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

The house that Jay bought three years ago was once owned by Jean Harlow and her director husband, Paul Bern, in the thirties, and they both died there. And Jay insists that the ghosts of Jean and Paul haunt the house. Even his ex-fiancée, Sharon Tate, believes she witnessed something mysterious and spooky one night.

“Raymond,” Jay grandly proclaims, “you’ve convinced me. I’ll have hot chocolate, under the sun, in the garden.”

To which Raymond replies, “Splendid.”

7:45 A.M.

Roman Polanski steps out into his Hollywood Hills home backyard and the vivid view of Downtown L.A. it offers its successful residents. The diminutive Polanski sports bed head on his cranium, a silk robe across his shoulders, and in one hand an empty coffee cup and in the other a French-press coffeepot. As he putters across the wet grass of his backyard, his hard-plastic slippers make pop-pop sounds against his bare heels.

He’s followed eagerly by Dr. Sapirstein, his wife’s little Yorkshire terrier, named after the sinister pediatrician that Ralph Bellamy played in Roman’s film Rosemary’s Baby . Later that year, when Sharon was away in Montreal making a movie, Roman’s old friend and houseguest Voytek Frykowski would accidentally kill Dr. Sapirstein by running over the little dog while backing his car out of the driveway. Roman was in his office working on the script for his next movie, The Day of the Dolphin , when Voytek appeared in his doorway.

“Roman,” Voytek sheepishly said. Polanski turned around in his chair to face his old friend. Voytek admitted, “I think I just accidentally killed Sharon’s dog.” Roman’s face exploded like a bad actor in a silent movie. “You killed Dr. Sapirstein!”

Roman was out of his chair and rushed by his friend, lamenting with panic anxiety, “Oh my god, what have you done?” When the director reached the open front door, he saw the little hairy body lying dead in the car park in front of their house. His hands went to his head and he began pacing in circles, saying to Voytek in Polish, “Oh my god, what have you done? What have you done?”

Voytek felt a little bad, but he didn’t expect Roman to react like this. In Polish, he said, “I’m sorry, Roman, it was an accident.”

Roman spun around to face him, screaming in Polish, “You know what you’ve done? You’ve ruined my fucking life! She loves this dog!”

“Don’t worry,” Voytek assured him, “I’ll tell her it was my fault.”

Roman yelled in response, “No, you won’t tell her! She’ll never forgive you!” Roman tried to explain Americans to his Polish friend: “Don’t you understand, she’s an American! Americans love their fucking dogs more than they love their children! You might as well have dropped her fucking baby down the stairs!”

Sharon never did learn what really happened to Dr. Sapirstein. In order to save his friend the wrath and scorn of the Texas-born Army brat, Roman told Sharon that Dr. Sapirstein ran away and must have either gotten lost or run afoul of a coyote. Alone in her hotel room on location in Montreal, Sharon cried all night long.

But today Dr. Sapirstein is still alive, and when the little dog comes running up to Roman with a little red ball in his mouth, he wants the little man to play with him. Roman presses down on the French-press plunger and ignores the dog.

Roman’s a little grumpy this morning; like his next-door neighbor Rick Dalton (who he’s never met), he’s a little hungover as well. But, unlike Rick, it is not due to a night of heavy drinking by himself. Last night Roman and Sharon, along with friends Jay Sebring and Michelle Phillips and Cass Elliot, went to a party at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion. Then afterward they went someplace else around three in the morning to eat disgusting chili hamburgers amongst sketchy L.A. types (Mexicans in their uniform street clothes and outrageously painted cars alongside white biker hoodlums on their noisy motorcycles). In Europe, they’d end the night with fine cognac and Cuban cigars or a late-night wine cellar and finish off the evening with a twenty-year-old Bordeaux. But these childish Americans think it’s cool to end the night with oily chili burgers and Coca-Cola. Not only that, but Roman was also pretty sure nobody liked those fat, greasy burgers. He’s positive Sharon didn’t, though she’d never admit it. But, naturally, everybody acted like they were having the best time in the world. Sharon tried to even order a hamburger without chili, and Jay wouldn’t hear of it. So Sharon gave in to the peer pressure, saying, “Fine, fine, fine,” telling the man behind the counter wearing the paper hat, “I’ll have a chili burger.” Which sat in her stomach like a cannonball, making her feel ill the whole ride back to Cielo Drive. Roman loved his American friends but was always a little surprised at the juvenile things they took delight in, or in this case, pretended to take delight in.

Not only that, but he also had to make nice with that asshole Steve McQueen most of the night. Roman and McQueen don’t like each other, but since Steve is one of Sharon’s oldest friends in Los Angeles, they tolerate each other.

It’s obvious Sharon and McQueen fucked before. He’s never confirmed this with Sharon, but he knows McQueen’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t still be Sharon’s friend if he hadn’t fucked her a few times in the past. Normally that wouldn’t bother Roman. Jay was engaged to Sharon—they fucked all the time. And Roman has s ome sexual past with more than half the women in his orbit. But McQueen makes a point of it by the way he smirks at Roman. Every glance of those blue eyes and grin of that little mouth seems to say, I fucked your wife .

Also, Roman doesn’t like the way McQueen manhandles Sharon, like picking the big blonde up off her feet and spinning her around till she goes, “Whee!” like a little girl. Activities that Roman is physically too small to do. And McQueen knows that, and that’s why McQueen does it.

The guy’s just an asshole , Roman thinks.

After being purposely ignored for the last twenty seconds, the little dog barks to get the little man’s attention. This fucking dog , Roman thinks, I can’t even enjoy a cup of coffee in peace without this little tyrant spoiling it. He throws the ball and the little dog runs after it. Roman doesn’t hate Dr. Sapirstein like he hates Steve McQueen. He’s just grouchy this morning. One, because he’s hungover, and two, because Sharon woke him up.

You see, Sharon snores.

Chapter Eight

Lancer

Pulled by six horses, the Butterfield Wells Fargo passenger stagecoach rounded the corner where the adobe-walled mission stood and thundered down the dusty dirt main drag of the Spanish-style town of Royo del Oro, sixty miles on the north side of the Mexican border in California. The hard hooves of the sweaty beasts tore at the dirt main street, creating a cloud of brown powder in their wake.

Monty Armbruster, the white-haired forty-year veteran of the Butterfield line, pulled on the leather reins in his gloved hands, yanking the horses’ heads back from the bits embedded in their mouths, making the six powerful equines come to a gentle stop directly in front of the Hotel Lancaster. With his light Texas twang, Monty sang out, “Royo del Oro, last stop!” The backlit sunshine rays filtered through the gauze-like brown dust in the way, a hundred years from now, all cinematographers of western movies would hope to duplicate.

Eight-year-old Mirabella Lancer, the short in stature but wise for her years daughter of Murdock Lancer, the owner and operator of the biggest cattle ranch in the territory, leaped off the wooden barrel she had been perched on. In excited anticipation, she turned to the Mexican vaquero who was only a few inches taller than her but sported a comically large sombrero on top of his head and chirped, “Come on, Ernesto!”