His estimate, same as Weintraub’s, was that in their five-year run the figures and Skycycles and all the rest had earned Ideal over $100 million. He said Knievel had been paid between 2.5 and 10 percent of that figure. The toys always were Knievel’s biggest source of revenue, a financial constant matched against the various schemes and appearances and get-rich-quick opportunities that came along.
Knievel still was a resident at the Wayside Honor Rancho when the Ideal announcement was made. His time there had been quiet, except for a three-day emergency trip to the University of Southern California Medical Center in February because one of the penal system’s doctors had read his spinal X-rays and worried that paralysis might be imminent without an operation. (The doctors at USC did not agree.) The good behavior at Wayside did, in the end, win him parole, an early release on April 12, 1978.
A week before that release, he had Rosenfeld distribute a letter to the media detailing his new financial status. His point was that his time in jail, not his attack on Saltman, had knocked him low. He hadn’t been able to work.
“Last year at this time I had 16 boats, three of them yachts, with a value of about $5 million,” he wrote. “I’ve had to sell them all with the exception of three speedboats and one 80-foot yacht. My navy sure is decreasing in size.”
He said he had two houses left, the one in Butte for the summer, Fort Lauderdale for the winter. (Which were all the houses he ever had.) He had sold all but the largest of his diamond rings. He estimated that through the years all of the Evel Knievel products—the toys, plus the bicycles, plus the pinball machines—had combined sales of over $180 million. He said his profits from that figure were what had financed his lifestyle.
“Things are tough,” he said, “but I think I can make it.”
Newspapers across the country had fun with the story (“Evel Down to His Last Yacht”), but the change in his situation, the speed with which it had happened, was staggering. Not much more than a year earlier he had been getting ready for the jump over the pool of sharks, ramping up the interest. The movie Viva Knievel! was going to hit in July. The toys were still selling, he’d signed a deal with ABC to do some commentary and a few jumps, he had a future.
Now he pretty much was broke. How could that be?
A few minutes after midnight in the first hour of April 12, 1978, Knievel was released from the county jail at the Hall of Justice in Los Angeles. He had served four months and three weeks of his six-month sentence. He was on probation for the next three years. The Super Fly outfit was gray this time. The attitude still was unrepentant.
“I feel the majority of society understands the reasons for my actions,” he said.
This was his continuing colossal misread of public opinion. Or maybe his simple stubbornness. Butte, Montana, was not America. Society didn’t understand at all. He never would do another jump on network television. He never would be a rich man again, though he would try to keep that appearance. He never would be in demand.
On a Friday night, back at the Sheraton Universal, he threw himself a welcome home party. The honored guests were mostly convicts from the L.A. County Jail who had been released before he was, but also some guards and some friends. There was a lot of singing, prison songs. PR agent Rosenfeld was in attendance, one of his last acts working for Knievel. He had one enduring memory.
“Somewhere in the night, Evel was in a lot of pain,” Rosenfeld said. “A doctor appeared from somewhere and gave him an injection, right there at the table, right into his hand. I’d never seen anyone get an injection into his hand.”
29 Always, Forever Butte
There was a lot more to his story, of course, thirty more years until he died on November 30, 2007, at the age of sixty-nine, but at the same time there was no more. He was finished, done, broke, removed from the top shelf of American celebrity. The magic was gone. He was shuffled to that large warehouse in the back of the mind that is filled with retired athletes and disgraced politicians, faded ingenues and one-hit wonders, with entertainers who do not entertain anymore.
QUESTION: Evel Knievel?
ANSWER: Oh, yeah, I remember him.
The beating of Shelly Saltman took away any chance at a happy, controlled landing. There was a reason why toymakers always favored cartoon superheroes over real-life people: the cartoon characters never grew old, never lost their powers, never drank bourbon, never claimed to have slept with eight different women in a day, never whacked their former publicist with a baseball bat, never went to jail.
The fall of the famous daredevil was as breathtaking as any of his stunts ever had been. The hero became unheroic in an instant, viewed now as somewhere on a sliding scale between silly and flat-out despicable. The deals disappeared. The lifestyle pretty much went with them. There were no press conferences to announce any of this. Companies simply moved along to the next hot thing.
The affiliation with Harley-Davidson was an example. His contract with the company had expired, but nobody said a word about that fact. One Harley executive, Clyde Fessler, sent a memo to another executive, John Wilson, wondering why Knievel seemed to be representing the company without a signed contract. Wilson said basically that the company didn’t want any adverse feedback or negative publicity. Fessler agreed with the approach.
“Let’s let this die a natural death—hopefully in ’79,” he wrote in a later memo. “Do not push for a signature on a contract.”
The pile of money, of course, had been shrinking for a while, but now there were only bits and pieces arriving to plug any holes. The famous daredevil liked to claim that he made $60 million in his run through the public consciousness, but that he spent $62 million. He sometimes said he made $35 million and spent $37 million. The numbers varied, depending on the interview, but the constant was that he spent $2 million more than he made. The specifics probably weren’t important, except to the IRS, but the truth was that he made a lot of money and spent more than he made. The $2 million difference sounded quite reasonable.
His daredevil career sputtered to an end with a forgettable trip to Australia and another forgettable trip to Puerto Rico and a couple of other appearances in support of Robbie, who had taken over the family trade. Relations with Robbie, never good, would fall apart, get better for brief stretches, then fall apart again. Robbie went off to break his father’s records, one by one, using lighter bikes, some basic technology, but never could capture the excitement, the charisma, his father brought to the game.
On May 14, 1979, Linda gave birth to Alicia, her fourth child with Bob Knievel. Alicia was sixteen years younger than Tracey, seventeen years younger than Robbie, nineteen years younger than Kelly. This was the first of his children’s births that Knievel witnessed, and he told a reporter it was “something to see.” Stop the presses.
He drank. He had meetings, chased deals. He went to Muhammad Ali’s house in Brentwood, California, to pitch a shoeshine polish business. He told Ali they would make a commercial, do a jump. He would steer the motorcycle, Ali would sit on the back, and “we’d be the two most famous people in the world.” Ali said, “Not me, boss,” about the motorcycle. He said the same thing about the deal.
The dream house in Butte disappeared on August 21, 1980. Though Knievel had said the house and land were worth $900,000, they sold in foreclosure for $214,460, which was five dollars more than the minimum asking price. Stories said Knievel had not made one of his $4,008 monthly mortgage payments since October of 1979. He already had lost the boats, the planes, most of the cars, although he always seemed to drive an expensive car no matter what happened.
On December 22, 1981, a civil court awarded Shelly Saltman $12.75 million in damages from the attack that Santa Monica Superior Court judge Laurence Rittenband called “violent, brutal, vicious, unprovoked, and cowardly.” Knievel represented himself in papers filed for the case, but never appeared in the courtroom. In later interviews, he declared that he had no remorse, that Saltman was the worst kind of bloodsucker and “never would
receive a dime,” but the judgment was another entanglement in his finances, another outstanding bill that would not leave.
In 1983 he began a career as an artist. His longtime Butte friend Jack Ferriter was a successful painter, and Knievel said he’d taken some lessons from Ferriter and done some paintings that he would sell. A licensing agreement with the Legend’s Corporation of North Royalton, Ohio, was signed, and Knievel bought a big motor home and trailer to bring his artwork around the country. He would sell to galleries and to individuals, sign autographs and tell stories.
People in Butte noted that Knievel’s artistic style looked almost exactly like Ferriter’s style, hmmmmm, but Ferriter only said that he gave Knievel “tips” on what to do. A friend said he was in the studio when Ferriter delivered a tip. Knievel was adding a few brushstrokes and his signature to a work that Ferriter had done. Knievel seemed to be adding too many brushstrokes.
“Hey, don’t fuck it up,” the artist said.
Knievel made a documentary video to chronicle this time of his life called The Last of the Gladiators: Evel Knievel. He said in the video that he had given up alcohol and the nightlife and had found strength in God and family. That was his new life: God and family and art. He traveled in the motor home with Linda and Alicia, the older kids out in the world on their own, and this was a second chance.
“There’s more to life than just wasting yourself on alcohol,” he said in the video. “That’s what drunks do. They’re just soaking up alcohol. They’re really hemorrhoids on the ass of progress.”
The inevitable happened. The art business soon fell apart. Lawsuits were filed by Legend’s Corporation. The family life fell apart. Linda and Alicia went back to Butte. Knievel went back to drinking, back to gambling, back to chasing all women. He spent a lot of time in Las Vegas. The hemorrhoids on the ass of progress won again.
When Robbie attempted to jump the fountains at Caesars Palace on April 14, 1989, to avenge the family honor on pay-per-view television, his father became a necessary part of the production. Disagreements had to be put on hold. After a week of dealing with Knievels, the televsion crew became more worried about the father’s role on the day of the jump than the son’s role. Father was supposed to ride out to the ramp on a motorcycle to talk with son and broadcasters before the big moment. This quietly became an exciting event. Father was inside the bar at Caesars until the very last moment.
“He was drunk,” former ABC executive Jim Spence, producer of the event, said. “I was trying to figure out what we could do. We were worried that he was going to fall off the motorcycle. But out he came, rode right up there. Did it all.”
The jump was perfect. Robbie had practiced for a week at a duplicate ramp set up at an airport. He knew exactly what to expect. The American public mostly didn’t pay attention.
A story. One night, not so long after Knievel got out of jail for whacking Saltman, he went to a place called the Red Rooster on his round of Butte bars. He wound up gambling, played Texas Hold’em, caused a scene, one of those turn-over-the-table kind of scenes that shut down the game for the night. Knievel was mad at the dealer, a woman. He called her a long line of terrible names and made her cry before he finally left.
The game was backed by a large-sized guy named Jimmy Dick, who was not on the premises that night. The dealer was his girlfriend.
Dick, who did not know Knievel but certainly had heard about him forever, put retribution on a to-do list for further action. The time came soon enough. Knievel was back at the bar within weeks, noisy as usual, when Jimmy Dick and Terry Richards, another large-sized guy, arrived after an all-day rock concert. Terry Richards acted first.
“Hey, are you Evel Knievel?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” Knievel answered.
“Would you sign this cocktail napkin for me?”
Knievel signed with his usual autograph flourish. “Happy Landings, Evel Knievel.” Terry Richards took the napkin, rolled it into a ball, put it into his mouth, and ate it. His eyes never left Knievel as he chewed.
Jimmy Dick then came into the picture. He planned to kick Knievel’s ass.
“Hey, wait a minute, I know about you,” Knievel said. “Jimmy Dick. I’ve heard of you.”
A conversation followed. The result was vintage Knievel. He brought out the old Positive Mental Attitude, the W. Clement Stone PMA. Words followed more words, and Jimmy Dick not only was convinced not to inflict great bodily harm, but was now the newest employee of Evel Knievel. He was Evel Knievel’s bodyguard. They were going to Australia.
The lure of Australia was that nobody knew much about Shelly Saltman in Australia. Promoters wanted Knievel’s name to attach to a multi-act thrill show they would take across the country, forty-four cities in nine weeks. He didn’t have to take big risks, mostly ride around and make way for a kid daredevil, Dale Buggins, sixteen years old, an Australian. Knievel didn’t want to go, but did like the up-front money, the advance. He went to Australia.
The tour was the mishmash that could have been predicted. Knievel was drinking, impossible to handle. From the time he refused to talk at the opening press conference in Sydney to the time he decided the facility in the town of Griffith did not meet his standards and he refused to perform, to his eventual break with the show in Wagga Wagga after only eight of the forty-four dates, he made it clear that he didn’t want to be there.
Jimmy Dick watched the entire scene. Knievel did not like being the second banana. Every night the Australian announcer would make the jumping sound like a competition between Knievel and the Australian kid, Dale Buggins. Every night Knievel would do a little jump. Every night the kid would be spectacular. It was part of the show, Australia beats the United States.
Dick would watch the show with Buggins’s father. The kid did spectacular things, rode inside some kind of iron ball, leaped over fourteen cars, was routinely young and fearless. His father was excited. He kept asking for Jimmy Dick’s opinion. How good was this kid? How good, really? The father obviously wanted Evel Knievel’s friend to say that his son was better than Evel Knievel.
“Look, yes, your son can really ride a motorcycle,” Jimmy Dick finally said. “He’s great. That means he’s got about 5 percent of this business covered.”
No better explanation of Evel Knievel’s success ever had been given.
Lou Mack, the resident of the next cell when Knievel checked into the Los Angeles County Jail, had taken the daredevil’s inspirational advice, the Positive Mental Attitude speech, and made a new life when he was paroled. He became a showman himself, a dog trainer, the head of Cooldog Productions, on the road to amusement parks and state fairs with dogs that caught Frisbees, jumped through hoops, did spectacular feats. He was forever grateful for Knievel’s encouragement, and whenever he ran into him was quick to say hello.
One of those meetings was in the lobby of the Stardust Hotel in Las Vegas. Mack asked Knievel what he was doing there.
“I’m a guest at the AVN Awards,” he said.
Mack didn’t know what the awards were. He saw a sign, “Adult Video News,” when he was leaving. There was an abundance of pretty women in the lobby. Yes, of course. The women were all porn stars. The AVN Awards were the Oscars of the porn industry. Knievel was a guest at the porn Oscars.
That was where his life had landed. He made the headlines now and again: arrested in Kansas City for soliciting a prostitute; sued a man in Spokane for beating him up in a hotel room because he was sleeping with the man’s girlfriend; arrested in Helena, Montana, on a concealed weapons charge. He did commercials for a bail bond firm in San Diego. He had assorted jams that did not make the news. He played golf, bet as much money as he could, then bet more. He hung out. He hung out a lot.
Writer Mike Edison, a self-described wildman, recounted a chance meeting and excursion with Knievel in Las Vegas in the book, I Have Fun Everywhere I Go. Knievel said he had sold his Skycycle to the newly opened Las Vegas edition of the Hard Rock Cafe for “a million dollars.” H
e said he now had a check for $20,000, first payment, that no bars would cash. He alternately grumbled and boasted. Edison, who had been a fan of Knievel when he was young, was embarrassed for him now.
“After just a few drinks he was visibly drunk,” Edison wrote.
He was still waving his check around, asking the bartender if he would cash it, and trying to pick up every cocktail waitress in the place. His basic technique was to holler, “Hey, do you wanna sleep with me tonight?” The girls failed to rally round for a Touch of Evel and it quickly became obvious that he had been hanging around the hotel for a while now, working the same material, and everyone was getting a little tired of his routine.
Gennifer Flowers, linked in scandal to Bill Clinton, said in a tell-all memoir that she had danced a slow dance with the famous daredevil. Jessica Hahn, the mistress of evangelist Jim Bakker, told Howard Stern that she had done likewise. Knievel explained to anyone who would listen his old idea that women were like buses. If one leaves, another will be along in five minutes.
At a charity golf tournament in Clearwater, Florida, in 1992, he met a twenty-two-year-old golfer from Florida State named Krystal Kennedy. He was fifty-three. They became an item. They became a live-in couple in Clearwater. They became golf hustlers, traveling around the country. Krystal was a secret weapon, supposed to play badly until the proper moment to win a big bet. They became a headline, Knievel arrested for suspicion of “inflicting harm over a coinhabitant” in an incident in a motel room in Sunnyvale, California, in October of 1994. Krystal refused to press charges. They stayed an item. They stayed a couple.
The long-frayed marriage to Linda officially ended in 1997. They had been married for thirty-eight years. Or at least she had. His concept of marriage always had been different from the normal concept. He had lived an entire famous life outside marriage. He probably never had been married.
Evel Page 46