They exited on Wilshire Blvd. and drove east toward UCLA. More specifically, they were going to a small area near the southern entrance to the campus called Westwood. It was an enclave of crossed streets that was UCLA’s student hangout and nightlife district. They parked Marv’s car in a No-Parking zone and skipped arm in arm up the street to the Music Bar Records store.
Charlie went over to check out the new album releases, and the girls headed to the 45’s section – the Top 40 ‘singles.’ Sandy, Kat, and Lil’ Sue scanned the rows and rows of records there looking for the Charlie’s single.
Sandy went over to the college kid behind the register. “Do you have that new single “Look at Your Game, Girl?” I can’t find it over there.”
The clerk looked at a clipboard full of papers, ran a finger down a column, and said, “Uh, actually? It says we just got some in this morning.”
“Cool!” trilled Sandy. “I need ten copies for my sister,” she said, gesturing to Lil’ Sue. All the girls had dressed as young and straight as they could this morning, but Lil’ Sue was genuinely under sixteen.
“Ten?” asked the boy, incredulous. No one had ever bought more than two copies of a song from him. “Are you sure?’
“Yep! We know lots of fans – they sent us down here from Malibu to get ‘em.”
“Well,” said the clerk, “it says we only have, like, eight.”
“That’s cool,” said Sandy. “I’ll take those, and can I order ten more? I’ll pay for them all now. Save them under my name - Annie.”
“Sure, no prob,” the kid said. He searched under the counter and found the eight 45’s, and rang up a sale for eighteen. “That’s twenty dollars, thirteen cents.”
Sandy handed him Annie’s 76 gas charge card, and he imprinted the sale.
“Thank you!” all the girls sang sweetly, in unison.
Next, the clan headed into Hollywood to the Wallich’s Music City store and repeated the same routine. Then Aron’s on Fairfax, on to Canterburys’ in Pasadena, and six other stores around the Valley. Then, like cowboys on their tired horses, they pointed the convertible back to the ranch, where Marv was waiting.
Charlie suddenly took the Roxford Ave. exit off the 5 Freeway. “Ice cream for my back-up singers!” he crowed. They drove, singing, into the parking lot of the Dennys near the freeway exit.
You Only Hurt the Ones You Love
1944 Allan Roberts, Doris Fisher
September 15, 1969
2:00 pm.
Squeaky worked the line of callers, keeping them from drifting away. Most of the men were not happy to be standing in a line, and especially unhappy to be told what to do by a woman. At the ranch the men lived their own agenda and contributed mostly by doing the heavy physical work and repairs. But Charlie had commanded it, so they stood in line, grumbled, and rolled their eyes.
Sitting at the table on the other side of Marv was a girl Alex had seen before, but never met. A plain girl, she seemed to be one of the few unhappy ones at the ranch. He decided to interview to her about her story, at least until Sandy returned.
He went around to the front of the table to face her. “Hi – I’m Alex. I’ve seen you around, but we haven’t actually met.”
She turned her head to face him, and Alex was startled. The left side of her face was a sallow yellow with dark purple blotches, especially around her left eye. Above the bruises was a scar line, still an angry dark purple color.
‘Hi,” she said, unenthusiastic. “I’m Sherrie.” She looked away immediately, hiding the bruised side of her face.
“Jeez!” Alex said. “That’s one nasty bruise you got there. You OK?”
“Oh … yeah. Fell off a horse a while back. It’s just taking a long time to heal, I guess. Doesn’t hurt that much anymore.”
Alex nodded. “Wow. I forget how dangerous animals can be sometimes.”
Sherrie looked right at Alex. “Yeah – you got that right.”
“Hey – look. I’m writing an article about living here at the ranch, and the Family, and Charlie’s music. I’d like to hear your story – how you got here, stuff like that. I don’t have to know your real name, or anything.” Alex had found that the ‘name’ thing was always the first concern Family members would have about his questions.
“Sure,” said Sherrie. “I –”
“Uh, Alex? You don’t want to bother with her,” Marv interrupted. “She’s an OK kid, I guess, but not very interesting.”
“Really?” Sherrie said, angry.
“I mean,” said Marv, passing out more cards, “she’s just another runaway from Orange County. No great story there.”
Sherrie abruptly rose, pushed her chair back, and hustled out of the café, wiping away tears.
“What the fuck!” Alex said, glaring at Marv. “That wasn’t cool, Marv. Why’d you dis her like that? And don’t you think that I should decide if her story is interesting or important?”
Marv dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand and cigarette. “What I know is that nobody likes her, man. She’s a drag. She’s like an ugly dog that whines all the time. A troublemaker.” He handed the next person an index card.
Alex got up to follow Sherrie.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to her, Alex!” Marv called out behind him.
Alex looked out from the porch and saw Sherrie heading down the hill to the stables and campfire area. He took off in a trot to follow her. “Sherrie!” he yelled.
He caught up with her as she sat down on Manson’s tree stump throne. She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose, but her resolve was returning. The crying was over, replaced by anger.
“I hate these people sometimes!” she hissed, looking at Alex. He sat down on the ground next to her, leaning against the stump.
“Well, why don’t you leave?” he asked.
“How? Where? I got no money, nothing. I can’t even go to town without someone driving me.”
“Aren’t there, like, shelters for girls? Church things?” he suggested.
“I don’t know – I suppose,” she said, looking up at the hills and sky. “It’s hard to leave this place, even if the people are assholes, sometimes. The horses, the ranch - it’s so beautiful.”
Alex chuckled lightly, trying to lighten the mood. “From the look of things, you might be better off staying away from the horses for a while.”
Sherrie snorted. “This?” she sneered, pointing to her bruised face. “Shit, man – no fall did this. That’s just a fuckin’ story I made up!”
“Well, how – “
The tears began again and Sherrie looked away. Her lower jaw trembled a little, and then she looked down at her hands in her lap.
“Charlie,” she said finally, in a hoarse whisper.
“What?” Alex said, not fully believing her.
“Yeah. Charlie,” she said, looking off in the distance. “Our ‘father,” she said sarcastically.
Alex had seen Manson threaten all the time, but he had no evidence of real violence until now. “I had no idea he would really do more than yell and shit,” he said.
Sherrie laughed through tears. “Oh! If you only knew, man. If you only knew just a little of what he’s done – what he can do!”
“Like what?” he asked.
“I – I can’t talk about it,” Sherrie said, standing.
They heard Sandy calling for him from up in the plaza.
He reached into his wallet and gave Sherrie a Crib Notes business card. “Call me, or you can always leave a message. Maybe we can talk next time?” Alex asked.
“Next time?” Sherrie laughed, still sarcastic. “If there is a next time, man – maybe.” She wiped at her tears and walked to the stables.
Too Much Monkey Business
1956 Chuck Berry
September 15, 1969
6:00 pm.
Alex met Sandy halfway down the hill from the café, and after a quick hug and kiss they started back up to the top.
“Sorry I wa
sn’t here!” Sandy said. “Marv had us go on a mission. We were all over the place! Did you see the call-in operation?”
“Yeah – pretty clever,” he said. “And what was your mission, may I ask?” Alex leaned in to her ear and whispered, “Or is it … Top Secret?”
Sandy kissed him and laughed. “Not too secret, I guess. We went to a whole bunch of record stores and bought all the ‘Look at Your Game’ singles they had. We even ordered more! We’ve got a big stack at the café – there’s got to be over a hundred! It seems crazy, but Marv got us on the radio, so, he must have some reason for it.”
They went into the café and searched for some water. The line of callers had dwindled down to three, but Marv had ordered another session for after dinner, when KQAT was supposed to debut the song on their station.
On the table in front of Marv was a sloppy pile of 45’s – the result of today’s buying spree. The remaining crowd in the café were ogling them as if they were gold coins. No one had ever seen that many copies of the same record before, even kids that had worked in record stores. To them, the pile radiated fame and success.
“That’s a lot of records, man!” said Alex.
“No, man. Think thousands. Think hundreds of thousands!” Marv cackled.
“How are you going to buy back thousands of records, Marv? And why?”
Marv rolled his eyes. He always forgot that the common citizen was blind to the hidden machinery of the record business. “It’s all promo, Alex! All those sales and orders we made today will be reported to the trade magazines on Thursday. Just like the stations report requests that are called in. Next week, our single will be way up on the charts – maybe even ‘Most Requested New Song!’ Then, record stores from all over the country will be ordering our records, trying to play catch-up.” He scooped up as many records as his hands could grab. “We just sell these babies back to them!”
Alex just shook his head. He hadn’t been writing about the music business nearly as long as Marv had been playing the game. Alex had yet to encounter anyone else who played these kinds of P.T.Barnum schemes. “You mean this is how everyone gets a hit record?”
“No, no, no!” Marv fumed. “The big fish can’t do this kind of thing – they’re too corporate. Some are even public stock companies! They spend as much on lawyers and accountants every year as marketing the records. No, only the little fish can swim around the big guys and do this kind of guerilla stuff, until they also get too big. And when you get too big: Yahoo, baby! Big time!” Marv smiled, relaxed in his chair, and blew smoke at the ceiling.
Charlie came into the café and Marv stood up so that he and Charlie could slap their hands together in the air. It was something Alex had seen only at black student rallies.
“Feels good, doesn’t it!” Marv asked.
“Yeah, man – it’s cool! You did it!” Charlie giggled. “Far out! Far, far out! So?” He took the open chair at the table. “How much did we take?” He looked straight at Marv.
Marv was confused. “Take? You mean money?”
Manson spoke impatiently. “From the records, man – the records that we sold!”
“Aw, Charlie! We’ve just got started, man! I’ll bet the only records sold today are the ones you guys and Maxie bought. The record’s only been on the radio for a few hours!” Marv sat down next to Charlie. “And even when this gets rolling – and I know it will – it will take these assholes months to pay us!”
“Months?” Manson asked, his good mood evaporating.
“Yeah, months. Our job right now,” Marv told Manson, “is to get as much attention we can, any way we can. For example: we gotta get you playing around town as soon as possible. And that money gets paid at the end of the night!”
Charlie sat and thought for a moment. The Family around him grew hushed. Alex had watched them all become uptight any time Charlie was thinking.
“Man, this shit just never ends. Every time I start to feel good about this thing, you bring me another big fuckin’ downer!”
“But Charlie!” Marv began. “This is what you’ve been waiting for! This is your new life, man!”
Sandy was impressed. Marv was one of the few men she had seen Charles Manson listen to, no matter how much he laughed at Marv behind his back.
“Look – I don’t need a new life, dude. I just want to write songs, and I want the people to hear them.”
“Well, Charlie,” Marv said, “if that’s what you want, this is the only way to do it. There are no tricks in that department. C’mon. Call your musician friends and get a backing group together. You know so many of those guys!”
“Charlie!” said Kat. “John Diedrich isn’t in a group right now. I saw him last weekend. He could be the drummer! And he knows everybody.”
Charlie sighed, and got up slowly. “OK, OK. Let me have the damn phone.”
Boys
1961 Luther Dixon, Wes Farrell
September 20, 1969
2:00 pm.
Kat and Charlie watched the Sunset Boulevard world go by from a window booth at Ben Frank’s Coffee Shop on the Sunset Strip. Like most Strip businesses, Ben Frank’s was tolerant of the longhairs, musicians, and teenagers that were magnetically attracted to the Strip. In fact, Ben Frank’s understood the potential in the tourist wallet. There was always a pop icon or two there to ogle, especially later at night. It was a relaxed, central landmark in West Hollywood to hang out and rendezvous with people or just dig the scene.
Charlie and Kat had drawn up a list of potential band members from their black book of contacts built over years of dealing and haunting the music scene. They had arranged to meet a few here at Frank’s. In Manson’s opinion, he told Kat, many on the list had unpaid debts owed to him from all the times he had been generous with drugs and friendly girls at parties and clubs. Hell - just the risks he took being their connection should be enough to expect some return favors.
Kat knew about musicians. Real musicians – not the weekend, suburban kids. The artists who were fully, madly committed to their playing, writing, and singing. As much as she admired that commitment and talent, she had learned from hard experience that nearly all of them expected girlfriends to supply them with the basic necessities of life: shelter, food, and transportation. Love and sex were part of the equation, but most male artists looked at these as something meant to be divided among as many women as they could seduce. It was just natural, they would say. Something to be shared, like their art - except when it came to their own girlfriends.
Charlie had no hangups about that sharing part, and it was another reason Kat admired him. He really is an advanced man, she thought. She looked at him across the table as he dragged on his cigarette. He smiled at her, sipped his Coke, and looked out on busy Sunset. He seemed more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Everyone in the Family was riding a wave of pride, fulfillment, and hope since the record came out. They were all thinking more about their future.
Dave Silva, a bass player, was the first to arrive, 15 minutes late. He flopped down next to Kat so he could talk face-to-face with Manson. They shared a ‘soul’ handshake: open hands clasped with locking thumbs.
“Shit, man, I haven’t seen you around here for, like, ages, Charlie!” Dave said. “Are you guys still at that big yellow house in Reseda?”
Charlie laughed. “No, man. We left the ‘Submarine’ – back at the ranch now.” He lit another cigarette. “Been too busy, man. My manager’s got me runnin’ all over the place. You hear my single, man?”
“What?!” Dave exclaimed. “A single, a manager?” Kat slid a record across to him. “Wow! This is wild, man! Finally – far out!”
“Yeah, so we’re looking to put a band together to back us up. Do shows, clubs, touring,” Charlie said. “Thought you might wanna be in. We’re having some audition jamming next weekend – see who might fit.”
“Sure, Charlie!” Dave said. “That’d be righteous cool! I’m between bands right now, so …”
“Next Saturday abo
ut four, at the ranch.”
“Cool! I remember how to get there: off Topanga Canyon, right? Thanks, man!” Dave got up to leave. “Gotta split. Hey!” he said, remembering something. “Did you hear about Hinman?”
Manson’s expression froze. He stared at the end of the smoldering cigarette in his hand.
“That ass? Fucker owes me a lot of money.”
Dave leaned on the table and put his head in closer, lowering his voice. “No, man! I mean – he was murdered about two months ago. Butchered is more like it. Man! Fucked up!”
Manson looked out at Sunset. “Well, I’m not surprised, man. He burned me, he burned a lot of people.” He looked at Dave. “Some fuckers just end up asking for it, ya know?”
Dave was silent for a second. “That’s cold, man. He was our friend once. Nobody deserves … I mean, they cut him up into pieces, man! No one deserves that.”
“Four o’clock, man. See you then,” Charlie said, his voice flat.
“Yeah. Okay. Later.” Dave left, still troubled. Manson sighed and leaned back in the booth.
“Wasn’t Hinman the guy that burned you on that bad mescaline deal?” Kat asked.
“Asshole!” Charlie muttered.
“I thought you sent Bobby and Sadie to his house to get the money back,” she asked.
“Yeah – they, uh, couldn’t find him. So, I was savin’ that party for another day.”
“Well,” Kat said, “I guess we’ll never get that money now.” She looked out at the street, sad faced.
“Nope – that’s the stone truth!” Then he leaned over to Kat. “Bad shit happens - good shit happens. Look at us right now! It’s all karma, girl!” She smiled at him lovingly.
A good looking, strongly built man with a mop of blond curls walked into the restaurant. He spotted Charlie and Kat when she waved him to their table. He was wearing a bright red tee shirt and worn denim farmer’s overalls faded to a soft baby blue color. He called to a waitress who knew him and signaled for coffee.
Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band Page 12
