But Alex found one tiny piece of information that nagged at him. He decided he needed to call Marv Feld to get an potential answer. It was an unlikely idea at first, but Marv might know something about it.
Alex dug through his notes to find Marv’s number and went out to the pay phone in the busy hallway. He watched the Times employees in the hall – the younger they were, the faster they hustled, it seemed. He momentarily pictured himself working at a large paper like this one.
Marv’s phone rang only twice before he answered. “Hello – Marv Feld.” Alex assumed MaxTone Records was dead and buried now that its namesake had left the building.
“Hi Marv – it’s Alex Swain. Can I talk to you a minute?”
There was a silence on the phone for a beat. “I don’t think I got anything to say to you, Swain!”
“Wait! Marv! I heard about what happened. Bad scene, man – I’m sorry.”
“Uh huh,” Marv said, cold.
“Just so you know, I had nothing to do with any of that, man. I was as surprised as I guess you were. But,” Alex added, “I think in the end it’s probably the best thing that could’ve happened to you. You’re lucky to be rid of that guy, Marv.”
“Well,” Marv said, “you’re just another fuckin’ jerk who’s told me that, Swain. Thanks for your vote, asshole!”
“No, Marv – really! Manson is going to be in a world of hurt with the cops, probably in just a few days. Can we meet somewhere and talk?”
“You’re one of the last people I ever want to see again, Swain! No way!”
“But it’s really important, Marv! And I am not talking about drugs, man.”
“What are you talking about?” Marv asked.
“Murder, Marv. I’m not kidding.”
Marv laughed bitterly. “That little gnome? C’mon – get serious.”
“Trust me, Marv. Watch the news for the next couple of days. I can’t talk about details right now. But I have a question for you that might relate to it all.”
“Hey!” Marv said, suddenly concerned. “I didn’t know about anything like that! Jesus! You may think I’m a lowlife, but I ain’t no criminal, man!”
Alex tried to calm him down. “No, no, I don’t think you were involved. What I want to know is – do you know anything about a guy named Terry Melcher?”
“Sure!” Marv responded immediately. “He’s a record producer – big time. He’s also the son of Doris Day, of all things.”
Alex felt his hunch gathering weight in the pit of his stomach. Phil Crane’s idea was evolving into truth. “Yeah. The producer. So – did Charlie know him?”
“Yeah,” Marv answered. “He was interested in producing Charlie for a while, then backed out. That’s what gave me the idea that Manson could be a good bet – if Melcher and the others had been interested, there must be something that Charlie had going on.”
Alex composed himself for the next question. “Did Charlie have a grudge or anything about that? Against Melcher?”
Marv answered slowly. “Uh – yeah, I remember him saying something like that about him. Why?”
“I’m down at the L.A. Times, doing some research. Did you know that Terry Melcher used to own that house on Cielo Drive? Used to live there?”
“What house?” Marv asked, sounding confused.
Alex was shocked to hear that Marv didn’t know about Cielo Drive. “That’s the house where Sharon Tate was murdered in August. And the others.”
There was a long silence, and Alex could almost hear the pieces locking together in Marv’s brain. “H – O – L – Y shit! You mean – Manson? It’s not possible, Alex!”
“Sorry. It is possible. Thanks Marv. Sorry it all came down this way. You might want to go through your records, and your memory - ‘coz I’m sure the cops will be wanting to interview you pretty soon.”
“I – I can’t believe it, man!” Marv stuttered. “Maxie always said there was something wicked about that guy.”
Alex smiled grimly. “Believe it.”
Back Door Man
1961 Willie Dixon
October 20, 1969
8:00 pm.
It was a late October night and the heat was back hard. On the Sunset Strip, this meant an opportunity for the girls to break out the summer clothes again, and they were dressed down to tight jean shorts and sleeveless tee shirts.
The Friday night traffic on the strip was clogged and crawling, moving slower than the crowds walking on the sidewalks. Boys hanging halfway out car windows called and whistled to the girls in the crowds. If someone got lucky, girls walked over to a car to chat and flirt and the traffic stopped cold again.
Alex watched the scene around him from inside his babe-magnet ‘62 station wagon. The shuffling teenaged crowds, the dancing neon and lights all combined to give him the impression of a state fair from a different world. Alex shook off the reverie, impatient to get to the Whiskey.
Up above the road he saw the Manson billboard Phil had told him about. Charlie smiled down at the Strip with his thin cockeyed smile, but the cold black eyes didn’t seem to be looking at anyone. Command Records was really pushing hard and fast on Manson. When he applied for a press pass for tonight’s show Alex found that it was actually going to be free. It was not advertised as ‘free’ - or there would be yet another riot on the Sunset Strip - but he was sure there would be a healthy-sized crowd.
Tonight was too important to waste an hour searching for free street parking, so Alex paid for parking near the Whiskey. He made his way through the knots of kids on the sidewalk and street, threading his way across Sunset through the cars inching along in their bored cruising.
Alex asked for his press pass at the Whiskey’s ‘Will Call’ window. “Sorry,” the girl behind the glass said, after searching the list. “I don’t see your name here.” Alex could see that it was a very long list.
“Maybe it’s under Crib Notes,” he said. Or maybe Command’s lawyers have scratched me.
She looked again. “Nope. But it’s free – you can just go inside if you want. It’s mostly just Command Records people right now.”
“OK – thanks.” Alex figured there were plenty of ways to get backstage to find Sandy, even without a press pass.
Inside, the club was nearly full – dancing would be difficult. The band had already started their showcase set, but they were playing to a hot and listless crowd who did not know them. Peyton Emerson and his executives had spread the word to the L.A. Command artists and office employees: Get down to the Whiskey tonight or don’t bother coming in on Monday!
Alex tried to get close to the stage, looking for Sandy, but he didn’t see her in the Family girls’ chorus. After each song the audience of Command employees applauded, whistled, and whooped. But while the band was actually playing most sipped their drinks, dragged from cigarettes, and stared at the little hippy Wild West man on stage. What is this exactly? they were all asking themselves, simultaneously. How are we going to package and sell this guy?
Charlie’s voice, Alex thought, sounded tight and strained. At first he thought Charlie was just nervous, but then watched Manson sniffling and wiping his nose in-between lyrics. During one song called “Always Is Always,” Manson left the stage while the girls and band played on, returning with a dusting of white powder on his moustache.
“Children!” he shouted into the microphone. The band and the girls continued playing. “Do you want freedom? Real freedom?” Manson stood confidently on the stage. He wore new leather pants, a white ruffled shirt, and a sparkling embroidered vest from Nudie’s.
There was some obligatory applause and a few yips in reaction.
“I said – Do you want to be free!” Manson bellowed.
The audience took their cue and yelled together, “YEAH!”
“All right, then!” Manson began to play the song with big, arm-swinging chords, and got an even bigger response. Then he returned to the mic.
“Time is running out, people – these are the last days
. Hey!” Charlie yelled, as the band pumped behind him, “I’m not the first guy to tell ya, for sure! ‘Eve of Destruction’, ‘Revolution’ – you’ve heard it before. But now you’re seeing it, man! Riots, war, murder. It’s just a matter of time!” he said, laughing. “Just a little more time, man!” Manson laughed harder, turning away from the mic to the girls. Alex, still near the stage, heard him singing ‘Helter Skelter’ to them as he did one of his kung fu dances. On drums and bass, Diedrich and Silva never dropped the beat.
“Yeah, it’s all coming down, children - coming down. Come with us!” Manson shouted when he returned to the mic. “Who’s coming with us?” A roar went up from the crowd. Alex felt the unique vibe he had experienced many times at concerts: the moment when a performer has captured an audience.
“We can take y’all with us, if you want that real freedom, man. If you can let go of your toys, man, your little houses, your uptight minds. You don’t need any of that crap, man!” The crowd yelled back their approval.
Alex finally saw Sandy in the wings off stage left, standing next to a well-dressed hip looking guy. Seeing her, Alex refocused on his mission for tonight. He needed to get to her, cut her out of the Manson herd, and lay his heavy warning on her. Alex didn’t know how she would respond, but getting to her was his only plan.
The band was playing their final song and Alex remembered that it always ended in the tribal snake dance thing. This time instead of leaving stage left or right, the entire troupe came dancing down into the audience, to a great cheer. John Diedrich laid into his drums and rocked out a marching drum solo. Then Alex saw Spence, Manson’s tough, unlatch the club’s emergency door and hold it open. The band stomped out the door and into the street, still playing and chanting. Many in the audience followed, especially when they saw their boss dancing in the procession.
Alex saw his chance. Pushing his way through the milling crowd he made it out to the street and saw the band and tribe heading down Sunset. They were approaching a parked highway bus, and with a diesel rumble it suddenly came to life. Once a normal Greyhound interstate vehicle, this bus had been converted into a touring bus for bands hitting the road. The interior lights turned on and the destination sign above the big windshield glowed: “Manson.”
Alex ran up to Sandy, who was just about to board the bus. “Sandy!” he shouted, grabbing her arm.
Sandy’s eyes were glassy, and her movements were loose and slow. Her eyes narrowed, then she smiled. “Alex!” she cried, and threw her arms around him. “Do you dig our new bus? The record company gave it to us, man!” She gazed wobbily at the running lights and polished aluminum siding. Then she abruptly moved back a foot. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be here, man! Fucker!”
Alex pleaded, grabbing her shoulders. “What did I do, Sandy?”
“You’re bad, asshole! You’re against us!” she slurred.
Alex continued to try to get through to her. “Sandy! I gotta talk – “
The bus doors hissed and latched open with a metal thunk. “Sandy?” a man asked as he came down the steps. “Are you still out there?” Alex recognized him as the guy Sandy was standing with offstage, but he also knew he had seen him somewhere else as well.
“C’mon, Sandy! C’mon inside, babe!” the man ordered. He could have been talking to his dog.
“Aw, Peyton, I’ll be there. Juss a minute!”
Peyton … Peyton Emerson, the president of Command Records! Alex finally remembered. “Emerson!” Alex said.
Peyton Emerson frowned at Alex, suspicious.
“No – you don’t know me. I’m Alex Swain. I’ve been working for Crib Notes on a story you know about. Or maybe one of your lawyers would recognize my name.”
Emerson stood back and crossed his arms. “So you’re the guy sniffing around. I can’t believe you’re still at it, asshole. Jesus! What’s it going to take to get you to lay off, huh?” He turned to yell back into the bus, over the music and party din inside. “Hey, Spence!”
Emerson and Alex stared at each other. Spence appeared from inside the bus and pushed his way past Emerson and down the bus steps. “No,” Sandy whined. “Leave him alone!”
Emerson stopped Spence by holding his arm. He sneered at Alex: “What now? Another whistle blower, saving Gotham City? Look, guy. Command Records will not get very far signing up choir boys. That would be some other record company. Manson’s rough, and he shows it. But I’ve got plans for him - he’s a natural, and can be trained. He’s the first artist I’ve signed since I took control of this company, and I am taking him to the top!”
Alex reached for his wallet, then pulled out a business card. He handed it to Emerson, who squinted in the streetlight and read it aloud. “Detective Sergeant Frank Beaudry, West LAPD Division.” He looked at Alex. “What’s this?”
“That’s the guy who will be all over your ass in a few days. But with the lawyers you have, you might get a nicer interrogation room than I did.”
Emerson stared at him for a moment, tapping the card on his hand. “All right, c’mon in. You got something? I wanna hear it.”
The bus was packed with people, mostly standing or leaning. Sitting in the cramped bus was nearly impossible. The music was playing from an 8-track unit mounted in the wall of the central lounge area of the bus. Beer chased tequila, and someone started tossing crushed lime wedges around. Kat was there, saw Alex from across the compartment and frowned. But she was too busy snuffing out joints, reminding everyone that they were still parked on Sunset Boulevard: Be cool!
Emerson, Alex, Sandy and Spence pushed toward the back of the bus. They reached a section of bunk beds, three on each side of the aisle. Muffled shrieking, laughing, and panting came from behind the curtains covering the bunks. A girl’s leg dangled down from a top bunk, her toes covered with rings, ankle with bracelets.
At the back of the bus, a door led to a private room. “Charlie?” Emerson yelled through the door. He opened the door after he heard Manson grunt his OK. Inside, Manson sat on the bed chopping cocaine on a mirror the size of an album cover while a wide-eyed teen girl tried to squeeze even further into a corner.
“You!” Emerson said, pointing at the girl. “Out!” She fled back into the party. Emerson shut the door behind them all and the music became a dull beat through the walls.
Manson looked up at Alex. “This fucker again?”
“He says he’s got something to tell me. OK,” Emerson said to Alex, sighing. “What!”
“Where’s Sherrie, Manson?” Alex yelled, surprising himself.
“Whoa! Wait a minute!” Emerson said. “You mean this is all over some fucking girl, you jerk?”
Manson laughed. “Pussy whipped - and by that cow!”
Alex looked at Emerson. “They took her by force from my hotel, Emerson. They’re holding Sherrie somewhere, or,” he looked at Manson, “she’s dead, too.”
Manson just giggled and continued chopping. “She’s where she belongs, man.”
Emerson stared at Manson, then at Alex. “Kidnapping, Swain? C’mon. Look – what do you want? Coke? Money? What do you need to go away and get happy?”
Alex looked at Manson. “I talked to her, Manson, before you snatched her back. I know all about Cielo Drive, man. And the cops are about two steps behind me - maybe you and Emerson can go down to the station together.”
“What the hell are you –” Emerson began, but Charlie cut him off. “That girl talks shit all the time, man – you know that. But she won’t be talking anymore if you keep fucking with me.”
“So – she’s still alive?”
“What!” Emerson exclaimed, looking seriously concerned for the first time.
“Yeah, punk, she’s alive. Ask Sandy – she can tell you.” Sandy nodded at Alex. Her expression was changing – whatever drug she had taken was wearing off. Alex didn’t know how much of this was getting through to her. “But that story is just her crazy trip, man,” Manson said. “She’s been buggin’ everybody with it.”
“I don’t think so, Charlie,” Alex said, putting his hands on his hips. “I know that was Melcher’s house, man. And Sherrie didn’t tell me that.”
Manson’s eyes narrowed and his face grew taut.
“Melcher? Terry Melcher the producer?” Emerson asked. “What the hell does he have to do with anything?” He began to bite his lip. The repercussions of this conversation were starting to bounce around in his mind.
“I’ll tell him, Charlie,” Alex said, turning to Emerson. “Terry Melcher used to own a house in Bel Air not too long ago. Charlie had been up there a few times, before Melcher blew him off.”
Manson’s breathing became heavier.
“So? And?” Emerson demanded, impatient.
“That house is up on Cielo Drive. The Sharon Tate murder house.”
“What?” Emerson laughed. “Are you kidding me? Charlie?” he said, turning to Manson.
Manson stood up, and the cocaine fell off the mirror in a little snowstorm.
“Totally bizarre, right?” Alex continued. “Sherrie is the only one who knew. All the rest – the actual killers Charlie sent - died in a car wreck later that night, getting away. But,” Alex said, looking around him, “now you all know. And that’s way too many of us to kill, Manson.”
“You fuck!” Manson screamed. “I didn’t kill nobody!”
“Maybe. But you sent them, Manson,” Alex said, “and they did what you ordered.”
“Fuck you, you punk faggot!”
Alex felt strangely calm as he laid out the next piece of the story. “They found a bloody knife, Manson, at the site of the car crash.”
Manson moved toward Alex slowly. His eyes looked beyond Alex’s face and moved almost imperceptibly. Alex felt himself grabbed from behind, as Spence’s arm came around his neck and squeezed – hard.
As Alex’s vision darkened through a red haze, he saw Emerson running out of the little room, and heard Sandy give out a choked scream. Then he saw nothing and heard nothing.
Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band Page 22