Once Upon a Time in Hollywood Read online

  Terry did think Charlie was one interesting far-out cat. But even in those regards, Terry wasn’t as fascinated with him as his other friends (Dennis Wilson and Greg Jakobson) were. The real reason Terry Melcher spent so much time with Charlie and “the Family” when they were encamped at Dennis Wilson’s pad wasn’t due to any potential that the record producer saw in Manson in a business sense. It was due to the fact that Terry loved fucking a fifteen-year-old dark-haired angel named Debra Jo Hillhouse, who had taken up with “the Family.” When Terry first met her, she still went by her real name, Debra Jo. But shortly afterward she only answered to her “Family” name, “Pussycat.”

  Debra Jo had joined Charlie’s Family when she was fifteen, at the time the youngest of the bunch, and she was undoubtedly the beauty of the bunch. Only statuesque Leslie Van Houten gave her any competition. And Terry Melcher wasn’t the only one—Dennis Wilson loved fucking Debra Jo too. In fact, the only serious connections Manson ever made in the Los Angeles music scene weren’t due to Charlie’s music but due to the allure of Debra Jo Hillhouse’s pubescent pussy. Debra Jo held a special place in the heart of Terry Melcher. (If Debra Jo could sing, she’s the one who would have gotten a record deal.)

  And bear in mind all this was occurring during the time that Terry Melcher was living with sixties-era zeitgeist beauty Candice Bergen.

  But even with beautiful blond Candy Bergen at home, Terry couldn’t pass up Pussycat encounters. At one point his affection got so brazen that he tried to hire Debra Jo as a house girl and move her into his Cielo Drive home with Candy and himself. (Candice Bergen might’ve been oblivious about a lot of things, but she knew enough to squash that idea.)

  Debra Jo Hillhouse had an unaffected little kitten quality (that’s why Charlie named her Pussycat) that left many older men smitten. Including a few members of the Straight Satans, the motorcycle gang that hung out with Charlie and the Family when they lived at Spahn Ranch.

  Something that made Debra Jo unique from all the other girls that Charlie collected was, Debra Jo still had a relationship with her father, and her father had a relationship with Charlie. All the other girls, to one degree or another, joined Charlie’s Family in response to their damaged relationship with their family. Disowning your parents, divorcing your real family, becoming a member of your new Family, with Charlie as your daddy, that was all part of Manson’s spiel. But in Debra Jo Hillhouse’s case, it was through her father that she first met Charlie a year earlier.

  One afternoon after having sex in Dennis Wilson’s billiard room, while they shared a joint and drank ice-cold bottles of Mexican beer, Terry Melcher quizzed Debra Jo about how she came to first be acquainted with Charles Manson.

  Debra Jo told him. “My dad picked him up hitchhiking.”

  “Wait a minute,” a surprised Terry said, “you met Charlie through your dad?”

  She nodded her bushy brunette head yes. “Charlie was hitching,” she repeated. “Dad picked him up, they started talking. They grooved. So Dad brought him home for dinner. That’s when we first met.”

  Terry took a big hit off the joint and passed it to Debra Jo. While holding the reefer smoke in his lungs, he asked her, “How long after that did you go off with Charlie?”

  “That night,” she told him. “I snuck out of the house and we balled in Dad’s car. Then I got the car keys and we took the car and drove off together.”

  Holy shit, Terry thought. How the fuck does a little runt like Charlie pull that off? I mean, some of those ugly hippie sluts like Mary Brunner or Patty Krenwinkel, okay. But a little hot piece of ass like Debra Jo?

  Then Debra Jo told him the whole wild tale of Manson and the Hillhouses. Ending with her father asking Charlie if he could join “the Family.”

  To which Terry exclaimed, “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!”

  Debra Jo smiled and shook her head no. But then added, “But even Charlie thought that was too weird.”

  Jesus-fucking-Christ, Terry thought, he couldn’t even get Candy Bergen to agree to a female hippie maid, while Charlie apparently had no problem influencing everybody he met to do whatever he needed them to do. Whatever charm Charlie possessed might be lost on Terry, but it was obvious to even Melcher that he had something. In his day he’d seen rock stars manipulate hippie girls to do some pretty outrageous shit. But their fathers? That was a whole other level of influence. Terry doubted even Mick Jagger could pull that shit off.

  Debra Jo, knees visibly shaking, slowly approaches the Hirshberg house. She crosses the dew-covered front lawn. She feels the wetness of the grass against the soles of her huge bare feet, and the slight chill is invigorating. When she steps off the lawn onto the concrete pathway that leads toward the backyard gate, she leaves a trail of wet footprints behind her.

  She reaches her hand over the wooden gate door and, quietly as she can, lifts the rusty metal hinge on the other side, pushes the door open, and enters the backyard. Her friends watching from the sidewalk slowly disappear from view.

  Now Pussycat is by herself on the Hirshbergs’ private property. She scans the surroundings. There’s a kidney-shaped pool. Green grass. A big tree. A couple of picnic tables. And a couple of heavily-played-with children’s Big Wheels. But other than the Big Wheels, the backyard is as nice and neat and manicured as the front of the house.

  Then the voice of Charlie whispers in her ear, How’s your heart?

  She quietly answers the voice in her head out loud: “Beating like a jackhammer.”

  Calm it down, Pussycat, he purrs. Them jungle drums will wake up the whole damn block. Get a hold of it, he instructs, and get a hold of yourself. Take in your surroundings.

  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.

  Pussycat crawls into the room, twisting her naked body to fit through the open space, careful not to brush up against the bedroom door lest she be betrayed by a squeaky hinge. Once her hands and her knees have maneuvered her feet inside the room, her eyes rise to the surface of the bed. The old man asleep in his bed, dressed in blue pajamas with up-and-down white stripes, is lying on the closest side to her and the door.

  The room has the fragrance of Ben-Gay, Pine-Sol evergreen air freshener, Old Spice, and foot odor. The air conditioner sticking out of the far-right bedroom window hums a good solid baseline noise that helps mask her subtle movements. That’s the good part. The bad part is it’s much colder in the master bedroom than it was in the living room and the upstairs hallway. Chill bumps sprout up across her exposed skin like hives. The goosebumps that pop up on her naked derriere give the young girl that Charlie christened Pussycat the feeling of what having a tail might be like. Indulging in the whole house-cat masquerade, she gives her bony ass a little wiggle. Yet the chilly temperature doesn’t act as an obstacle. Instead, like the cool bracing waters of a mountain stream, after the initial sensation of cold air making contact with warm flesh, she finds the shudder that runs through her body invigorating.

  She inches closer to the side of the bed. Then Debra Jo slowly rises from her all-fours feline position to her knees. Her face is very close to the face of the sleeping old man reclining in his bed. The red light bulb sticking out of her mouth gives the young girl an inhuman expressionless demeanor, sort of a cross between a robot and a blow-up fuck doll. Only her pronounced dark eyebrows, which verge on one long unibrow, indicate any sense of expression.

  She examines the face of the sleeping old man. His labored breathing that veers ever so close to snoring. His wispy white hair strands that spring up from his bulbous skull, every single strand going its own way. The sunken lips on his toothless mouth. She looks over at the bedside end table and, sure enough, next to a pair of glasses, a lamp, and a small clock sit a set of false teeth soaking in a cloudy glass of water.

  Her curious gaze goes from the dentures to the sleeping old fart, to his elderly female companion sleeping next to him. She’s a touch on the fat side when compared to her bony, ghoul-like husband. Unlike the old man’s every white stringy follicle for itself, the old lady has her bright-orange-dyed hair done up in tight curls that obviously must require weekly beauty-shop visits and quarter jars of Dippity-do to maintain.

  Debra Jo takes her hand and places it above the sleeping old man’s face and wiggles her fingers. He doesn’t stir in the slightest, just continues his loud rhythmic breathing. She’s feeling confident now, so she slowly rises to
a standing position off her two knees onto her two feet. After all the time she’s spent close to the ground in her cat-like posture, standing upright at her full height gives her the sensation of being a Gulliver-like giant.

  Using the balls of her feet, she silently pads away from the bed and its inhabitants, across the room, over to the bedroom window that faces the front of the house. The curtains to the window are open, and she looks through the glass and sees Charlie and her friends standing together in front of the house on the sidewalk. Froggy is the first one to spot her and jumps up and gives Debra Jo an excited wave. The rest of the group wave up at her like they’re restaging the closing credits of The Beverly Hillbillies.

  Debra Jo, red light bulb sticking out of her mouth, looks down at them through the Hirshbergs’ bedroom window and waves back. Quietly, she moves over to a wooden chair parked in front of the woman of the house’s vanity table, lifts it off the floor, and brings it up to the window. Also by the window is a bedroom lamp. Sneaking a quick glance at the sleeping couple to make sure she hasn’t disturbed them, she begins to slowly unscrew the top of the lamp that holds the shade in place. Once she’s done that and has placed the screw top on the table, she silently lifts the lampshade from its home base and quietly places it on the floor. All the while watching the couple in bed for any sign of consciousness creeping up. So far, so good. Keeping both eyes peeled on the old fogies for a reaction, she unscrews the light bulb.

  This is by far the noisiest thing she’s done, yet the couple’s rhythmic breathing, the air conditioner, and her squashed ego keep the equilibrium in the room from changing drastically. Once she is through her final rotation, Debra Jo lifts the light bulb clear of the lamp. Then places it noiselessly on the couple’s carpeted bedroom floor. The brunette intruder removes the red light bulb from her mouth and screws it into the lamp’s light socket. Once it can turn no farther, she knows she’s accomplished her task.