Silence on the other end.
“Hail Mary, are you there?”
“Yes, that’s why he gave me the name.”
ABOUT TEN AFTER SIX the doorbell rang. I buzzed her in. I got a peek at Hail Mary as she navigated the stairway. She was bedecked in a green dress with a red bow on her right wrist and right ankle. Her hair was tied in a green ribbon. Around her waist is a red sash that was secured by a green bow. She did not wear makeup and was ordinary looking. She projected innocence.
At the top of the stairway we faced each other. She turned around, making sure I got a complete view. Her ponytail was held in place by a green ribbon.
“As you can see, Charlie said none of his girls would win a beauty contest.”
I escorted her into the living room. She swooned upon seeing Manson’s mail.
“Ohhh, I can feel Charlie’s presence from the letters. And I can feel his presence in you, Richard.”
“Hmmm, all those ribbons and bows on you.”
“Would you like to unwrap your present from Charlie?”
Without further ado, I untied s the bows and ribbons.
“Women are to serve men. That’s what Charlie said.”
I got the hint and escorted her down the hallway, kissing her neck as we ambled along. She noticed the bathroom and said, “I have to go back for my purse and then make a bathroom stop to baby-proof myself.”
“Good idea. I’ll wait for you in bed.”
In a few minutes my naked present jumped in the bed. “I’m babyproof. It’s time for a holy celebration,” Hail Mary said.
“Alleluia and amen.”
After an hour of frolicking we sipped Jamaica Blue Mountain in the kitchen alcove. With pen and notebook in hand, Hail Mary, still in her birthday suit, imparted information I was seeking.
“Red’ is Squeaky. “Blue” is Sandy Good.”
After she provided me with the other girls’ names, I asked how she connected with Charlie.
“Ten years ago, when I was nine, I saw Charlie in my dreams. He smiled at me. Then I saw that he was soaked in blood.”
After making mental calculations I said, “You were born in 1958. Sharon Tate was murdered in 1969. You saw Manson in your dreams—”
“-I dreamed about him two years before the murders. At that time
I didn’t know who he was. Do you believe me?”
“The dream was prophetic. Why are you attracted to a mass murderer and a baby killer?”
“Are you condemning me?
”Trying to understand you.”
“Why did you contact Charlie?”
“I want to put the searchlight on his soul.”
She squeezed my hand and suggested we cuddle up on the multicolored contoured futon in the living room. All cuddled up, both of us in our birthday suits. “Killing Sharon Tate’s baby was hard to accept,” she said. After a pause she continued: “Charlie told me he killed for love.”
“Would you kill for love?
”I--I don’t know how to answer that.”
”What draws you to Charlie?” “
“He has something that I lack, something that I want.”
”What he has is buried in you. He mirrors the buried treasure in you.”
“I don’t understand.”
”It’s called ‘positive projection.’ You’re searching for your innocence, which you think is outside yourself.” “
This must have been an ‘aha moment’ for her—“That’s what he meant when he said, ‘What you see in me is in you.’”
She wrapped her arms around me. “Excuse me, R&R, I want to get baby-proofed.”
In the morning (Saturday) we strolled to Golden Gate Park,. It’s a ten-minute walk from my flat on 20th Avenue between Geary and Clement Streets.
Hail Mary tossed pieces of sourdough bread into the pond, luring the ducks and swans. I broke break and fed and ducks and swans.
I asked her about studying Earth Balance at SFS.
“The school calls it Environmental Studies. Charlie, in his imaginative say, calls it Earth Balance.
We agreed that Charlie’s term was more imaginative; He was ‘right on.’ Charlie says I’m majoring in Earth Balance.
She looked at her watch. Good Lord, I’ve got to get back to the dorm. A paper is due tomorrow.
Waiting for me was a short letter from Charlie. What good news!!! In the mail are two crates of letters from people who write to him. For the past year he promised to send me his fan mail. For some reason he kept putting it off. I had asked if he received any hate mail. “No hate mail,” was his response. I told him of the three hundred letters he gets every week, there must be some hate mail. His answer was always the same: “No hate mail.”
I told him I did not believe him. He wrote back: “Suck a lemon. No hate mail.” “Prove it to me,” I quipped. “Send me the boxes so I can see for myself.”
That went on for a year. And now the boxes were in the mail. Alleluia. Amen. A horse rode a cowboy into town.
I came home from work Monday. Perhaps there was a note from the post office, informing me the Manson mail had arrived.
No notice.
The same scenario was repeated on Tuesday and Wednesday.
Was he teasing me?
The phone rang. An excited Hail Mary told me: “Charlie just told me he mailed you two crates of mail. I’m thrilled. Did you get it?”
“Not yet.”
“Can I help you sort the letters out?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you want to itemize and categorize the letters?”
“Why, that’s a terrific idea.”
“You’ll want to sort them out by family members, teenagers, prisoners who write to Charlie, ministers, social workers—“
“I can’t wait to go through them.”
“How many letters do you think Charlie sent?”
“I hope one hundred minimum.”
Hail Mary could not stop laughing.
“Why you laughing?”
“I calculate two or three thousand minimum.”
When I picked up the two boxes on Friday I discovered that Hail Mary’s calculation was right on. When weighed out of the boxes the weight was thirty-five pounds. of mail
With Hail Mary’s help, the mail was placed in stacks: There are multiple filed were labeled: TEENAGE BOYS, TEENAGE GIRLS, ADULT MALES; ADULT FEMALES; PRISONERS; FOREIGN MAIL FROM POLAND, GERMANY, AUSTRALIA; CANADA; THE LONDON WITCH.
Other categories: FBI DOSSIER; SECRET SERVICE DOSSIER LYN FROMME; SANDRA GOOD; OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS.FAR OUT LETTERS; BLACK MUSLIM; SCHOOL KIDS; AMERICAN EXPRESS INVITATION
Other categories: SEX, CHRISTIAN MINISTERS; RELIGIOUS LADY; WOMAN OF THE LAND and PRESIDENT NIXON.
No hate mail. I studied a letter taken from the SEX batch. This is incredible.
Charlie, I’d love to make you come and you make me come. Do you masturbate much? I do once in a while. In the left-hand margin, covering the entire page, is a pencil artistic drawing of a girl, her panties at her ankles, her dress raised above her waits; with her free hand, she strokes her vulva.
Play with me, Charlie. Did you do it? Come on. I want you too. I think about you when I play with myself.
In the right-hand margin, covering half the page, is her rendition of a phallus in full bloom. I love oral sex. I love fucking too. Let me come to visit you in prison. I’ll cheer you up on every visit. There’s such a thing as conjugal rights. If you like. we’ll get married in name only we’ll have conjugal rights on all of my visits. (See Appendix 4.)
“Look what I found,” Hail Mary said. “Six letters and a postcard from a witch in London.”
The photo of the witch, dressed in black; she was hellishly made up.
“Charles, you may be happy to hear that I shall soon begin a campaign in honor of the Emperor Lucifer.” I suffered for many years from a normally fatal illness, probably due to the fact that I was religious.” Then I had a midnight visitation from Lucif
er, as a result of which I discovered a surgeon who gave me a successful operation. I seem to remember your saying that many things exits in this world which cause endless trouble, and which we could all live without. My aim is to improve the world by ending religions.
I could not believe this one—an envelope addressed to President Richard Nixson (Manson’s spelling). Manson wants to send all the money in his account to the former President. One of the correctional officers-
The prison document is captioned: TRUST ACCOUNT WITHDRAWAL ORDER Manson’s request is stated. There is handwriting by a correctional counselor and the warden. “This does not appear to be a reasonable or rational request. Inmate has $50 on account...Disapproved.s/ G.E.Miller, CCI”
The withdrawal request was routed to the warden who wrote “Denied.” What a far out name for a warden.” /s/ Warden G. Gunn. I discovered many pencil drawings from Squeaky (named after her squeaky voice). Also discovered was Lyn Fromme’s lengthy letter to Manson. It was written before the verdict was issued in San Diego for her attempted assassination of President Ford. She continued the letter that same night. Her dream was that all the Manson family should be put in a prison together. Once together, their lives would be fulfilled. A life sentence with Manson was her fantasy.
There was a letter from a rich teenage boy in Hillsborough, CA., a posh, upscale city in the San Francisco Bay Area. He told Manson about his psychic talents and abilities. On the top of the teenager’s letter Manson replied: “Your calling a blessing a curse.”
The excitement and ecstasy of crashed. Manson began sending ominous threats.
“R&R, I want all those letters back.”
I replied: “I’m not returning the letters.”
He wrote back: “Don’t you know you’re dealing with a mad psychopathic killer.”
I replied: “No letters back, Charlie.”
He wrote back: “You put something into motion you can’t stop.”
I did not tell Hail Mary about Charlie’s change of mood. I didn’t have to as Charlie informed her what’s going on. My phone rang. It was after seven in the evening. It was Hail Mary. “Richard, I have a letter from Charlie. Can I come over now?”
When she arrived a half hour later she was visibly shaken. She was holding a letter in her hand. She handed it to me. The note was short and to the point:
“Damn you, woman, I didn’t send you to be under his spell. If you can’t get the letters find out if his place is made of wood.
To make sure that nothing happened to the letters I had removed them to an unlocked store room in the garage.
Hail Mary sat on the floor of the living room. I reclined on the futon.
“The letters, I don’t see them,” she said, still rattled. I reclined on the futon.
“They’re in a safe place.”
“Charlie wants you to return the crates of mail.”
”I told him I can’t do that.”
I looked at the letter again: “Hmmmm, Charlie wants to know if my house is made of wood.” I began to laugh.
Hail Mary, puzzled by my unexpected response.
I continued to laugh. My body quivered. I was delirious with laughter.
Hail Mary, still puzzled.
“Charlie wants you to burn my house down,” I said, still laughing uncontrollably.
He’s so imaginative.” This paradoxical, upside down remark put an end to her confusion. The infectious laughter enveloped her, liberating her from indecisiveness. She joined me in the merriment..
“How long will it take you to get baby-proofed?”
She rolled over on the floor, clutching her bladder.
*In this instance, my contact was with Corrections Officer Stanley. He was one of Manson’s guards and was in a valuable position to provide information to me. As will become evident throughout this odyssey, Officer Stanley’s inside reports are given, including his insights he provided in the Manson-Timothy Leary chapter.
THIRD SHOWDOWN: Tough Dude, Manson’s Hit Man Visits Me
Another ominous postcard from Manson: “You fool—if you dont send my letters back Im sending you a raven.” My reply: “Charlie, like a said many times, the letters are staying with me. Take a look outside your cell. You will see the dove I sent you.”
His reply: “My raven is no match for your dove.”
I knew who the Raven was—none other than Tough Dude, Manson’s body guard at Folsom. Tough Dude is a member of the Aryan Brotherhood.
While in prison Manson introduced Tough Dude to Lorraine, who lived in Sacramento. She visited Tough Dude in prison. They clicked. When he was paroled he moved in with her. He was indebted to Manson for setting him up.
FLASHBACK: At Manson’s request I visited Tough Dude and his girlfriend. We met at a disco in Sacramento’s Old Town. I, Lorraine and Tough Dude are drinking in the crowded disco. The music is loud; the beat is good for swing dancing. Tough Dude admires his spit-polished cowboy boots. He wore a cut-off Tshirt, showing his muscular bod. An iron pumper in the joint.
My comments to Tough Dude are muffled by the music. Instrumental versions of Creedence Clearwater songs reverberate. I wanna dance with the others. I gesture for Tough Dude to get on the dance floor with Lorraine. It’s obvious she wants to dance.
“I don’t dance, mudda fukka.”
What a surly mood.
“Do you mind if I dance with Lorraine?”
“Ask the chick, mudda fukka.”
Without waiting for an invitation, she took my hand. It was
heaven dancing with her. We were in the third or fourth song. Willie & The Poor Boys was the beat. I looked at my partner. She wasn’t there. I looked at our table. Deserted. What’s going on?
Third Showdown: Tough Dude, Manson’s Hit Man Visits Me I paid the bill and hurried outside, feeling uneasy. The streets were deserted. I walked along the wooden planks and heard a woman screaming in a nearby alley Tough Dude was pummeling Lorraine. She bit his hand.
“Mudda fukka,” he said, slapping her. With my Woody Allen physique, I ran along the cobblestones and interposed my body between the rampaging bull and svelte Lorraine who stood before him. Despite the pummeling, she did not go down.
While standing between them, trying to be a peace maker, Tough Dude shoved me to the cobblestone pavement. Down I went, a rock in water.
While on the ground I gestured for Lorraine to run away. She stood her ground and Tough Dude smacked her again and again.
I lifted myself off the pavement and interposed my bod between them. Tough Dude whacked me with his open hand and I went down again. I hoped that Lorraine would get the message while he was distracted with me.
Alas, Lorraine remained in the center of the “ring,” openly defiant.
“Mudda Fukka, I thought all of Charlie’s girls were supposed to serve their man.”
He smacked her. Lorraine tried to claw his face but was not successful. He grabbed her hand and mashed it.
Sighing, I picked myself up and rammed into the ring, interposing his body between the combatants.
This time Tough Dude grabbed me. With a mighty push, I found myself on the cobblestone again.
“Mudda Fukka, who invited you to the party?”
This time Lorraine picks up the thought. She scooted outta there.
Tough Dude starts to run after her. She turned the corner and disappeared.
Tough Dude stopped the chase and stared at the puny body on the pavement. His fury is now re-directed. He approached me. There was no hurry for me to get up. I stayed down pass the count.
Tough Dude gets closer.
Suddenly the firestorm in him began to ease.
Tough Dude halted; his fury subsided. A sense of serenity enveloped him. His countenance is angelic.
END FLASHBACK. The doorbell rang at five o’clock on that wintry Monday afternoon in San Francisco. Tough Dude was at my front door. I buzzed him in. He was making way up the serpentine stairway. “Mudda fukka, how many steps are there?”
“Take your time, Tough Dude.” I was in no hurry to be pummeled.
Softly, I made a suggestion, “Tough Dude, will you take your shoes off?
“What for?”
“It won’t hurt that much if you decide to kick me.”
Tough Dude roared with laughter.
To my surprise, when he reached the top of the landing he took off his cowboy boots.
I was tickled that he had a sense of humor.
Like many others who came to my abode, he sniffed the aroma of the coffee brewing.
“It’s Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee, Tough Dude.”
“Mudda Fukka, that’s good coffee.”
He followed me into the kitchen. A feast of snacks were laid out on the alcove table. I poured two cups of coffee and offered my guest a seat in the nook. Without a word from either of us, I set two dishes on the table.
Tough Dude, remembering his mission and his debt to Charlie, took a letter out of the envelope and handed it to me. .
“Mudda Fukka, let’s take care of business first.”
I studied the letter. “No sir,” I said, “this is not a forgery.”
Tough Dude, baffled.
“Anyone can recognize Charlie’s handwriting.”
Tough Dude nodded.
“Let’s go in the living room.”
I observed Tough Dude’s John Wayne-like swagger. His macho walk inspired me. He offered me a smoke. Both of us lit up.
“Where’s the letters, Mudda Fukka?”
“Tough Dude, your walking style is better than John Wayne’s swagger. Mucho macho.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s called fierce body language. I bet you smoke with the cigarette dangling from the corner of your mouth.”
“How did you know that?”
“Go on, do that strut again. This time smoke while you walk.”
Tough Dude, perplexed. I pretend that I am taking snap shots. “Go on, you’re in a movie and I’m the cameraman.”
Tough Dude got the picture. Proudly he went into action, pushing aside inmates as he strolled through the yard during rec time. “Outta my way, Mudda Fukkas.”
I howled with delight as I continued ‘shooting’ the scene. I clicked away until Tough Dude’s merriment subsided. Without giving him a chance to think I said, “What’s your favorite word, Tough Dude?”
Charles Manson's Blood Letters: dueling with the devil Page 3
