Квентин Тарантино - Once Upon a Time in Hollywood - The First Novel By Quentin Tarantino

So Cliff was pleasantly surprised when he heard Cooley’s voice on the other end of the telephone receiver. And was even more surprised when Buster asked Cliff could he drive out to Van Nuys and see him that very day. It was a little over an hour later when Buster’s 1961 red Datsun pickup truck pulled up in front of Cliff’s trailer. Cliff offered his friend a beer, and after they both popped the top on two cans of Old Chattanooga, Cooley brought up to his old buddy the debt he owed. “Okay, about that three thousand dollars I owe ya—”

“Three thousand and two hundred dollars,” Cliff corrected.

“Three thousand two hundred? Are you sure?” Cooley asked.

“Positive,” Cliff said.

“Well, you know best. Three thousand and two hundred dollars,” Cooley said. “About that, I don’t got it.”

Cliff made no reply, just sipped his beer.

Cooley continued, “But don’t despair, I got somethin’ even better.”

“Something better than three thousand and two hundred dollars in green American foldin’ money?” Cliff asked skeptically.

“You bet your sweet ass,” Cooley said confidently.

Cliff knew the only thing better than money was painkillers, so unless Cooley had brought with him a suitcase filled with ibuprofen, he was unenthused.

“Pray tell, Buster, what do you have that’s better than money?”

With his thumb jerking toward the door, Cooley said, “Come outside and take a look.”

The two men stepped outside of the trailer, still drinking their cans of Old Chattanooga, and Buster led Cliff to the rear end of his truck. Standing on all fours in the flatbed of Buster’s Datsun, in a wire-mesh cage, stood Brandy.

While Cliff was partial to dogs, and especially female dogs, and Brandy was a pretty girl, he at first was unimpressed.

Skeptic Cliff asked, “You mean to tell me this bitch is worth thirty-two hundred dollars?”

“Nope.” Cooley smiled and said, “She ain’t worth thirty-two hundred dollars.” Then added with a wider grin, “She’s worth anywhere from seventeen thousand up to twenty thousand dollars.”

“Really,” asked a doubtful Cliff, “and why is that?”

Cooley answered with conviction, “This dog is the best fighting dog on this side of the fuckin’ Western Hemisphere.”

That raised Cliff’s eyebrows.

Buster continued, “This bitch can take on all comers. Pit bulls, Dobermans, German shepherds, two dogs at once, don’t matter. This bitch will chew their ass up.”

Cliff looked down at the dog in the cage, silently assessing her as Buster continued, “This bitch ain’t just a dog. She’s money in the bank. She’s a grub steak whenever you need it. She’s like owning five falling horses!”

A falling horse was a horse you taught to fall on the ground and not get hurt or not get scared. And in a Hollywood that made hundreds of western movies and television shows, if you owned a horse that knew how to fall on the ground and then get back up again, you owned a little mini printing press of money. The only easier money was lucking out and having a kid who became a successful child actor.

“‘member Ned Glass?” Buster reminded Cliff. “Had that falling horse Blue Belle?”

“Yeah?” Cliff said.

“‘member how much he made off that jughead?”

“Yeah,” Cliff remembered. “He made a small fortune.”

“This bitch”—pointing to the bitch in the cage—“is like owning four Blue Belles.”

“Okay, Buster,” Cliff said, “you got my attention. What’s your proposal?”

“Look, I can’t give you cash,” Cooley honestly stated, “at least not three thousand dollars. But what I can give you is a half interest in the Sonny-fucking-Liston of dogs.”

Cliff listened as Buster illustrated his plan: “I got twelve hundred dollars. We put her in a dogfight they got running in Lomita. Bet the twelve hundred on her and just sit back and watch her go to work. Once you see her in action, you’ll realize her potential. Then me and you take her on the dogfight circuit, pool our winnings, by fight number six we could both have fifteen thousand each.”

Cliff knew Cooley wasn’t conning him. He believed everything he just said. But Cooley was selling this as a sure thing, and Cliff never believed in sure things. Plus, dogfighting was illegal, not to mention distasteful, and there was just too much that could go wrong.

“Jesus, Buster,” Cliff complained, “I don’t wanna fight fuckin’ dogs, I just want my money. If you got twelve hundred to bet, why don’t you just give me that?” Cliff negotiated.

Buster answered honestly, “Because you and I both know I give you twelve hundred dollars, that’s all you’re ever gonna get.” Buster stressed, “I don’t want to pay you back thirty-five cents on the dollar. You were a straight-up fucking cat when I needed help, and I want you to make a profit!” Buster bargained, “At least go with me to the first fight in Lomita. Just watch her fight. Trust me, Cliff, it’s one of the most thrilling things you’ve ever experienced. She wins, that’s twenty-four hundred dollars. You don’t want to continue, the twenty-four hundred dollars is yours.”

Cliff took another swig from his can of beer as he looked at the little muscle man in the wire-mesh cage.

Buster finished his spiel: “Now, you know me, so you know I’m not scamming you. If I say it, I believe it. So trust me—at least this first fight, this bitch can win.”

Cliff looked to the little bitch in the cage, then to the son of a bitch standing before him with a beer can in his hand. Then he lowered on his haunches and brought his face parallel with the dog on the other side of the wire mesh. Both Cliff and the dog got into a staring contest. When the little lady could no longer handle the man’s forceful gaze, she growled and snapped at Cliff. The wire mesh stopped the canine’s teeth from puncturing Cliff’s handsome face. Cliff Booth turned and looked up at Buster Cooley. “What’s her name?”

Cliff, Buster, and Brandy went to the first fight in Lomita. And everything Buster said came true. Brandy was the real deal, and she killed that other dog in less than a minute. They won twenty-four hundred dollars that night. Cliff couldn’t believe how incredibly thrilling the experience was. Fuck the Kentucky Derby , he thought, this is the most exciting forty-five seconds in sports.

Cliff was hooked.

For the next six months, they went on the dogfight circuit all over Los Angeles County, Kern County, and the Inland Empire. They fought Brandy in fights in Compton, Alhambra, Taft, and Chino. And Brandy won them all and won most of them easy. Only a few times did she get hurt, and even then, never too bad. And whenever she did get hurt, they took the time to let her recover. But after those first five fights, where Brandy seemed indestructible, the bets became bigger and the competition more fierce. Those fights took them to Montebello, Inglewood, Los Gatos, and Bellflower. Brandy kept winning, but the fights became excruciatingly longer, far bloodier, she got far more hurt, and it took her far longer to recover.

That was the downside. The upside was tougher dogs meant much more money when she won.

After nine fights, Cliff and Buster had made about fourteen thousand each. But Buster, knowing a good thing when he finally fell into it, had a number in mind. Twenty thousand dollars each for him and Cliff. Then Brandy could retire. But it was during her tenth fight, in San Diego, where the young lady fought a pit bull named Caesar, that she got hurt and hurt bad. The fight was called off with no winner declared. And Cliff knew it was lucky for Brandy that it was called off. Because if it had gone on twenty minutes more, Caesar would have killed her. In both wartime and peacetime, Cliff had seen loved ones cut asunder. But the agony he experienced watching Brandy taking the punishment she took from the vicious Caesar was more than he could bear.