Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  As Marv bumped down the road into the ranch he saw the usual school buses and station wagons parked on the stable side, but also several black limos lined up at the fake western boardwalk, like horses hitched up in a movie. Marv thought, who in the hell would be delivered by limo to go horse riding?

  He parked the Dodge and dragged himself up to the café, getting angrier. Marv came through the café doors and made out a group of four or five guys in suits standing against the back wall. Then he focused on Charlie, sitting alone at a table in front of the suits. What the hell?

  As Marv strode toward the tables at the back, one of the suits turned around and sat next to Charlie. Marv recognized him. It was Peyton Emerson, the West Coast president of Command Records. Emerson gestured to Marv to sit opposite him at the picnic table. I wish I’d done some blow before walking into this scene, Marv lamented.

  Marv sat down, confused, and Emerson said, “Peyton Emerson, Command Records. Marv Feld?” He held out his hand to shake. Marv took it, and they both shook hands unconvincingly.

  “What’s this about, man?” Marv asked. He looked at Manson. “Charlie?”

  Manson, his arms crossed, looked away.

  “Marv, I’ll make it real simple. Charlie wants to go with Command Records. He feels that his interests are not being properly served by your company, and wishes to dissolve any contracts between the two of you.” Emerson leaned closer, his voice taking a patronizing tone. “I have to say, I admire what you’ve done with Charlie, Marv, getting him launched – a textbook performance! And that great show at Devonshire! My A&R guy there flipped out!” He threw his hands up into the air, then slumped back in his chair. “But, now, you are in over your head, my friend. Now it’s time for the big guns.”

  Marv sat paralyzed, totally disbelieving what he was hearing.

  Emerson took a softer tone. “I know it’s hard to swallow, Marv – I’d feel the same. But there’s no use fighting this - there are too many errors and irregularities in your contracts for you to survive in court.” Emerson looked over his shoulder at another suit and tie guy, who quickly came forward with a copy of Marv’s contracts with Charlie.

  Marv snorted. “My cousin, Jamie Schnur – one of your lawyers - wrote those contracts Emerson, and they are solid!”

  One of the lawyers in back said, “Jamie Schnur? I think he’s in international.”

  Marv continued, his voice rising. “I won’t give up Manson! He’s just the beginning of this company!”

  Emerson made a signal with his hand to the suits behind him. “Mr. Feld?” said an anonymous lawyer. “Do you realize that this publishing contract with Mr. Manson lists you as the sole creator of the composition “Look at Your Game Girl?” As the writer?”

  Marv was dumbfounded. He hadn’t read the contracts in detail – he trusted Jamie completely. But then Marv remembered Jamie saying something about writing credits. “I …” he began to say.

  “Are you aware, Mr. Feld,” the lawyer went on, cutting him off, “that the practice of usurping the writer’s credit went out of practice in the 1950’s, as well as being codified as a statutory infraction in 1958?”

  “But, I had no idea that was in there!” Marv said, frustrated.

  Emerson turned and looked back at his lawyers. “That guy really works for us? I want him gone!”

  Emerson turned back to Marv. “Whether you knew or not, that’s what it says. Maybe Mr. Schnur needs to brush up on his copyright law. In addition, Mr. Manson informed us that there were no advance monies made available to him at the time of signing. That is, again, an irregular way of doing business in today’s music world.”

  Marv said nothing, ambushed into silence.

  Emerson continued. “And Marv, what exactly is your recording budget for Charlie? Song demo time?” Marv grimaced and again could not reply.

  “Marv, everyone realizes that this was your attempt to break into record production, that mistakes were made, and probably quite honestly. In that spirit, we are willing to offer you $10,000 to sign over your interests in Charles Manson to Command Records where, I hope you will agree, the resources appropriate to his talent and future are available.”

  Marv felt as if he was being squeezed like a lemon in a giant hand - no time to think, no room to move. He looked at Manson, who glared back.

  “$10,000? Shit! I’ve got receivables for three times that!” Marv yelled. “Hell, I owe Jamie that much!”

  “Sounds like a family matter to me,” Emerson said as he sketched a little pattern on Marv’s contracts.

  “Charlie!” Marv called out. “This is how you want the deal to go down? After all I did for you?”

  Manson looked straight at Marv and said “You can’t handle it, man! You did what you could – but I can’t fiddle-fuck around anymore now! And then they told me about the contracts, Marv!” he said in a poisonous, sarcastic tone.

  “Guys,” Emerson said, sitting up in his chair and shuffling papers, “let’s keep it cool. Marv – no hard feelings. Ten Grand, and we all go home happy.”

  Marv stood up, and his chair fell onto its back. “Happy? Fifty! Fifty Grand, or I will make trouble that you won’t believe, schmuck!”

  “Marv,” Emerson said, sighing bitterly, “we’ve just pointed out that you have no legal grounds to stand on. Mr. Krieger, here – “ he jerked his thumb back, pointing at the row of lawyers behind him, “can find a way to fit your suit into his hectic schedule. He does this kind of thing in his sleep, and does it very well.”

  Marv smiled grimly and shook his head. “Oh, no, Emerson. I’m not talking about suing. I’m talking about the law, man. Downtown. LAPD.”

  Manson sat up in his chair and glowered at Marv. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Oh, yeah! Charlie don’t like that, do you?” Marv sneered.

  “What are you talking about, Feld?”

  Marv crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ve had to put up with his ‘flower child’ shit for too long! If you think Manson is just an innocent hippie, I’m happy to inform you: think again!”

  Emerson laughed, and put his palms to his cheeks in mock horror. “Don’t tell me! Charlie has actually sold some pot in his time! Some of his fans are a little young! Marv – don’t threaten us.” He spoke insistently, but seemed emotionless. “We’ve checked things out. Charlie’s no angel, but you will lose. You will be a laughing stock in this business, as well as broke!”

  Marv knew now that he was beaten. He had played his last card. His dream - cancelled. So much he should have seen coming, too much to take in all at once.

  Marv sat down, exhaling long and deep. “Fuck! All right, you bastards!” he breathed.

  Emerson and Manson got up, and Emerson threw his arm around Manson’s shoulder as they left the room. The lawyers rushed forward with piles of paper. One asked politely, “Mr. Feld? How would you like us to make out the check?”

  Marv stared down at the table full of papers. “I don’t like it, asshole!” He thought for a moment. “Make it out to James Schnur – former cousin.” Then, Marv silently smirked to himself. He remembered that just last week he had sold the foreign publishing rights to “Look at Your Game, Girl” - a strategy suggested by Jamie - to at least seven different European countries, Argentina, and Australia. Let those fucking bastards try and figure it all out!

  • • •

  Peyton Emerson left soon after the meeting but returned that evening in his big limo, hauling in a case of cold champagne. A pizza guy had arrived just before him, delivering twenty large vegetarian pies. The Family, already stoked about the Command Records news, attacked the pizza and champagne. The joints came out, and it was soon a party. Emerson spotted Sandy, the prettiest woman there, and maneuvered her out of the crowd and brought her to the table where he was sitting. Emerson held her arm firmly, sat her down next to him, and poured her champagne.

  She didn’t care for him much – not her type. Too slick, too self-assured. The more he talked, the less she liked him. “Y
ou’re so fuckin’ beautiful … went to Yale … Woodstock was so far out!” The more champagne she drank, the more Emerson’s voice turned monotone and irritating to her. He signaled his limo driver, who sprinted to the car and came back with a black leather Hermes shaving kit bag.

  Opening his bag, Emerson pulled out a small square mirror, a fresh razor blade, and a Vicks Vapo-Rub jar. He twisted the top off. The Vicks jar was packed to the top with cocaine, and he laid out a pile on the mirror. While still rambling about the highs, lows, and stresses of the music business, Emerson chopped the pile into a finer powder and scraped it into four lines on the mirror. “Ladies first!” Emerson pronounced, and handed Sandy a small metal straw that looked like it was made of gold.

  The wooziness from the champagne was cancelled by the effect of the cocaine. Now Sandy had a taut, singing high - a nice disconnect from the world surrounding her at the moment. Emerson, nuzzling her neck, suggested taking a trip outside. Sandy glanced up at Charlie, who darted his eyes toward the door signaling his OK.

  “Sure,” she smiled. “That’d be cool, babe. But can we do another line first?” She used her most practiced ‘sweet girl’ look.

  Emerson seemed a little put out, but quickly agreed. “Sure, babe!” he said, as Charlie moved in on the action and sat down across from him. Sighing, Emerson poured enough coke on the mirror for six lines.

  Once Sandy had her hit, she grabbed Emerson’s arm in mock excitement and they went out back behind the kitchen to a secluded spot. She unzipped his Levis and pulled his growing penis out. High, and with her mouth and throat completely numbed by her last line of coke, she blew him, feeling nothing.

  Not long afterwards, Sandy stumbled through the darkness back to her tent. The coke was wearing off, the champagne was winning, and she was done for the day. She threw open the tent door flap then screamed, tripped back, and fell in the sagebrush.

  “I’m sorry, Sandy – it’s Sherrie.”

  “Sherrie – Godammit! You scared me to death!” Sandy said bitterly as she stood up, swaying.

  “I’m sorry! I gotta talk to you – you have to help me!”

  “Help you what, Sherrie?” Sandy asked, impatient, as she fell onto her sleeping bag. “What now?”

  “I – I’m leaving, Sandy. And you are the only one I’m telling. You were the nicest to me, actually.”

  Sandy sighed and threw her arm across her forehead. “You know,” Sandy said, softening, “if you go, you can’t come back, Sherrie. Right?”

  “Right. I know.” Sherrie looked at her hands in her lap and began to cry quietly.

  “So – what do you need from me, Sherrie? Money? I’ve got five I can give you – that’s all.” Sandy reached for her bag.

  “Wow, man! That is so nice, Sandy!” Sherrie blubbered. “But I was hoping you could help me by telling me someplace I could go. You’re way older, been around and stuff. I got no idea.”

  “Stop crying, Sherrie, for godssake – you’re making me crazy!” Sandy said, still looking through her bag. She sat up and lit a cigarette. “I guess you gotta go to one of those churches, or something. Go to Hollywood – there’s always someone trying to save you over there.”

  “Oh, man! Shit!” Sherrie cried harder. “Not those Jesus freaks!”

  Sandy was sick of the girl. She thought for a moment, then looked in her bag again. Sandy pulled out the card that Alex had given her. “Remember that writer guy you called - Alex?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here –” Sandy said as she handed Sherrie the card, a pencil, and a scrap of paper. “Copy down his address. I want to keep the card.”

  “Where is this?” Sherrie asked as she wrote.

  “I don’t know, but he can probably help you out a little.”

  “Thanks, Sandy! You’re the best!” Sandy endured a hug from Sherrie.

  “Sure. Good luck out there,” Sandy said. “Not a good idea to come back.”

  In My Midnight Confession

  1968 Lou Josie

  October 15, 1969

  8:30 pm.

  Alex headed back to the Sportsmens late – later than he had planned, anyway. He had spent most of a frustrating day at the Hall of Records and the L.A. Library. He still hadn’t found any traction with his research – his ideas and questions all led to dead ends. After the encounter with Manson at the festival, he was more motivated than ever to finish the article, to see the next hand and let the chips fall.

  Calling it a night, he stopped at a liquor store on Ventura Boulevard and bought a six-pack of Pabst and a bag of long pretzels. While standing at the checkout, a magazine on a rack caught his eye. Bending closer he saw Manson’s picture in the top corner of the cover of Teen Beat magazine. Its caption read: “Charlie Manson, From Out of Nowhere! Preacher or Pop Star?” He thought: That Marv is really fucking good!

  Alex parked his car in the hotel lot and made his way to his room, walking past the hotel’s trout fishing pond where a few people and their kids were still trying to catch their dinner. He had read in the lobby that the fishing pond gag was really popular in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s. The Sportsmens had also been a serious watering hole (of the other variety) for the film crews and character actors who would pile in from the Republic film studios down the street.

  As Alex approached his door, he saw movement at the other end of the long hallway. Someone was coming his way, and had only started walking when he came into their sight. Alex pulled out his room and car keys and pushed the metal car keys through the fingers of his fist. At least I can do some damage! He readied himself.

  When he opened his hotel door, the figure spoke out to him: “Alex?”

  It was a woman’s voice, a little familiar, and as she passed under a light he saw that it was Sherrie, from the Family.

  “Hi – it’s Sherrie! Do you remember me? From the ranch?”

  “Of course I remember you, Sherrie! What’s happening?” He paused. “Uh, wait – I gotta tell you: did you know you’re not supposed to be talking to me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about that shit anymore!” she said, holding up a large paper sack. “I left today! They were all sleeping off the big party last night.”

  “Really?” Alex reacted. “So - Sandy did give you this address.”

  “Yeah.” Sherrie traced a figure on the outdoor carpet with her foot. “Hey! Can I use your bathroom? They wouldn’t let me in downstairs.”

  “Oh, sure! Sorry! You caught me a little off-guard, there!”

  Sherrie trotted off to the bathroom while Alex closed the door and put down the beer and pretzels. A girl in his room, Pabst beer, and pretzels – he felt like he was on a date back in his Michigan college days.

  “You want a beer?” he shouted through the bathroom door as he switched on the light.

  “Sure.” She came back into the room and in the room’s light, Alex noticed that the bruising on her face was almost gone.

  She took a beer, popped the tab, and pulled two long pretzels from the bag. “Thanks!” she said, as she took a bite off a log. “I haven’t eaten anything all day.” Then she lit a cigarette from her purse.

  “Do you want to order something, or go out somewhere?” Alex asked her.

  “No, no – I’m OK, now. Thanks, though. You’re sweet. Took me most of the day to get here.”

  “How? Did you walk?’

  “No,” she said, crunching a pretzel. “Too far. I mean, I must have walked miles, but mostly I hitched.”

  “Took that long?”

  “Yeah, I don’t attract too many drivers, I guess. But I made it here, and only had to give one guy a hand job.” She snorted. “That’s an easy day for me!”

  Alex just nodded. “I heard that you left a message with the magazine. Actually, when I was up at the ranch the last time, I was looking for you – before they kicked me out. Sandy said you were, like, in jail, or something.”

  Sherrie laughed. “Not jail - solitary!” She swigged from the can agai
n. “Yeah, I guess you and I are both too bad for them to handle, man!”

  Alex laughed. “Coming from Charlie, that’s ironic!”

  Sherrie nodded and smiled, but looked quizzical and suddenly shy. Then she gathered her courage and said, “What does ‘ironic’ mean? Some kind of machine?”

  Alex realized that he needed to be careful with his vocabulary when he talked with Sherrie. She would withdraw anytime she felt challenged or self-conscious. “Naw - it means it’s kind of a joke. Charlie is the last guy that should be judging someone else’s sins!”

  “Oh,” Sherrie laughed. “Right on, right on!” She dragged from her cigarette, hesitated, then continued. “Alex, can I stay here tonight? I’m sorry – I just don’t have any place to go yet.” Sherrie started to sniffle and wiped her eyes.

  “Sure, Sherrie. There’s an extra bed – it’s cool. Don’t worry about it! I can help you tomorrow, take you to the magazine’s office. You can make calls from there.”

  “Thanks, man. That’s so cool!” Sherrie said, obviously relieved. “But – isn’t that office trashed? I thought they burned it down.”

  Alex took in a breath. It had been Manson’s dimwits that day. “How did you know about that?” Alex asked. “It wasn’t in the papers or anything.”

  Sherrie laughed. “Oh – they were all pumped about it, man. Spence and Steve were walking around like roosters for a coupla days. Assholes!”

  “Well,” Alex told her, “they actually didn’t burn anything. Not too much damage, but they fucked up Phil’s hand pretty good.”

  “He’s so lucky! They could have done a lot worse, man!”

  “Really? You think so? I mean, like, I know they’re rough guys and all, but –”

  “Alex! When Charlie says jump, those guys will do anything!” Sherrie took another beer, pulled the tab, and chugged. She was definitely loosening up. “They’ve killed all kinds of people, dude! I mean, even I’m lucky, I guess.”

  Alex turned cold. This was more than he expected to hear, and he wasn’t at all sure he could believe this teenage girl. She was wrong about the office being torched – maybe Manson and his boys talked shit all the time. Or, maybe Sherrie was trying to play him. “Did you see any of this?” he asked her.