Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  “And here we are,” Alex said.

  “Well, that is one wild story, man!” Beaudry said, sitting up. “I’m fucked pretty good here.”

  “What do you mean?” Alex asked, surprised at Beaudry’s reaction.

  “I got practically nothing, no matter how logically your story fits together – not that it does. I can probably match the knife to the Tate murders. The car - we already know it was based at that ranch – but it’s circumstantial without the owner.”

  “He’s probably buried at the ranch, if you believe Sherrie,” Alex suggested.

  “Maybe,” Beaudry said. “But from what you’ve told me, there’s probably like 600 acres out there. And this Sherrie girl. If she’s alive, we might be able to go for kidnapping. Then we’d at least have those guys behind bars. If she’s dead – well, we could try something else, if we can find a body.”

  Alec winced at his mental image of Sherrie’s body somewhere in the sand at the ranch. For the first time, he could see now how much of a detective’s work involved sorting the evidence to fit a charge. If a DA wanted to go out on a limb with a jury and push for heavier criminal charges, that was his risk.

  “But these Tate murders,” Beaudry continued. “I don’t have enough for even one arrest. And the papers will slaughter us: ‘LAPD Suspects Hippie Cult In Cielo Drive Murders.’ It’ll be fun!” He glumly shook his head.

  Alex nodded slowly, coming to understand Beaudry’s position. After a moment of silence, he had an idea. “How about this: you guys get a search warrant for the ranch,” he suggested. “I’ll go with you – be your guide. Just them seeing me getting out of the squad car will shake things up. Who knows what might fall out?”

  Frank Beaudry slowly nodded his agreement. “But what are we searching for, exactly?”

  Alex laughed and turned sarcastic. “Dead bodies? Stolen cars? A lost cat? Does it ever really matter when you guys really want in?”

  Jackson bristled, but Beaudry said, “Police procedures can seem mysterious sometimes,” and smiled condescendingly. “It’ll take us some time to get a warrant. Maybe we could get out there by tomorrow morning – pick you up at 10?” He stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Fine,” Alex said. “Hey – can you guys give me a ride to the ‘Rent-A-Wreck’ on Santa Monica? My car is still in that lot from last night, and those fuckers took my keys. Man! Those car guys are not going to be happy to see me again!”

  Bad Moon Risin’

  1969 John Fogerty

  October 21, 1969

  6 pm.

  Sitting in the back of the detectives’ car, Alex remembered he had no money for the parking lot, no ID, and changed his plan. He asked them to take him to Crib Notes instead – out of the way for them. No problem.

  Phil and Betsy were all over him, asking questions, pushing pain pills, suggesting doctors. Refusing everything, Alex only asked for some cash and someone to take him to the rental car office for a new key. They might also have to take him to the parking lot on the Strip. Phil needed to stay for the deadline, so Betsy took him to Rent-A-Wreck.

  • • •

  The car rental manager shook his head when he heard Alex’s story and saw his condition. “You need to stay out of those bad areas, sir!”

  “You mean – Los Angeles?” He was losing his civility fast.

  The manager, whose nametag read ‘Robert,’ didn’t take the joke well. “Look, mister. This is the last time we’re going to accommodate you. You seem to be leaving a trail of our cars across the city.”

  “OK,” Alex answered. “Sorry. Can you at least take me to the lot on Sunset? I’d appreciate it.”

  • • •

  Alex stopped at Barney’s and tried to get some chili past his swollen cheek. Beer helped. He parked back at the motel and dragged himself to his room. As promised, the lock was changed and his replacement key no longer worked.

  He trudged back to the office. The night manager, whom he had never met, looked at him and froze.

  “Ah – they changed the lock in 219 today, so I need a new key, please” Alex said, dangling the old key in front of him.

  The young clerk was speechless, his eyes wide. His hand trembled as he picked up the phone. “One moment, sir?” he managed to say, then whispered into the phone. He hung it up quietly.

  ‘Uh – can I see your ID, please, sir – mister –”

  “Alex Swain. 219,” Alex said impatiently. Then he suddenly got it: beat up, swollen guy; no key; no ID; late at night. “You need to call the day clerk,” Alex said. “He knows me. I can’t remember his name, though.”

  A short, overweight security guard came around the corner, hand on his gun. “Aw, man!” Alex pleaded. “Please – just call the day clerk, guy!”

  • • •

  It was the roughest 24 hours that Alex could remember. A new benchmark, of some sort. Character building, he laughed to himself. But he was still convinced the story and resulting article would make it all worthwhile. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to untie his shoes.

  It was near ten. The phone on the nightstand jangled. Alex slumped and sighed, and his hands covered his eyes. As tired as he might be, Alex knew he had to answer it.

  “Alex?” a frantic female voice said. It was familiar, but unclear.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Sandy – from the ranch?”

  “Oh. What –”

  “Alex! I’m sorry about what they did. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, man! Charlie’s gone crazy – he’s taking everyone out of here! Right now!” she shouted. Alex could hear that Sandy was sobbing. “Is it true what you said? In the bus? It was kind of like a huge bummer trip for me that night!”

  “Sandy! I’ll come out there – hang on! Can you tell me where you’ll be?” Alex asked, starting to put his shoes back on.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know! Oh my God, Alex! He killed Sherrie! He – oh, shit! – he’s coming! Please help me, man! I – “ The phone went dead and a rough hiss took over the line. Alex put the receiver back in the cradle for two seconds, then yanked it back up to his ear. With this new connection open, he rifled through his pockets looking for Beaudry’s card.

  Once Alex had dialed the number he could barely wait for the police station to answer. Finally, just before Alex was ready to throw the phone down and run to his car, the station answered the call.

  “Los Angeles Police, West Hollywood Division.”

  “Hi. I need to speak to Detective Beaudry from your precinct – it’s very urgent.”

  “Is this an emergency, sir?”

  “Yes! Please - is he there?” Alex asked.

  “No, I’m afraid you will have to talk to me. This is Sergeant Mudrow speaking.”

  “Look! You’ve got to find him and tell him that Alex Swain called, and that there is big trouble happening right now at the Spahn Ranch,” Alex blurted.

  “A ranch? Where exactly is –”

  “I can’t go into details right now! Just hurry! Beaudry will know what I’m talking about!”

  Alex pushed the station wagon hard as he drove up the 405, but then remembered he had no ID and throttled it back. He couldn’t help anyone if he was sitting in some CHP lock-up in San Fernando. Exit ramps flew by in an endless parade. He finally turned west onto the 118. Alex saw the treetops bending, high above the freeway – the Santa Ana winds were back, here at the foothills of the San Gabriels. What was Manson planning? Alex asked himself. He couldn’t just start killing everyone, could he? Was he really that insane?

  Alex reached the Topanga Canyon exit. He took Topanga south for a minute, then turned west onto Santa Susanna Pass Road. As he got closer to the ranch road, he saw a familiar glow on the canyon wall up ahead. Time for another firepit sing-along? Alex thought. Weirder and weirder.

  Alex had spent about three seconds too long staring at the mountain side. When he returned his eyes to the road, there was something straight ahead coming directly at him, no lights at a
ll. Alex threw the wheel hard to the left, and the station wagon screeched over to the cliff side of the road and swung to a stop in a patch of gravel.

  “What the hell!” Alex shouted, and spun his head around to see who had run him off the road. It was a large dark brown horse, galloping down the highway. No saddle, no tack of any kind.

  Alex carefully got the car back on the road, swinging back to the westbound lane. He was getting closer to the ranch and the adrenaline from hearing Sandy’s voice and the near miss had him on a keen edge. He knew something horrible was coming down, but couldn’t imagine it clearly.

  Another horse came trotting down the road toward him, moving into a gallop when Alex got nearer. He slowed to let the horse pass. Panicked and determined, the horse ran by, white lather flying from around its mouth. Alex’s sense of foreboding was becoming oppressive. Then – “The stables!” he yelled, hitting the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

  Alex turned down the road to the ranch and saw the full extent of the scene come into view. Down past the town, the stables were on fire. Horses and people ran everywhere at once. In the parking lot Manson’s tour bus was idling, people boarding in a rush, the headlights making twin beams through the smoke. Around the bus were three dune buggies, each packed high with gear.

  Alex rushed his station wagon down to the plaza and jumped out. He saw Manson, Spence, and Kat board their dune buggies and tear away. They circled around the bus, then each made directly for different buildings in the western town. Alex watched as Spence stopped, lit a Molotov cocktail, and tossed it into his cabin. He saw Manson heave two into the café through the window, then roar on to his next stop. Alex ran up to the idling bus. He could see familiar Family members packed inside.

  Alex jumped up the steps into the bus. “Sandy!” he yelled. The driver turned around – Steve Grogan stared at him. “You fucked everything up royal, asshole!” Grogan yelled. “We’re splitting here, man! You better leave before Charlie sees you!”

  “Where’s Sandy?” Alex asked, yelling over the din. Someone was playing the 8 track – ‘Susie Q’ by Creedence - loud. The babies on the bus were screaming.

  “Not in here!” Grogan yelled. “Last I saw, Charlie had her!”

  “Where are you going?” Alex shouted over the engine, but Steve Grogan waved him off with his hand and pointed down the stairs. “Fuck off, Swain!”

  Alex jumped down the bus steps and the door slammed shut. Around the plaza the buildings were now completely aflame. The dogs left behind were running: mad, howling. One jumped and snapped at the large clumps of ash drifting down. The heat was rising fast, and the wind was blowing columns of fire nearly sideways. Trees and brush carried the fire away from the town and into the canyon.

  The bus started to pull away and Alex ran off toward the spot where Sandy kept her tent. The heat was getting to be too much and the smoke was choking. Seeing the tent in flames as well, Alex gave up and started to run back to the parking lot. He pulled off his shirt and used it as a mask over his nose and mouth.

  Alex saw a solitary figure trudging down the main street of the movie set town, fire blazing in the structures on either side. Old, hobbling with a cane, Alex knew it had to be George Spahn, abandoned to the fire by Manson and his Family. He ran to the old man.

  “C’mon, George! I’ll get you out of here!” Alex yelled, pulling the old man along. Behind them, the ‘Undertaker’ building set collapsed into a pile of orange glowing planks. Embers swirled and showered over them, and Alex put his shirt over Spahn’s head. “The horses!” Alex heard Spahn cry.

  “They’re OK! They’re all out!” Alex shouted, hoping it was true. They struggled together, coughing, back toward the parking lot. The wind was pushing the fire southwest, across the shallow valley and up the hills. The old wooden buildings and unburned vegetation on the ranch made for an intense fire, strong enough now that it was creating winds and vortexes of its own, vicious tornadoes of pure flame.

  The parking lot and ranch road were on the eastern, upwind side of the fire and the open space there was relatively safer. The Manson bus had circled, preparing to charge up the ranch road. As Alex dragged Spahn along he heard sirens. Looking up he saw three L.A. County fire trucks turning into the ranch from the highway. Steve Grogan, at the wheel of the tour bus, could see them as well and had to realize that his escape route was blocked. The three dune buggies pulled up from their arson missions and Grogan came out of the bus. Alex saw that Sandy was riding with Kat, Squeaky with Manson, and Valley Jane with Spence. They argued with each other, arms waving and pointing, some pushing and shoving. Finally, Steve Grogan threw up his hands and got back on the bus.

  Alex reached his station wagon and he lowered Spahn down and leaned him against it. The dune buggies revved up, and Manson’s snarled up on the other side of Alex’s car. Manson stared at Alex a moment. He gave Alex the finger, then reached down and pulled out a snub-nosed pistol. Alex dove into the dirt behind his car as the windshield and driver’s window shattered from two bullets.

  Manson’s buggy took off, making for a fire road that led into the mountains. Kat and Sandy followed. Alex yelled to Sandy, but she didn’t acknowledge him. The bus rumbled and gears crunched as Steve got it moving again. He drove it in the same direction, heading for the fire road. That’s crazy! thought Alex. There’s no way they can make it! Then he remembered a trip to Mexico, and the terrible mountain roads the buses would handle. Manson’s bus climbed up the fire road slowly, rocking over left, then right.

  The fire was running up the mountain side, fast. Flames shot up, then rolled into glowing tubes of pure destruction. The fire trucks roared into the parking area, and a sergeant in a long fluorescent yellow coat came running up to Alex. “Anyone in there?” he yelled, pointing to the burning buildings.

  “I don’t think so! I think everyone’s gone! It’s all just movie sets!” Alex yelled back. “This guy,” he said, pointing at Spahn, “needs oxygen!” Alex reached in his pocket and grabbed Beaudry’s card. He gave it to the sergeant, shouting, “You gotta get this cop on your radio! And be careful: this whole place is a crime scene!” The sergeant ran back to his trucks, yelling into a black walkie talkie.

  Alex looked back at the burning mountain and saw Manson’s buggy on a switchback. He watched as the dune buggy charged behind a sheet of flame shooting up from the downhill side of the road. They made it through and drove around the next curve. Then he watched Kat and Sandy shoot through the smoke and flames and follow Manson and Squeaky down the road.

  Alex saw the headlights of the tour bus poking through the smoke as it rounded a corner up on the fire road. “Incredible!” Alex breathed. The bus hesitated, Grogan calculating the best way to get through the section of road bordered by fire. Alex thought he could hear the bus engine wind up as it started to plow through the flames.

  The next seconds were obscured by smoke, and then he saw the bus coming out the other side of the fire. Too fast – the bus overshot the curve ahead and its rear right wheel slid out over the edge of the burning canyon.

  At that moment the last dune buggy, Spence and Valley Jane’s machine, raced out from behind the wall of flame at full speed. The view of the road was obscured by smoke and he couldn’t see that the bus had stalled. Spence and Jane smashed into the bus’ overhanging rear end.

  Alex watched, heart stopped. The energy from Spence’s impact pushed the tour bus past the tipping point, and the bus and dune buggy tumbled together over the side of the cliff. The bus rolled over itself down the mountain side and disappeared into the burning canyon. A moment later, a large fireball blasted out of the flames. Then, a smaller explosion.

  The firemen standing around Alex watched in disbelief, trying to understand what they had just seen. “What the hell was that?” one asked him.

  Alex stared at the mountain and shook his head. “A premonition, I guess” he said finally.

  The firefighters looked at him quizzically. Alex looked back at the burning tow
n. “Like a prediction,” he said, “coming true.”

  • • •

  The firefighters concentrated their efforts in keeping the blaze away from the Pass Road. Another Fire Captain arrived and asked Alex once more about people who might be in the buildings. Once he was reassured, the captain gave the order to let the rest of the ranch burn. They had limited water in their trucks and the nearest county hydrant was a half mile back toward Chatsworth.

  Alex heard more sirens, and watched two LAPD cars coming down from the Pass Road, their red and blue lights spinning in the wispy smoke. The squad cars rolled up next to the County Fire command vehicle and Frank Beaudry got out of the passenger side of the lead car. He walked over to Alex.

  “This Manson’s work?” he asked curtly.

  Alex nodded somberly. “He got out, and a few others, but the rest – maybe 20 - are down in that canyon,” he said, pointing to the brush fire there. “I’m sure they’re all dead. They were in a bus that didn’t make it around that bend in the fire road up there.”

  Beaudry held his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare coming from the fire. “A bus? On that trail?!” he said, once he could see the road on the mountain side. “That’s insane! How long ago?”

  “Uh, maybe fifteen minutes. Oh, yeah. Manson took a shot at me with a small pistol, so he’s armed. Took out my windshield.”

  “OK – Good to know.” Beaudry turned to face Alex. “Swain! If you had leveled with me even a day earlier we might have been able to do something to prevent this!” Beaudry said, glaring at Alex. “Was it worth it? I hope so, asshole. All this – “ he swept his arm around the burning panorama, “because of your goddam article!”

  “You fucking journalists!” Beaudry continued. “You think you’re all so pure, watching everything from some kind of, of … platform in the sky. But you’re not. You’re down here, up to your eyeballs in the shit with all the rest of us, peeping in windows and looking through keyholes!”