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

She examines the backyard with a touch more thoughtfulness, her rapid heartbeat ever so slightly decreasing.

Who lives there? he asks her.

“I don’t know—the Hirshbergs, I guess.”

Not their names , he whispers sharply. Who are they? Do they have kids? Do you see toys?

She looks at the Big Wheels and nods her head yes.

A lot of toys? he asks. A swing set?

“No,” she answers, “just a couple of Big Wheels.”

What does that tell you? he asks.

“I don’t know, what should it tell me?”

Hey, pretty girl , he gently scolds her, I’m the one talking in question marks. You’re the one answering in periods. Got it?

She nods her head yes.

So they either have kids or they know kids , Charlie figures . Like maybe Grandma and Grandpa? We’ll answer that question later. Are they rich?

She nods her head yes.

How do you know? Charlie challenges.

“They live here, don’t they?” she says somewhat sarcastically.

Not so fast, Pussycat , Charlie warns. Don’t judge a book by its cover, little darling. They could be renters. They could be four stewardesses or cocktail waitresses living together, pooling the rent. Then he suddenly asks, Do they have a pool?

“Yes,” she says.

Touch the water , he orders.

Pussycat creeps across the grass covering most of the backyard, over to the swimming pool. And then dips her fingers in the water.

Once her hand feels the wetness, the voice inside her head asks, Is it warm?

She nods her head yes.

Then they’re rich , Charlie explains. Only rich people can afford to heat their pool all the time.

That makes sense , Pussycat thinks.

Are you ready to enter the house? Charlie whispers.

She nods her head yes.

Charlie gets sharp: Don’t nod your head, bitch! I asked you a question! Are you ready to enter the house?

“Yes,” she says.

Yes what? he asks.

“Yes, sir?” she guesses.

He gets loud and irate. Not “yes, sir,” goddammit, and what the fuck did I tell you about those question marks?

Then she answers, louder than she should considering the situation, “Yes, I am!”

A jubilant Charlie answers back in her brain, There ya go! That’s my pretty girl! What kinda door they got leading from the backyard to the house?

She looks at the house and answers, “Sliding-glass door.”

Well, then you’re in luck, kiddo. Them the kinda doors the safe and secure tend to forget to bolt. Now, creep on over and see how lucky you are.

As her bare feet inch over the wet grass toward the concrete of the backyard patio, Debra Jo thinks, If I’m really lucky, the door will be bolted shut and I can go home. She reaches the glass door and lowers on her haunches. She peers inside. Everything is dark. No movement. She listens intently. Except for the jungle drums of her tom-tom-ing heartbeat, which has resumed rhythmically beating again, she hears no sound. With one arm she reaches up and yanks on the heavy sliding-glass door. It doesn’t slide open.

Charlie pops back in her head again. Those doors can be a little heavy. Try again, harder, and with both hands.

This time she grabs the handle with both hands and gives the door a bigger yank. It slides partially open. Once she saw it actually move, she caught her breath.

Oh shit , she thinks. I’m going to have to go in there.

She can hear Charlie’s grin in her brain. Then he enters her soul to co-pilot her through the next phase of the kreepy krawl. Now, before you enter the house, squash your ego. Cease to exist. Keep on all fours like the pussycat you are. You ain’t got no more energy than a neighborhood cat explorin’ a house that left a back door open. Understand?

She nods her head yes.

Keep the sliding door open , he tells her, in case you hafta make a fast getaway.

Pussycat moves aside the curtain, and while on all fours, she crawls inside the house. She enters on her hands and knees and moves across the hard, cool linoleum floor of the kitchen into the shag-carpeted living room area.

Once in the middle of the living room, she sits her ass on the floor, lets her eyes adjust to the darkness, taking in her surroundings.

Charlie continues with his question marks.

Who are these people? Are they old? Are they middle age? Are they parents or grandparents?

“I don’t know,” she answers.

Look at the furniture , he tells her, look at the knickknacks.

Pussycat scans the room. She looks at the framed pictures on the wall, on the TV, the doodads on the mantel above the fireplace; she sees the hi-fi stereo unit with a stack of LPs leaned up against the wall.

She crawls over to the records and flips through the stack.

Rudy Vallée.

Kate Smith.

Jackie Gleason.

Frankie Laine.

Jack Jones.

John Gary.

Broadway cast albums: South Pacific ; Fiddler on the Roof ; No, No, Nanette. Exodus motion picture soundtrack.

“They’re old,” Pussycat tells Charlie. “I’m guessin’ grandparents.”

Well, let’s not guess, Debra Jo, let’s deduce. He asks, Do children live there?

She says, “I don’t know.”

Well, look around , he says.

She does—the place is definitely tidy.

Pussycat responds, “There’s a few toys in the backyard, but I don’t think kids live here.”

Why not? Charlie asks.

“Because the people who live here are old,” she’s decided. “Old people are clean. Tidy. Everything in its place. That’s a luxury folks with children don’t have.”

Good for you, Pussycat. She can feel Charlie’s smile shoot through her entire body. How’s that heart of yours doin’?

“Calm.”

I believe you. Can you see the stairs?

She nods her head yes.

How’s that ego?

“Nonexistent.”

Then you might be ready to rise off the floor and stand.

Pussycat rises from the floor to a standing position. The room looks very different standing at her full height. She pulls her black T-shirt off over her head and through her bushy hair, letting it fall to the shag-carpet floor. She then unbuttons and unzips her Levi’s cutoffs and slides them quietly down her long bare legs. Then finally she peels off her filthy panties and drops them on her pile of discarded clothes. Once she’s shed all her clothes, the naked girl bends down, lifts the cutoffs out of the pile, reaches in the bulbous side pocket, and yanks out one red light bulb. She places the red light bulb in her mouth, her lips wrapping around the silver metal coil.

Then, naked on all fours, she crawls up the carpeted stairway that leads to the house’s second floor. Her nude feline body softly and quietly slinks up toward where the bedrooms are.

Once she reaches the top of the stairs, her head slowly turns to the right and then to the left, and it’s to the left where she makes out the door that appears to be the entrance of the master bedroom. No more Charlie in her head now, Debra Jo is completely on her own. On her knuckles and knees, she prances down the hall like her nicknamed namesake, toward the half-open bedroom door.

With her ego-less energy, she silently pokes her head through the doorway and peers into the dark bedroom. From her vantage point on the floor, Pussycat discovers she deduced correctly, that yes indeed this is the master bedroom, and the couple who lie asleep in their marital Craftmatic king-sized bed are grandparent age.