“Shit!” he yelled, and kicked the fender. Alex went around to the driver’s door and saw a piece of paper fluttering under the wiper. He grabbed it and unfolded the single sheet of paper. On torn school-lined paper, in schoolgirl script, he read:
I am sorry I lyed to you. I was mad at Charlie.
Forget anything I said. Forget me too. You are very nice!
Sherrie
Alex slumped into the driver’s seat and lit a cigarette. He realized with a shiver: They were watching me the whole time – since when? He was angry, confused – almost panicked. And he was furious at himself. I’ve been one step behind this thing the whole time! Sherrie, the car, and now the ridiculous kiss-off note. Alex knew he had to find a way to get in front of the situation. The story kept growing in importance to him, but now real damage was looming over a lot of people.
Alex left the car and went back to the room. The first call would be to ‘Rent-A-Wreck’ - he had to get a replacement as soon as possible. As Alex unlocked the door the phone began to ring. He was going to let it pass but remembered his message for Phil, so he picked it up.
“Alex Swain?”
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“Hi – it’s Detective Beaudry from the West LAPD Division. We met yesterday at the precinct? I need to talk with you some more today. Down here at the station.”
Look at Your Game, Girl
1967 Charles Manson
October 16, 1969
5:00 pm
Early the day before, as the family slept off Peyton Emerson’s pizza and champagne party, Sherrie had slipped away. Sandy did not want to be the one to break the news, but Kat, Charlie’s vigilant eyes and ears, soon realized that Sherrie was AWOL.
Sandy was surprised by how angry Manson became. He went from person to person trying to find out more details, especially where Sherrie had gone. His powers over the Family members were strong, and he was confident in his ability to get the truth out of them. They had all come to believe that it was impossible to lie to Charlie, so most didn’t even try.
Sandy was no exception, and she hoped he would give up before he found her. But when Manson finally got to her he was still angry and focused. She gave him her information immediately, without any evasion.
“The writer asshole? That’s where she went?”
“I don’t know, Charlie – but she had the address when she left here,” Sandy said. “God knows where she’s ended up.” She blew cigarette smoke over her shoulder, trying to stay cool under Charlie’s glare.
Manson grew angrier and growled at her. “That was stupid, girl! Stupid!” he yelled. He fumed and drew in the dust with his boot as he thought. “OK – go with Spence in the truck. You two are going to that fucker’s room and you are not coming back without her! It is up to you –” he shouted, jabbing a finger in her chest, “to get her out of there, and back here!” He spun around and stalked away.
• • •
Sandy and Spence walked around the Sportsmens’ Lodge looking for Alex’s room number - 219. In Sandy’s opinion the motel was a piggy palace, with its swimming pool, crazy fishing pond, and polyester clientele. They were soon stopped by a Rent-a-Pig who checked them out and told them to leave. Pretending to leave, they ditched the cop and found Alex’s room but had to retreat to the parking lot when they saw the cop coming again.
Sandy walked to the gas station on the corner of Coldwater and Ventura and called Alex’s room. It rang four times before a sleepy Sherrie answered. Sandy hung up immediately and hurried back to the truck.
“She’s there - alone, I think,” Sandy told Spence as she climbed in the truck. They moved the truck to a spot with a clear view of Room 219’s door. “What do we do now?” Sandy asked, nervous.
“We wait ‘til she comes out,” Spence said flatly. “What do you think, bitch?”
“Uh – we don’t want to grab her off the street, Spence! She’ll make a lot of trouble.”
Spence grunted. “We still have to wait and see if that dude comes out.”
Sandy and Spence waited half an hour, then looked at each other and shrugged. “C’mon,” was all that Spence said. They walked the least public route to the door and arrived unseen. Sandy knocked while Spence hid behind a column. There was no answer, and Sandy knocked again.
“Who is it?” Sherrie’s voice asked.
“Sherrie! It’s Sandy! I gotta talk to you!”
“Sandy?” Sherrie said.
Sandy saw Sherrie peek from behind the curtains. The curtains closed, and the door opened after the locks were undone.
“Hi,” Sherrie said, squinting in the sunlight. “Wha –”
Spence jumped out from his hiding place, barged through the door, and tackled Sherrie. She could only get out a small “Eeee!” before he got his hand across her mouth.
Sandy quickly moved inside and closed the door. She grabbed Sherrie’s arm, and tried to get the two wrestling bodies to stand up. “Sherrie! Shut up! C’mon!”
Spence and Sherrie did an awkward dance as they both tried to stand, Sherrie still captive. In an unbalanced moment, Sherrie broke away and ran towards the bathroom. Spence found his feet and jumped over the corner of the bed in pursuit. Sandy saw him pull his knife as he lunged at Sherrie.
“Sherrie! Be cool, godammit!” she hissed, trying not to shout.
Sherrie made it into the bathroom, and grunted as she tried to shove the door shut. Spence already had his knife arm through the bathroom doorway. He pushed back on the door and it easily gave way as he plunged inside. Sherrie screamed as Spence tried to grab her and his knife slashed into her upper arm. She fell against the tile wall and slid down next to the toilet. Her mouth opened, but she was too terrified to make a sound.
Spence grabbed her hair and pulled her up to face him. “C’mon, bitch!” He pushed her out of the bathroom ahead of him. Sandy took Sherrie and sat her on the bed. She untied her hair bandana and wrapped it around Sherrie’s wound.
“OK – we’re going to leave now, and I’ll be right behind you, you little cunt!” Spence said as he put the tip of the knife under Sherrie’s chin. “Just smile, keep quiet, and keep walking!”
Sherrie was shaking, and Sandy was upset. “Did you have to do this, man?” she asked, securing the bandana.
“Shut the fuck up!” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Let’s go.”
• • •
Manson slapped Sherrie hard. She hit the wall inside Spence’s cabin and slumped to the worn wooden floor. The cut on her upper arm was covered by a blood-soaked bandana, but her fall had opened the knife wound again. Thin streams of blood streaked down her arm.
“Charlie, no!” Sherrie whimpered, pleading. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Just let me leave, man!”
“What did you tell him, you little cunt!” Manson shouted, standing over her. He bent closer and got in her face. “What. Did. You. Tell. Him?!”
“Nothing, Charlie, I swear! He wasn’t even at the room most of the time. I was just crashing there!”
“It’s true,” Sandy said. Sandy was leaning against the door inside Spence’s cabin. This cabin was by the creek, isolated further down from the Main Street buildings. When they had returned from the Sportsmens mission, Sandy and Spence pulled Sherrie from the car and pushed her into Spence’s cabin once they were positive no one could see them.
“Alex wasn’t around – she was sleeping when Spence and I got her,” Sandy said.
Manson continued to demand answers from Sherrie as he pressed her hard against the cabin wall. “Why can’t you be like Sandy? She’s a good girl, does what I say - most of the time. But she is one lucky cunt today,” he said. “Peyton likes her.” He stared at Sandy. “Don’t fuck me over again, girl!”
Manson exhaled, shaking his head at Sherrie. “Shit! I should have gotten rid of you a long time ago!” He looked over at Spence, who was tapping the flat side of his knife blade off the knuckles of his hand. He shook his head and shrugged.
“What did you say i
n the note?” Manson asked Sandy.
Sandy was confused. “What note?”
Manson screamed in frustration. “Ah! Fuck! I told you to leave a note! From Sherrie! Like – ‘sorry, I got to keep movin’ on …’ blah, blah, blah. Now he’ll be wondering what happened!”
“Charlie, you didn’t say any –”
“Goddammit! I have to do everything! You’re all useless!” Manson screamed. “Fuck! Keep her here, and shut her up. Don’t tell anyone she’s here!” he commanded. “I’ll think of something later. Right now, I gotta get down to Hollywood and see Emerson. Sandy, write that note and come with me. We’ll have to make another visit to that faggot asshole later tonight!”
The Thirteen Question Method
1961 Chuck Berry
October 18, 1969
10:00 am.
Alex considered several strategies on his way to the West LAPD station. He was now driving a new beat-up car - his replacement for the Chevy Manson had put out of commission. Rent-A-Wreck was not happy, and gave Alex the worst car they had - a faded brown ‘62 Buick station wagon.
Alex didn’t know why Beaudry wanted to see him again – the detective wouldn’t say over the phone. What could he have found out? Alex asked himself. Alex wanted to protect Sherrie - his source. But now he didn’t know where she was or if she was even alive. Alex would try any way he could to keep the story from being exposed too soon. Tricky, since he might have to be reporting a new murder at any moment. The thought chilled him.
At the station Beaudry was relaxed and pleasant as at their last meeting, but then led Alex deep inside the building to a small interview room. Beaudry left him locked inside the windowless, soundproofed room for what seemed to Alex like half an hour. It wasn’t the first time he’d been kept in a police interview room, and Alex was getting furious. Cooling his heels was not something Alex had anticipated.
The door opened and Beaudry came in with a file folder. He had taken off his jacket and his shoulder holster and 45 were clearly visible, purposely. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said to Alex. “Things always seem to take longer than you’d think around here.”
It was very cold in the little room with the glaring lights. Alex knew Beaudry was bullshitting him – they put you in this ice box and let you stew for a while to shake you up, make you ponder your crimes, imagine your fate.
“The ‘Wheels of Justice’ grinding and all that?” Alex said sarcastically, blowing cigarette smoke. “Can we just get this over with and cut the crap?”
“Sure,” Beaudry said. “Sure. What I need is for you to tell me again, on the record, what you know about the Mulholland accident, Alex.”
Alex paused, and immediately lost faith in any of the lame diversions he had considered on the drive over. “Look – there’s some things I can’t tell you. As a reporter, I need to protect my sources,” Alex said, trying to play the journalist card even harder.
“Uh huh. Let’s start by you telling me what you will talk about,” Beaudry said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head.
Alex began to tell Beaudry the minimum amount of the story he could. “I was working on an article and met a girl. She told me she about the accident and that she knew the four people in the car, and I needed to find out if she was telling the truth.” Alex lit another cigarette. “She’s pretty young, and repeats a lot of stuff she hears. You know – all the big talk and boasting around her. I came down here to check her story out, and apparently she was telling me the truth.”
“And what was this article about?” Beaudry asked.
“I can’t say – sorry,” Alex said.
“But you just said you were working on a story. Does that mean you finished it? Will it be published?”
“No. It got killed – uh – cancelled.”
Beaudry considered this information and found it interesting. But unfortunately, he knew it would take a subpoena to see an unpublished article. “Let’s go back to this girl. Why did she know about these people?”
“They were sort of friends of hers,” Alex said.
“Sort of friends?”
Alex sighed and said, “It’s complicated.”
“I got time.” Beaudry smiled. He liked smiling at his captive subjects.
“I can’t, Beaudry! This story is too fragile right now – it’s all crazy shit I’m hearing.”
Beaudry looked directly at Alex. “How crazy? Murder crazy?”
Alex knew that his physical reaction answered the question. “Maybe. Not sure.” He felt a gut reaction from realizing exactly where he was, and why.
Beaudry’s face turned serious – no smile now. “I don’t have to tell you about withholding evidence, obstruction, aiding and abetting. Your’re a smart guy. Experienced.” Beaudry’s grim smile returned. “Aren’t you?”
“Shit! I don’t know right now,” Alex said bleakly. “I’m not sure what’s just talk and what’s real, man.”
Beaudry sat up and put his arms on the table, pushing in closer to Alex. “Well, I got a real knife, Swain. Very real. I found it at the crash site. Do you know anything about it? Did this girl tell you about any knives?”
“No,” Alex said nervously. Didn’t those idiots get rid of them? he wondered. “Look - I don’t know who they were, what they had, or even what kind of car it was. That’s exactly the kind of stuff I’m trying to find out myself!”
Beaudry sighed. “No idea where they were going. What they were doing?”
Alex saw now that it had all gone too far to leave the police out. From Beaudry’s questions, Alex still wasn’t sure they had made the Cielo Drive murders connection. Beaudry was very clever. “I just can’t say right now. Give me a week, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Which isn’t a whole lot,” Alex implored. Worth a shot.
“Two days,” Beaudry replied quickly. “I’ll give you two days, then your ass is back in that chair, article or no article. And,” he added, “you’d better call me if you know about any crimes actually going down. If you don’t, we’re going to put that chair in a cell with your name on it! Got it?”
“Yeah. Of course. I want this to end as much as you do, believe me,” Alex said.
“OK. You’re out of here,” Beaudry said, closing the file folder. “Good luck.”
Alex got up to leave and Beaudry said, “Hey! I read your article in the May Crib Notes. Nice job. That’s terrible about how those old blues guys got swindled like that!”
It was a not so subtle dig, letting Alex know that Beaudry had done even more footwork than Alex was aware of. Once again, Alex felt the cold fear of dropping behind in the game, being caught in this repeating anxiety dream.
Alex returned to his dirty brown station wagon and sat for a minute, contemplating what to do next. First, he’d go over to the office to update Phil. Then? Alex needed to find Sherrie, or at least know that she was OK for the moment, somewhere. But he doubted that a trip to the ranch would work in his favor. He turned the key and the Buick shook, sending a blue cloud of half-burned gasoline out the tailpipe. Sandy, he realized clearly. I’ve got to get to Sandy!
• • •
Phil Crane was back in command directing his monthly battle: the deadline. He was standing in the center of the Crib Notes central production office talking on a phone squeezed between his shoulder and ear while he simultaneously checked layout sheets for each page of the next issue and smoked his 25th cigarette of the day.
“Phil!” Alex called from across two desks.
Phil whirled around without stopping any of his tasks, and held up his index finger to Alex.
Alex waited for a long minute before calling out again. “Phil?”
Crane nodded impatiently, and finished that round of work. They both headed for Phil’s office as Phil said, “Bad time – make it quick!”
“We don’t have much time left on this story, either!” Alex said. “Beaudry found a knife at the crash scene. They’re guessing it means something. Probably does.”
“Ya think?” Phil said, rolling his eyes.
“I got two days, and then Beaudry expects me to give them the whole story. I gotta find that girl Sandy – the one from the Family. She probably knows where Sherrie is.”
“So you haven’t heard from her, either?”
Alex sighed. “No. I don’t think it would do any good for me to pay a visit to the ranch, at this point,”
“Well, I’ve got a pretty good guess where she’ll be tomorrow night,” Phil said. He gave Alex his ‘I know something you don’t’ smile – a special expression he loved to give and his staff was infuriated to get. “Take a drive down Sunset, man. Just west of La Cienega, facing east. There’s a brand new billboard: ‘Charlie Manson and His Band – their new album coming February, 1970.’ Big hairy picture of Manson.’
Alex was stunned. “Wow! That was fast – and expensive! But –”
Phil continued. “And at the bottom: ‘Special one night show Monday, October 20th at the Whiskey a Go Go.”
Alex smiled. “You coming with?”
Phil shook his head. “As much as I’d love to see those two Manson assholes again, I gotta stay and get the book out. You are on your own, man.” He paused. “Be careful. This thing keeps getting bigger and uglier!”
Charley Brown
1959 Jerry Lieber, Mike Stoller
October 20, 1969
9:30 am.
It was hard to concentrate in the research room at the L.A. Times building. Unlike a regular library, there were no spinsters in sweaters to hush the crowd and it seemed more like a convention than a scholar’s haven. Alex was going through the paper’s old issues, starting from August 1st, reading every article related to the Tate murders.
He’d had a nearly sleepless night, and that affected Alex as he tried to read the small newspaper type. Caffeine and nicotine propped him up but made his eyes jitter, smearing the text in his vision. By 2:00 pm he had finally scanned everything up to today’s edition, but had found almost nothing new reported since the first days after the murders. The police, the press, and the public had worn out their original frenzy and were now just dazed, trying to get their minds around the idea that the murders might never be solved – so complete was the lack of leads or new information.
Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band Page 21
