Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  There was a strong knock on his door and Phil heard Alex Swain’s tense voice calling his name from the other side. “Yeah, Alex. C’mon in,” Phil said.

  Alex opened the door and moved purposefully to a seat at Phil’s desk. Phil could see that Alex was angry, but by the time he sat down, Alex’s anger had been softened by concern.

  “What the fuck, Phil? What’s happening? Are you OK?”

  Phil took a drag from his cigarette, shaking his head. “No. Not OK.” He crushed the cigarette, and pulled out a new one, offering the pack to Alex. Alex declined.

  “Betsy says you’re killing the story. Is that true?”

  “Yep,” Phil said curtly, smoking and swiveling in his chair. Now Alex could see that Phil was angry, too.

  “Well, do you mind telling me why?” Alex asked, his voice rising. “Are Manson’s goons back? What?”

  Phil picked some ash off his tee shirt, and looked at Alex. “You gotta know everything, man? You should know by now - that is not a healthy way to go through life.”

  Alex was shocked. “What the fuck are you saying, Phil? I’m getting seriously worried about you, man!”

  Phil managed a mirthless laugh. “You’re worried? Then maybe you can imagine how I feel.”

  “Phil! Just tell me what’s happening!” Alex said forcefully. He had never seen Phil Crane so unfocused, so at sea. Alex wondered if Phil was loopy from the pain drugs.

  Phil swiveled to the closed window, then back. “This morning,” he began, “I got a call from a guy named Schneider, who happens to be a lawyer, who happens to work at Command Records, Incorporated. Don’t know him. Said he was calling on behalf of Peyton Emerson.” Phil looked at Alex. “That would be Mr. Command Records. He said that Peyton wanted to ask us to drop the Manson ranch story. Dreadfully sorry, bad timing, blah, blah. They felt ‘strongly’ about it, Schneider said.”

  Alex was confused. “Why does Command Records give a shit about Charles Manson?”

  “Funny you should ask. I wondered the same thing, and I asked Mr. Schneider that very question. It turns out that Command signed Manson to the label two days ago.”

  “What!” Alex exclaimed. “What about Marv?”

  “Boy! Ya just gotta know everything, don’t you?” Phil said again, shaking his head. Then he looked at Alex and smiled for the first time. “Actually, I like that in my reporters. I called Marv right after. He’s out. They bought him out, but for nothing, really. They threatened him. I guess there were ‘problems’ with contracts and shit.”

  Alex definitely had mixed feelings about Marv, but now pity was leading by a nose. “But – he built that whole thing, Phil! He brought Manson out of a cave and put him on national radio!”

  Phil nodded. “Yeah, he’s bummed. Girlfriend’s gone, too. There’ll be a little money coming in, but it’s over. This kind of talent raid happens all the time in the record business. Anyway, Manson’s ‘concerns’ about our article have become ‘concerns’ of Command Records, and now they want me to kill the story. Nobody wants this story out. Any idea why?” he asked Alex, but then put up his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Sorry, Alex – this shit happens sometimes.”

  “Bullshit, Phil!” Alex yelled. “You’ve never rolled over for anybody! Why this time?”

  “Think, Alex!” Phil said, leaning across the desk. “It’s all about the money! Command is the biggest music company in the US. They got Combo, Rev, Arcade Records – and that’s just rock! If I don’t play along: no more ads, no more interviews with any Command act, no more press passes. And they can force all the other labels to do the same.” Phil blew smoke at the ceiling in a slow stream. “Command Records Corporation artist interviews, concert reviews and ad space probably make up half my magazine, man.”

  Alex got it. From the Crib Notes point of view, it would be business suicide to run the story. Music criticism was one thing, but hard news was another.

  “But,” Alex ventured, “all this implies that they’re betting big on Manson. Do they really believe they can push that little freak so high?”

  Phil shrugged. “No one becomes a star by themselves. Who knows? All I can see is that Emerson is hot for Manson.”

  Alex needed to drop his own bomb, and he hated to twist Phil up any more than he already was. But it was too big – it had to come out.

  “But, Phil - listen! You’re not gonna believe what I’ve found out! It changes everything, man!”

  “Doesn’t matter, Alex” Phil shrugged again. “Can’t do it, man, no matter how much LSD he’s got stashed out there.”

  “No, Phil, this is giant! I just came from LAPD, checking some things out. You will not believe this trip, Phil!” Alex was shaking with excitement and anger, and Phil could tell that Alex truly believed something big had happened.

  “Alright,” Phil sighed. “Let’s get out of here.” He stood up and grabbed his glasses. “Let’s go over to Barney’s. I know I could use a drink!”

  Before they left the office, Alex called Sherrie at the Sportsmens room to let her know about his plans. As he half expected, there was no answer. He realized they should have set up a specific time for calling each other.

  • • •

  In the dark neon glow and jukebox thump at Barney’s Beanery, Alex and Phil sought the quietest table they could find. Surrounded by biker gear and stolen highway signs, Alex began the briefing about what he knew. He gave Phil the big picture, and then he started over with more details. As the intense story was laid out their hamburgers fell cold and more beers were ordered.

  Phil was nothing but skeptical until Alex answered every obvious question to his satisfaction. “This is fucking nutbag crazy, Alex!” Phil said in frustration. “Everything you’ve told me makes sense on one level, but it’s all just stone weirdness!”

  Alex nodded, sympathetic. “But you haven’t been around Manson like I have these last two months, Phil. I think it’s totally possible that he could have sent his little slaves to do it. And it’s true – they didn’t know Sharon Tate from Nixon, man! Absolutely no connection, no motive. Brilliant, I suppose …”

  “And none of those four showed up in Missing Persons? Nobody looking for them?” Phil asked.

  “Nope,” Alex said, shaking his head. “They’re all runaways, foster kids, or ex-cons – their families gave up looking for them a long time ago, if they ever tried at all.”

  Phil lit a cigarette from his third pack of the day. “But, why didn’t Manson go with them?”

  “Not sure,” Alex replied. “But he really gets off on ordering other people around – seeing how far he can push them.”

  Phil nodded slowly, still thinking. “But … Manson may have been at that house before – maybe he didn’t want to take a chance on being recognized. Random is random, but maybe he picked that house for a reason.”

  Alex considered this as he downed the last of his beer. “Good point. I’ll check it out. But, uh, what’s the point if there is no story, Phil?”

  Phil rolled his eyes. “OK, asshole. Keep going. But this is no longer a music piece, if anybody asks. I’ll tell ‘em we pulled it.”

  “What about the cops?” Alex asked. “Is there enough to call them, or should we lay low?”

  Phil thought for a moment. “It could be tricky. It’s still too weird, man. You’ve only got one witness, all hearsay. Let’s see what more we can dig up first. Then, we might be able to strike a deal for an exclusive.”

  • • •

  Alex drove back to his hotel, fighting heavy traffic that was leaving the Hollywood Bowl. He was trying out several strategies in his mind to trap Manson, or any of his family, into revealing something. But each tactic depended on meeting with them, which was not an option now unless someone broke. Maybe Sherrie knows some others that might want to jump ship? At the very least, he needed Sherrie to give him the full names of the people killed in the crash.

  It was 10:30 pm when Alex finally got back to his room. He used his key but called inside to She
rrie so he didn’t scare her too badly. There was no response, and he went in.

  Sherrie certainly wasn’t there, her bed unmade. Alex looked on the nightstand and table for a note, but there was nothing. Still, her paper bag of belongings was resting against the wall. He went over to the TV and felt the top. It was cool – it hadn’t been on in a while. He checked his room phone to see if the red neon message light was flashing, but it was quiet. “Shit!” he said. He realized that she was just a teenage girl, but Alex wished she would have had the sense to leave a note. He hoped that she hadn’t gone to some club and been picked up by a biker boy, now riding on the back of a Harley halfway to Mexico. Alex had no choice but to wait for her to return, or at least sleep until she did. She had no key, so she’d have to knock. He lie back on his bed and immediately felt how much he’d had to drink at Barney’s. He dropped into a deep sleep, dreaming he was still awake.

  Fishin’ Blues

  Henry Fredericks

  October 17, 1969

  7:30 am.

  Frank Beaudry looked down at the arroyo, standing on the edge of Mulholland Drive. The detective stood at the newly repaired wooden picket guard fence, one Tony Lama snakeskin boot resting on the top guard rail, viewing the scene of the crash that killed and incinerated four. Could it really be worth going down there? he asked himself. Ever since that Swain guy had come into the precinct something had been knocking in his brain, in that corner that solved crimes.

  West LA Division was now the laughing stock of the force. Worse, now they were a liability to both the Chief and to LAPD’s reputation. The public clamored for an arrest in the Tate murders, almost two months gone now without a single viable lead. The press was hysterical. But no one remembered that a second group of four people died that night, here, just down the road. OK - so? Frank thought. People crash all the time, especially at night on the mountain roads. But the bizarre part of this accident was that there had not been a single Missing Persons report filed for any of the victims. It was almost as if they had never existed in the real world.

  Alex Swain’s visit had jogged Beaudry’s memory of the incident, a case he had not been assigned to. He had been swamped with the Cielo Drive investigation. When Frank Beaudry realized that nobody had ever come forward to check on the ID’s, he studied the case report more closely.

  Beaudry had been rewarded for this kind of initiative, promoted to Detective Sergeant a few years ahead of the pack. He liked the job but wished the hazing would stop, still enduring shit after five years. Those old lieutenants - they were quite a bunch. Some had a supernatural feel for the right angle to break a case, but a few others seemed to grab the first usual suspects - blacks, Mexicans, junkies - as fast as they could. And strangely enough, somehow they always got a confession.

  Beaudry had parked his midnight blue Crown Vic Police Special a few hundred feet from the crash site on the closest gravel shoulder he could find. Now he was looking down at the burned arroyo trying to plan the easiest way to get down the steep canyon hillside. More importantly, and from embarrassing experience, he looked for a solid route back up if he made it down. Beaudry wore his cowboy boots this morning specifically in case he needed to do some hiking.

  Still undecided, Frank studied the churned dirt path made by the burnt car when they had dragged it back up to Mulholland with a tow rope. In that trail he saw enough rocks, handholds, and little plateaus to convince himself he could make it down and back up. In addition, the screaming in his detective’s head wouldn’t let up. A guy just doesn’t walk into the police, ask about four burned up people he doesn’t know, and then say: “Just wonderin’!”

  Beaudry began a descent into the arroyo. Most of his planned handholds and foot supports crumbled immediately, and his climb down turned into a barely controlled slide. All Frank could do was try and guide himself with his boots and hands. He cursed. Shoulda worn gloves.

  Beaudry, covered all over in dust and foxtail burrs, finally reached the burn area. Luckily for L.A. Fire and the locals there hadn’t been a lot of wind that night and the fire only pushed out to a radius of about 50 feet from the old, overturned Ford. Up above on Mulholland, cars passed by and sometimes he heard their tires squeal at the sharp turn. He looked up and saw two boys watching him, peeking over their backyard fence at cliff’s edge.

  Frank had read the reports from the scene thoroughly, and the follow-up Coroner’s details. There also was a hasty sketch made at the scene showing the location of the car and the bodies. The burned circle stank of gasoline - a smell he would always link, since becoming a detective, with death.

  No way of surviving this crash, Beaudry thought, looking up at the road. Why did they blow that turn? He walked the site, now paying exclusive attention to the ground. There were piles of crumbled auto glass, melted plastic and rubber, and part of a car antenna. He used the toe of his boot to nudge rocks and ash aside. He found a very rusted tin can, and realized with a sigh that there was probably all kinds of trash down here, from since God knows when. Still, he kept looking.

  The sun, well up by now, was creating a reflector oven from the canyon walls. Sweat was turning the dust on his skin into mud, and he realized he would need to go home and start his day all over again. A California raven, big and black as sin, cawed at him while it circled on the updrafts. The commotion of modern suburban life, just one hundred feet above, disappeared almost completely down here.

  His boot came down on something hard and he pulled his foot away. In the sand was piece of white quartz, about as big around as a silver dollar. He began to move on, and as the rock emerged from his shadow he noticed that it wasn’t glistening in the sun, as quartz should do.

  Intrigued, Frank bent down. It wasn’t quartz – more like ivory. He brushed away the dusty sand with his fingers until he figured out what it was. Then he pulled out a pen from his sweaty suit jacket. Digging more forcefully, he excavated a knife with an ivory colored handle from the sand and picked it up using the handkerchief he always kept in his back pocket.

  It was a Bowie knife - a wicked thing bearing no peaceful relation to a pocketknife or Swiss Army knife. The blade was six inches of serrated havoc. It seemed modern, too. The hilt was actually a creamy, molded plastic. Beaudry looked at the crash scene drawing and put the location of the knife near the car, close to where one body had been found half pinned beneath the wreck. Even though the upper body had been cremated away the Coroner identified the corpse as a female, based on the pelvic bone.

  As Beaudry slowly turned the knife over, careful not to destroy any chance of fingerprints, he blew on it gently. Dust and dirt crumbled off, and he saw the dark maroon-black lines and crusts of dried blood near the hilt. A keeper! he smiled to himself. Good fishin’ down here!

  Woke Up This Mornin’

  October 17, 1969

  9:30 am.

  Alex awoke with a start, legs kicking, then quickly absorbed his surroundings. He was at the Sportsmens’ Lodge, in California, and it was morning. Through half-opened eyes, he saw that Sherrie had not come back and it disturbed him. He checked the message light on the phone even though he was positive he wouldn’t have slept through a ringing telephone next to his head. Alex got out of bed and headed for the john to return the beer he rented last night at Barney’s. He reached down to raise the toilet seat. That’s when he saw the blood.

  Alex stared at the blood smeared across several tiles on the bathroom wall, then touched it. The blood mark was a little sticky, but mostly dry by now. What the fuck?

  It wasn’t a huge amount of blood, but it clearly wasn’t from a simple cut or a shaving nick. In any case there was no explanation for it being there, and it hadn’t been there yesterday morning. The blood mark was a smear – no drips – and Alex concluded it probably was made by someone falling or slipping against the wall. A fight?

  His mind tried to find a gear, tried to stop spinning. It had to be Manson and his crew. Alex wanted to call Phil Crane but then remembered that the office was not ope
n yet. He never had Phil’s home number. Alex left a message for him with the magazine’s service, then considered calling the police. But he really didn’t know what to tell them. “A killer cult abducted a runaway girl I barely knew from my room while I was out.” If the cops believed any of it, Alex knew he would become the top suspect. Phil had been right: nothing about this story was believable on its face.

  But how did they know Sherrie was here, he wondered. It hit him hard in the gut:

  Sandy knew! She gave Sherrie this address. Sherrie would have opened the door for Sandy. Alex was momentarily shocked, but then began to think that if Sandy was involved there was a good chance that Sherrie might not be harmed. Maybe, he hoped.

  There was a knock at the door and Alex jumped. “MAID!” a woman shouted outside, and began to open the door, but the chain pulled tight. Alex called out, “Not today, OK? How about tomorrow?” He was on a weekly booking at the motel, and didn’t get maid service every day.

  “OK, “ the voice said. “Call the oficia when you want.” Alex didn’t relax until he heard the service cart rumble down the hallway to the next stop.

  He was going to wash the blood off the tiles, but stopped himself. Better not. Alex finally peed, then threw on the clothes lying about from yesterday. He grabbed his wallet and keys, rushed out, then stopped and returned to get his notebook. The notes were now too important to be left in the compromised motel room.

  Alex was suffering the aftermath of last night’s fever-pitch emotion, and the constant drinking that fueled the fire and kept it in check at the same time. Where did I park the goddam car?

  Alex walked the aisles of the parking lot. He passed his car once and didn’t see it. Circling around to the next aisle, he recognized his rental from the rear, and trotted over to it. Alex then understood why he hadn’t recognized the car from the front: the hood was up, held in place by its support rod. Engine exposed, he saw immediately that the distributor cap and spark plug wires were gone. This car was going nowhere.