie pickle girl.

  Leaning forward in his seat, Cliff says out loud, “What the fuck?” Across traffic, he watches the hippie girl lean down and talk to the driver through the open car-door window on the passenger side.

  After a bit of back and forth between the driver and the hitchhiker, she nods her head yes.

  She straightens up for a moment, looks across traffic at the blond guy in the cream-yellow Cadillac, gives him a big shoulder shrug, and dips inside the Skylark.

  As pickle girl’s car drives away, Cliff’s directional arrow turns green. Cliff negotiates his left-hand turn onto Riverside Drive and falls behind the Buick Skylark. The Real Don Steele comes back on the air and reminds listeners, “Tina Delgado is alive!”

  Through the Skylark’s back window, Cliff can see the outline of both the male driver and the female passenger very clearly. The driver seems to be another hippie type, with long, frizzy, curly red hair. Maybe he’s that funny-looking guy who plays Bernie on Room 222. He watches the bushy-haired silhouettes talk animatedly with each other. Red-haired shaggy Skylark guy says something and pickle girl laughs, slapping her bare knee in response.

  Cliff says to himself, “Okay, now she’s just fucking with me.”

  He yanks the steering wheel to the left, and the Cadillac jerks off of Riverside Drive onto Forman and pulls into an open parking space on the curb across from the big beige carpet store. Cliff twists the ignition key, cutting off the engine and the Real Don Steele, then gets out of the Cadillac and crosses busy Riverside Drive on foot. Passing the Money Tree bar and grill, he walks down the sidewalk, heading for the Toluca Lake record store Hot Waxx.

  The Monkees’ catchy hit The Last Train to Clarksville hits him right in the ears as soon as he pushes open the record-store door. The place smells like most places these days that cater to young people. Sort of a combination of incense and BO. Four other customers, all under twenty-five, poke through the store’s inventory.

  A black guy in a dashiki examines Richie Havens’s self-titled album.

  A girl who looks like that chubby flower-child singer Melanie, who Cliff’s got a crush on, holds Simon and Garfunkel’s Bookends in her arms.

  A young guy who looks like he could be the son of
somebody Cliff was in the Army with riffles through the movie-soundtrack section.

  The fourth patron, like the guy in the Buick Skylark, is another frizzy-haired guy who looks like a cross between Jesus Christ and Arlo Guthrie. He’s in a discussion with the skinny shovel-faced twenty-two-year-old male who works at the store about the future of Ringo Starr’s career post-Beatles.

  That Tom Jones song, Delilah, has been haunting Cliff ever since he first heard it on the radio three weeks ago. He wants to pay attention to the story part of the song, but the only part that he can remember is the chorus. And just catching it when it comes on the radio isn’t working out. Naturally, Cliff is partial to songs about guys who kill their women.

  He walks up to the counter and asks Shovel Face where they keep the 8-track tapes.

  “Susan’s got the key,” Shovel Face says. “You need to talk to Susan and get her to open the case for you.” Apparently, stores thought 8-track tapes were so valuable that they felt the need to keep them under lock and key. You couldn’t just thumb through them, choose the one you wanted, and take it up to the counter. You had to get an employee to open a locked glass case with a key, then they would stand there and watch over you as you scanned the shelf and made your selection. Then keep an eye on you as you walked to the counter and actually bought the fucking thing. Now, true, it was easier to slip an 8-track tape of Rubber Soul in your inside jacket pocket than it was an LP. Nevertheless, you would have thought they were trading in diamonds. Also, it’s a little odd to assume all your patrons are thieves.

  Before Cliff can ask, “Where’s Susan?” Shovel Face points at a golden-blond beach-bunny type wearing a buttoned-up Levi’s vest and a pair of white skintight jeans with a KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ patch on the ass pocket. She’s sprucing up the community billboard when Cliff walks up to her and asks, “You Susan?”

  Susan turns to face him and instantly gives Cliff the smile Shovel Face has waited six months to get. They both have hair so blond that when their heads are close together Cliff and Susan resemble two different suns from different galaxies orbiting each other. She confirms to her fellow blond that indeed she is Susan.