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

Nevertheless, she did get dolled up, she did leave the house, and she did come through for him.

But now comes the cold-war resentment. Sharon has such a sunny presence that whenever she blocks out the sun, the effect is chilling.

On 93 KHJ, nighttime disc spinner Humble Harve keeps coming in and out of the Roadster’s shitty speakers, as does a ridiculous tune by Diana Ross and the Supremes, No Matter What Sign You Are, You’re Gonna Be Mine You Are. The time has come for Roman to show contrition and gratitude and poke the blond bear.

“Look, darling,” he begins, “I know you didn’t want to do this tonight.”

The red roof of the Der Wienerschnitzel on Larrabee is visible through the windshield of the Roadster as Sharon glances over at him and nods yes.

He continues, “And I know you’re sore because I didn’t consult you and that was inconsiderate.”

Again she shows her agreement by nodding her head.

“And I know,” he continues, “you’re being very good-natured about this.”

Actually, she bitched about it all afternoon with Jay, but Roman doesn’t know that.

Finally, the blond sphinx speaks: “Yes, all those things are true.”

“You’re being an angel about it,” he tells her, “and I love you for that.”

Oh, so that’s why you love me? she thinks, and does an eye roll.

The eye roll tells him that probably wasn’t the best thing he could have said.

As they drive past the London Fog on one side of the Strip and the Whisky a Go Go on the other, Roman tries to parlay with her. “So, just know I know I owe you.”

Quickly, she comes back with a question. “ Owe me what?”

“I mean, I owe you for doing this.”

“I know. I agree. So what do you intend to do to pay me back?”

Frankly, Roman hadn’t taken that statement as serious as Sharon apparently did, so he’s at a bit of a loss.

“Well, I guess, I mean”—he’s thinking fast—“that you can suddenly commit me to something I don’t want to do.”

Yeah, that’s it , he thinks. That would be pound-for-pound reciprocation.

Giving her examples of what that could be, he says, “I mean, you come across some charity you’re really serious—”

She interrupts him with two words: “Pool. Party.”

“What?”

“Pool. Party.”

“Pool party? Sure. When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight .”

“Oh, baby, I’m so tired. I’m leaving for London tomorrow. I was looking forward to going home and—”

“Wah wah wah! That’s what I said last night when you committed us to this fucking thing. But where am I? I’m right here. All glammed up, doing my ‘sexy little me’ routine for Hugh Hefner, the television cameras, and a bunch of Hollywood dingbats.”

Then she says, like an accusation, “You know I’m reading a book right now?”

He nods his head yes.

“You know I want to be in my bed reading right now?”

He nods his head yes.

“You know I don’t like to put on the dog two nights in a row if I don’t have to?”

He nods his head yes.

“But I did it, didn’t I?”

Roman lets out a groan .

“Don’t moan at me, buster,” she admonishes him.

Roman tries to deflect. “You just had your hair done.”

Nice try, buddy , Sharon thinks. “Is there some reason I’m unhip to that I need to have my Playboy After Dark hair tomorrow?”

“No.” He shrugs, beaten.

“No commitments I don’t know about? No personal appearances?”

“No.”

“I can read my book?”

He answers with a sigh, “Yes.”

“Well, then, pool party tonight means debt paid in full,” then adds for effect, “if that means anything to you?”

“Okay,” says Roman, letting out a defeated exhale.

“Okay, now say it with a smile on your face.”

He smiles and says, “We can have a pool party.”

Then she demands, “Now ask me for it.”

That makes him roll his eyes. “Really? You’re taking it this far?”

“Ask me for it,” she insists.

Roman swallows his irritation, puts on an accommodating face, and gives Sharon what she wants: “Sharon, how would you like to throw a pool party tonight?”

Sharon squeals, claps her hands together, and says, “Roman, that’s a fantastic idea!” She leans across to kiss him and says, “Let’s get home. I have phone calls to make.”

Rick notices a steady line of cars arriving at the Polanski residence. They must be having a party , he thinks. Rick Dalton stands in his driveway, dressed in the red silk kimono he bought on one of his trips to Japan, watering the roses in his garden with a hose while he runs tomorrow’s dialogue with his tape recorder. A Japanese gardener once told him to water his roses at night so they fully get to drink the nourishment and not have the sun evaporate a large portion of it. He’s running the lines of the scene he has with the little girl tomorrow. No way is he going to let that little monster catch him flat-footed.

Cliff had dropped him off from that bar in San Gabriel around ten-thirty.

He talked to Marvin Schwarz on the phone for about twenty minutes. He made a German beer stein’s worth of whiskey sours and started running his lines. He’s run them for about an hour now—it’s five minutes to midnight, and he’s feeling pretty good about his grasp of the dialogue. Before he is tempted to make another beer stein full of whiskey sours, Rick’s going to go to bed.

He can hear the sounds of the Polanski party echo down to his driveway. He can hear the music, the giggling, the frivolity, and the periodic splashes in the pool. The actor still has yet to meet either the director or his wife. He only spied the two of them for the first time yesterday afternoon. He looks like a little prick. But she looks sweet. Maybe one day he’ll catch her going to fetch the mail.

A convertible Porsche going much too fast zooms up Cielo Drive and stops outside of the gate of the Polanski residence. Rick gives the car an irritated glance, then suddenly stops when he recognizes the driver. Fuck me swinging, that’s Steve McQueen!

Rick calls out, “Steve!”

The driver behind the wheel of the Porsche glances over in the direction of his name being called and sees a guy dressed in a red silk Japanese kimono, holding a beer stein, a tape recorder, and a water hose. He narrows his eyes, then he recognizes the red kimono man. He tentatively answers back, “Rick?”

Dalton walks over to the car. “Hey, fella, long time no see.”

McQueen answers back, “Yeah, you bet. How ya been?”

Dalton leans over and shakes hands with McQueen, “Oh, I can’t complain.”

Actually, Rick has nothing but complaints about his career, his life, and the world, but he’s not going to complain to Steve.

The movie star looks past him to the house. “Is that your house?”

“Yep.” Rick smiles. “That’s the house that Bounty Law built.”

McQueen raises his eyebrows. “You built it?”

“No,” Dalton says, “that’s just an expression.” You dumb fuck.

Steve gives him one of his trademark little smiles with his tiny gash of a mouth. “Well, good for you. You were smart with your money. I hear Will Hutchins and Ty Hardin are flat on their ass right now.”

In other words , Rick thinks, you’re doing better than the other has-beens. You got a house. So says Bullitt.

“Well, I’m not starring in The Sand Pebbles ,” bringing up McQueen’s only Oscar nomination, “but I’m making a living.”

“Well, that puts you ahead of eighty percent of ’em,” McQueen says with a smile and a finger point.