Pulp Fiction Page #22

ESMARELDA:

I have to do it.

She presses a button and the back window moves down. Butch

tosses his boxing glove out the window, then starts untying

the other one.

Esmeralda can't keep quiet anymore.

ESMARELDA:

Hey, mister?

BUTCH:

(still working on the

glove)

What?

ESMARELDA:

You were in that fight? The fight on

the radio – you're the fighter?

As he tosses his other glove out the window.

BUTCH:

Whatever gave you that idea?

ESMARELDA:

No c'mon, you're him, I know you're

him, tell me you're him.

BUTCH:

(drying himself with

a gym towel)

I'm him.

ESMARELDA:

You killed the other boxing man.

BUTCH:

He's dead?

ESMARELDA:

The radio said he was dead.

He finished wiping himself down.

BUTCH:

(to himself)

Sorry 'bout that, Floyd.

He tosses the towel out the window.

Silence, as Butch digs in his bag for a t-shirt.

ESMARELDA:

What does it feel like?

BUTCH:

(finds his shirt)

What does what feel like?

ESMARELDA:

Killing a man. Beating another man

to death with your bare hands.

Butch pulls on his tee-shirt.

BUTCH:

Are you some kinda weirdo?

ESMARELDA:

No, it's a subject I have much

interest in. You are the first person

I ever met who has killed somebody.

So, what was it like to kill a man?

BUTCH:

Tell ya what, you give me one of

them cigarettes, I'll give you an

answer.

Esmarelda bounces in her seat with excitement.

ESMARELDA:

Deal!

Butch leans forward. Esmarelda, keeping her eyes on the road,

passes a cigarette back to him. He takes it. Then, still not

looking behind her, she brings up her hand, a lit match in

it.

Butch lights his smoke, then blows out the match.

He takes a long drag.

BUTCH:

So...

He looks at her license.

BUTCH:

...Esmarelda Villalobos – is that

Mexican?

ESMARELDA:

The name is Spanish, but I'm

Columbian.

BUTCH:

It's a very pretty name.

ESMARELDA:

It mean "Esmarelda of the wolves."

BUTCH:

That's one hell of a name you got

there, sister.

ESMARELDA:

Thank you. And what is your name?

BUTCH:

Butch.

ESMARELDA:

Butch. What does it mean?

BUTCH:

I'm an American, our names don't

mean sh*t. Anyway, moving right along,

what is it you wanna know, Esmarelda?

ESMARELDA:

I want to know what it feels like to

kill a man –

BUTCH:

– I couldn't tell ya. I didn't know

he was dead 'til you told me he was

dead. Now I know he's dead, do you

wanna know how I feel about it?

Esmarelda nods her head: "yes."

BUTCH:

I don't feel the least little bit

bad.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH (RAINING) – NIGHT

We DOLLY around a phone booth as Butch talks inside.

BUTCH:

(into phone)

What'd I tell ya, soon as the word

got out a fix was in, the odds would

be outta control. Hey, if he was a

better fighter he's be alive. If he

never laced up his gloves in the

first place, which he never shoulda

done, he'd be alive. Enough about

the poor unfortunate Mr. Floyd, let's

talk about the rich and prosperous

Mr. Butch. How many bookies you

spread it around with?

(PAUSE)

Eight? How long to collect?

(pause)

So by tomorrow evening, you'll have

it all?

(pause)

Good news Scotty, real good news – I

understand a few stragglers aside.

Me an' Fabienne're gonna leave in

the morning. It should take us a

couple days to get into Knoxville.

Next time we see each other, it'll

be on Tennessee time.

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