Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  Ride Your Pony

  1966 Allen Toussaint

  October 20, 1969

  8:00 pm.

  “Klem – This is really important, man! Listen! Are you listening, asshole?” Manson had said, shoving Klem’s shoulder. “I need you to stay here and watch Sherrie.”

  “Sherrie’s here?” Klem asked, excited. “She’s back?”

  “She’s in Spence’s cabin, and you need to keep her there ‘til we all get back from the Whiskey. You got that?” Manson asked, searching for any sign of recognition on Klem’s face.

  “Uh – OK, man. Wow! So – can I fuck her Charlie?” Klem asked, eyes bright.

  “I don’t care, Klem! Jesus! Just keep her in there until we get back.” Charlie spun around and walked over to the tour bus idling in the plaza. He ran up the steps and the bus circled around and away up to the highway.

  • • •

  That was hours ago, and now Klem sat in his underwear on this hot night and picked at a scab on his calf. He couldn’t believe Charlie made him stay at the ranch while everyone else went out to the big show at the Whiskey. On the other hand, at least he wasn’t totally alone – Sherrie was here.

  But now Klem was bored. Initially excited, he had run to the cabin, jumped on Sherrie and fucked her while her hands were tied to the bed. Somehow, though, it didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. Sherrie wouldn’t stop crying and after he came, he sat in this chair and examined a deep scratch on his leg, feeling bad for some reason.

  As Sherrie eventually calmed down, Klem spent some time going through the cabin looking for anything to get high. Nothing – not even a cigarette. He tried to get the radio to play but it wouldn’t work - at least not for him.

  “Shit!” he said. “I’m fucking bored, Sherrie.”

  Sherrie said nothing, her face turned to the wooden planked wall.

  “C’mon, Sherrie. Talk to me, girl!” Klem begged.

  Sherrie sniffled. “Untie me, Klem. Untie me, and then I can talk.”

  “Uh – I guess that will be OK, but you have to stay in here, Sherrie. Charlie’s orders.” Klem came over and untied the Army surplus canvas belts that strapped her down. Sherrie sat up, rubbing her wrists. “You could have untied me first, asshole” she said.

  “Oh, yeah – I guess. I’ve never guarded anybody before,” he said, with a child’s hurt look. “I don’t know the rules.”

  Sherrie shook her head. Dumb as a post. But Klem was plenty big and surprisingly strong, so fighting him was out of the question. She got up and began to dress herself. She collected her clothes from around the room, tossed or dropped when Spence had tied her down and raped her earlier in the day.

  “Why were you crying, Sherrie?” Klem asked, concerned. “I know you like to fuck.”

  Sherrie sighed. “Not all the time, Klem. It’s not right, sometimes.”

  “Oh,” Klem said, his brow furrowed. “So how do I know, like, next time?”

  There won’t be a next time, idiot! Sherrie promised herself. “Live and learn, I guess,” she said as she buttoned her shirt. Klem stood in the middle of the room in his stained briefs, trying to understand what she had just said. “I gotta pee,” Sherrie told him. “There’s a bucket outside,” she said, pointing at the rear door.

  “Okay. Just - no running away, Sherrie.”

  She went outside and squatted over the plastic bucket. Sherrie wracked her brain, trying to remember if there were any working vehicles she could somehow hijack. There were none. Then she had an idea.

  Back inside, Sherrie said, “Klem, babe - I’m bored, too. I just remembered – I got some acid in my cabin by the stables. Go get it. At least we can trip for a while.”

  Klem perked up. “Really? Where is it? I’ll go get it!”

  Sherrie told him where to find a box of Sugar Pops cereal, a small one-serving box on the only shelf in the cabin. Klem flashed out the door and into the dark. A nearly full moon was rising in the east. She looked around the cabin for money, knives – anything she could use for an escape. She heard Klem running back up the path.

  “I found it!” Klem exclaimed, and handed the box to Sherrie proudly. Sherrie shook the box and few small, square slips of paper fell into her hand. Each had a stamped print of Goofy on them.

  “Cool!” Klem said. “I’ll get some water!”

  As Klem went to the bedside table to get a jar of water there, Sherrie took one of the squares and folded it twice, sloppily.

  “I remember this stuff,” Sherrie told Klem, shaking her head. “It wasn’t very strong then, and now it’s old. We should each take three, I think.” She held up one hand and three corners of her folded square peeked over her fingers. Klem scooped up the three sheets in her open hand, rolled them into a little ball, and tossed it into his mouth. He gulped it down with the water then handed the jar to Sherrie. She palmed her dose, faked putting it into her mouth, and drank greedily from the jar.

  After an excruciating twenty minutes for Sherrie, the LSD started to loosen connections in Klem’s brain. They lay on the bed, and Sherrie watched as his pupils widened and his face relaxed. Klem was big, and an experienced tripper. But even he would not be able to function on the triple dose.

  “Wow!” Sherrie faked. “It’s really coming on, man!”

  “Yeah,” Klem giggled, touching his fingertips together, as if for the first time.

  “I know!” Sherrie cried, sitting up. “Let’s go dig on the horses, man!”

  “What?” Klem asked, his brow pinched in confusion. “Horses?”

  “It’s a bitchin” night, man! C’mon – it’s beautiful outside!” She took his hand.

  “Wait –” Klem said, but logic and time were collapsing. His tangled senses and emotions were taking over. “That’s cool,” he breathed, to no one in particular, and even that simple phrase required all his concentration to control his lips and tongue.

  Sherrie led him the two hundred yards to the stable. No one was around. Lingering heat radiated off every rock and building wall, but the wind was coming up and the sky was clear.

  Klem’s gait was turning into a rolling stumble. He would start to say something, but always stopped as the first sound came out. Once they were in the stable, Sherrie sat him down on a bale of hay. “Just stay here, honey,” she said, and Klem fell back, humming, into a fetal position.

  Sherrie had never used the lights in the barn before and didn’t know where the switch was. Feeling around the barn door, she found a switch and flipped it on. “Mister!” Sherrie called.

  The horse named Mister neighed in response and stomped his hoof. Sherrie collected a bridle and gear from the rack and began to saddle him. Experienced, she worked quickly, but Mister was uncooperative because a night ride was way out of his routine. He whinnied loudly, and shook his bridle.

  “Sorry, Mister! Easy, babe,” Sherrie said, trying to calm him. Saddling the horse was easy – it was her riding that wasn’t very good. Sherrie struggled onto the saddle, and Mister reared a little, restrained by one last rope.

  “Sherrie!”

  Sherrie jerked and looked over at the door. Squeaky was there with a large flashlight.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Get off that horse right now!” Squeaky ordered.

  Sherrie loosened the last rope holding Mister to the stall and they trotted out.

  “Damn it, you little bitch! What are you doing?” Squeaky yelled in her crazy high voice. “Stop!”

  Klem rose up onto his feet, some part of him registering potential trouble. He stood in the middle of the barn, blocking Sherrie’s path. He waved his arms wildly.

  Sherrie dug her feet into Mister’s flanks and he picked up speed to a near gallop. Sherrie realized that Klem was not going to move – God knows what he thought was happening.

  Mister barreled through, twisting his body, attempting to avoid the human in front of him. Klem took a forelock to the groin and went down hard. As Mister passed over him his rear hoof kicked Klem’s skull, crackin
g it loudly. Klem made no sound, and his body went limp.

  “Sherrie! You asshole!” Squeaky yelled after Sherrie as she rode Mister through the ranch and up to the parking plaza. The car park was familiar to him, at least in daylight. But Mister faltered when Sherrie tried to get him up the dirt road to the highway.

  “C’mon, Mister! You can do it! Let’s go!” Mister pranced nervously in a circle as Sherrie tried to regain control. Finally, she got him to trot up the road in the moonlight.

  As Sherrie got halfway to the Pass road she saw a large bus turn in, making for the ranch. As the bus came closer its headlights found Sherrie and Mister. Now completely spooked, Mister reared up tall, whinnying and twisting to the right. Sherrie lost her hold, and she fell into the sage.

  Hitchhike – Hitchhike, Baby

  1962 Marvin Gaye, Clarence Paul, William Stevenson

  October 21, 1969

  7 am.

  Alex Swain was dreaming he was back in Michigan as a boy. His family was at a beach house on Lake Michigan, a beautiful summer day. His father, brother, and some cousins were standing in the water – but they were all their current 1969 age. It was as if Jim had not been killed. It was only Alex who was 8 years old, scared and trembling at the edge of the lake.

  Jim and their father called for Alex to come in, beckoning. Alex was too afraid of the limitless dark water to move. Soon his father became angry, demanding that the boy get in the water. Jim was laughing, splashing cold lake water on Alex. See, Jim coaxed, it’s not that bad.

  Alex woke up, water trickling down his face. He turned upright with a jerk, once more not knowing where he was. Cars and trucks flew past him at high speed. Alex realized he was under some bushes on the side of a highway. The watering system was on and sprayed water in a traveling arc over the hillside landscaping. He was soaked.

  Pain in and around his head forced him to remember the night before. Alex remembered confronting Manson, then going unconscious after someone choked him. He regained some sensibility, but it lasted only long enough for Alex to watch helplessly as Spence delivered a fist to his face - a blow that made everything go black again.

  Now Alex acutely felt the pain over his face and there was fire in his cheek where Spence’s fist had connected. He sat up and spit blood. Lucky to be alive, he thought, remembering Sherrie saying the same thing.

  Alex stood up and began to walk down the shoulder of the road, walking with the traffic. Cars and trucks slammed on their horns, angry at the distraction in their commute. He saw the sign for an exit ramp ahead about half a mile away.

  Alex guessed it to be 7 or 8 in the morning, checked his watch and found it gone. He stopped walking and slapped his back pocket – no wallet. Front pocket: no keys, no change. “Shit!” he yelled through the traffic din.

  He got a better look at the freeway signs as he got closer. He was on the 101 Freeway’s northbound side, approaching the Melrose Avenue off ramp. After some concentration Alex realized he had little choice but to hitchhike back to the Sportsmens’ Lodge – he had no money, no ID. He walked up the Melrose Avenue off ramp, then crossed over Melrose to the 101 on-ramp.

  Still wet, his face swollen and bruised, Alex knew it would be tough finding a driver willing to pick him up. Some cars slowed, then revved up and shot down the ramp when they got a good look at him. Finally, a 50’s Chevy pickup driven by an older black man stopped for him. Alex ran up to the passenger window.

  “Coldwater Canyon exit?” he asked, hopefully.

  The man looked at him, whistling. “Lord! Boy, what happened to you?”

  “Ahh – little drunk, got in a fight, I guess. I don’t remember too well.”

  The older man looked him over. “All right. Get in the back.”

  Alex climbed into the bed of the pickup truck, loaded with barrels of foul smelling used restaurant grease. He was able to sit with his back against the cab. It was a short, stinking ride to Coldwater Canyon, and he spent most of it wondering what Manson would do now. The driver was kind enough to take him on up the ramp to the street to let him out, and Alex jumped down on the driver’s side and went to thank him.

  “Lissen –” the man said before Alex could speak. “I been where you’re at, man. You gotta get off that juice!” He reached over to the passenger’s seat and handed Alex a business card. “You can’t do it by yo’ seff. You need Jesus, son!”

  Alex looked at the card. One side showed a painting of Jesus knocking on the door of a modern house, and the other side gave the address of a church.

  “Thanks, man,” Alex said. “You might be right. I think I might need some help right about now.” He smiled at the old man, who grinned back.

  “See!” he exclaimed, wagging his finger. “That first step is always asking for help, son. Good luck to you.” He put the truck in gear and turned to get back on the 101. “God bless you!” he shouted as he sped down the ramp.

  Alex waved, then walked the two blocks to the Sportsmens. He stepped into the office. Alex was lucky – the day clerk on duty knew him.

  “Mr. Swain!” he gasped. “What happened to you?”

  “Got rolled last night. They took everything on me, including my room key. Sorry – I guess you’re going to have to change the lock in 219,” Alex said.

  “Oh! No trouble!” the clerk, Max, said. “People lose keys all the time, but usually not that way. Are you OK, sir? Should I call our doctor?”

  “No – no, I’m all right, I think. Need a shower and some sleep, really.”

  “Sure thing,” Max said and pulled another 219 key from the key safe. “We’ll change the lock later today.”

  Alex thanked him and walked toward his room. Safer now, he felt the pain and exhaustion more strongly. When he reached his room he saw that the door was open and stopped abruptly. He saw the maid and her cart coming in his direction from several rooms away, and knew she couldn’t be in his room.

  Alex stood against the wall next to his door, out of sight from anyone in the room. He listened intently for any noises coming from inside. He looked up and saw the maid staring at him, so he smiled weakly and made a little wave. She didn’t stop staring.

  Hearing nothing, Alex went into his room, peeking around the corner first. No one was inside. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the typewriter was gone, and every drawer was pulled out and dumped. The Family had been here, again. Well, he thought dully, that makes sense. He was too tired to do anything but close the door and flop onto the bed.

  • • •

  Through his sleep, he heard the sound of knocking. Gradually, he awakened as the sound became more insistent. Then he heard muffled voices behind the door. Fully awake now, Alex looked at the clock and saw it was 3:45 pm. He endured a stab of pain as he got out of bed and went to the door.

  “Who is it!” Alex demanded as he checked the chain bolt across the door.

  “Swain! It’s Detective Beaudry. Time’s up, Shakespeare – open the door!”

  Cigarettes and Coffee

  Jerry Butler, Eddie Thomas, Jay Walker

  October 21, 1969

  3:45 pm.

  “What the fuck happened to you, Swain?” Beaudry asked, genuinely shocked when he got a look at Alex’s face in the light. “Do you need medical attention?”

  “No, thanks. What I need is a shower. I’ll meet you down in the coffee shop in ten, and you’ll get the whole story.”

  • • •

  The waitress brought Alex coffee. Alex poured cream into his, the detectives drank theirs black. Alex took his first sip, and nearly blew coffee all over the cops. The cuts in his cheek screamed with pain.

  “A little hot for ya?” Beaudry snickered, watching Alex grab napkins from all over the table. Alex touched the side of his face, his eyes screwed shut. Beaudry reached in his jacket and pulled out a small tin of Bayer aspirins and placed them on the table. “Never go anywhere without ‘em,” he said. Alex grabbed two, and drained his small water glass.

  Beaudry lit a cigarette. “O
K, Swain. It looks like you’ve reached the end of your rope with these guys, and we don’t even know who they are. So I’m going to dispense with the usual cat and mouse shit for now – you’ve earned it.”

  Alex nodded. “Thanks.”

  “The lab results came back on the knife,” Beaudry began. “Human blood, they say. Could’ve been an accident, I think to myself. You know, trying to imagine all the angles. But my friend Jackson here,” he pointed at the other detective, “woke up long enough to advise that people usually cut themselves with the pointy end of those things, not down by the hilt.”

  “Makes sense,” Alex said, blowing on his coffee.

  “Score one for Jackson. But the most interesting part of the labs was that they found three types of human blood on the knife – A positive, B positive, and O negative.” Beaudry looked at Alex. “That’s a lot of accidents.”

  “I think I know where this is going,” Alex said.

  “You do?” Beaudry asked. “That’s good - because I can only make one connection, and it’s too weird to consider.”

  “You’re telling me!” Swain said with a hoarse laugh.

  “Alright,” Beaudry said, “your turn.” Detective Jackson opened his notebook, ready to write it all down.

  “This on the record?” Alex asked. Now he really had to concentrate - for his own defense, if nothing else.

  “Yep,” Beaudry nodded. “Problem?”

  “No. But it’s gonna be weird – lots of parts missing. May have to backtrack and shit. Plus, I’ve just been beaten up and left for dead.”

  “Noted,” Beaudry said.

  Alex let out a long sigh, but began to feel better. That old black man this morning – was he real, or had he been another dream? Either way, his advice was starting to make sense.

  Alex lit a cigarette and told the whole story from start to finish, just as he had done with Phil Crane. Beaudry leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head again, eyes closed most of the time. Jackson wrote furiously, and asked Alex to stop many times to catch up, or ask for spellings of names. Alex ended the account with finding his room trashed.