Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson Hardcover (31 page)

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Charlie expected “Cease to Exist” to appear on the Beach Boys’ album
20/20
, which reached stores on January 27, 1969. But the band chose to precede
20/20
with several singles from the album. The second single, released in December 1968, had “Bluebirds over the Mountain” as its A-side, and “Cease to Exist” on the B-side, completely reworked as “Never Learn Not to Love,” with Dennis Wilson credited as sole composer.
Charlie had no inkling of this until he heard the record and, when he did, he exploded. To him it was betrayal of the rankest sort. He’d told Wilson that it was all right to make changes to the music, but the lyrics must not be changed in any way. Wilson knew he wasn’t supposed to do it, he did it anyway, and he didn’t tell Charlie that he had. The insult was compounded by the fact that “Bluebirds over the Mountain”/“Never Learn Not to Love” tanked on the singles charts, stalling out at number 61. If the record had been a smash, Charlie still might have gained some recognition from producers for the genesis of a hit if not the final version of it. As it turned out, Charlie was the uncredited composer of a failed song, and in the bottom-line world of the recording industry that was more damning than not having a song recorded at all.

In his rage it would have been natural for Charlie to seek revenge on Wilson, but he somehow managed to keep himself under control. Dennis Wilson was a traitor, and clearly he could not be trusted as a songwriting collaborator, let alone as a dedicated promoter of Charlie’s music career.
That Wilson had honestly tried for months to get Charlie a record deal, or that he’d opened his home to Charlie and the Family, meant nothing. At some level Charlie interpreted such generosity as personal weakness; he had the veteran hustler’s scorn for gullible marks. But his ambition dwarfed any other consideration. Though Wilson had dealt a blow to Charlie’s plans, to the fame and glory that Charlie not only craved but was certain he deserved, he still needed him in one critical way that precluded Charlie from immediately getting even.

By December 1968, Charlie had been working connections in the L.A. music scene for almost a year. During that time, he had auditioned his music for Gary Stromberg at Universal, who turned him down. Brother Records wanted no part of him. Gregg Jakobson was still trying to help, but he was more interested in making a movie about the Family than in getting Charlie a record deal. Now Dennis Wilson was a dead end, too. Making even one of these contacts would have been beyond the grasp of almost all of the other would-be rock stars who flocked to L.A. daily. Charlie had enjoyed far more than his share of access and it still came to nothing, with one remaining exception.

Though Terry Melcher still hadn’t listened to Charlie’s tapes, let alone auditioned Charlie in person, he hadn’t refused to, either. He’d made a few social visits to the Family at Spahn, though these were mostly to enjoy the girls, Ruth Ann especially, rather than hang out with Charlie. It had taken Charlie a while, but he finally understood the recording industry food chain. Initially he’d believed that all it took to get signed was the support of rock stars like Dennis Wilson or Neil Young. But the endorsement of celebrities meant little compared to the clout enjoyed by the most successful producers, and no producer in town was more successful than Melcher. If Melcher said so, Charlie had a record deal at Columbia, one of the most prestigious labels. Along with Gregg Jakobson, Dennis Wilson was Melcher’s best friend. If Charlie went off on Wilson, physically attacking or even just verbally tearing into him, that would surely result in Melcher terminating any potential interest in Charlie. As hard as it might be, Charlie had to keep getting along with Wilson, had to let his betrayer think that everything was still okay between them, until Melcher finally gave Charlie a chance—and if he got that chance, Charlie
was certain, this time everything would go the way that he wanted. He knew that he was a great musician; none of these setbacks made him doubt that in the slightest. This was a challenging time, keeping the Family excited about Helter Skelter, preparing for an eventual move back to Barker Ranch, but most important among the demands on his time and attention was getting what he wanted from Terry Melcher. Charlie was prepared to focus his intensity, wiliness, and charm to that end.
But there was a personal dilemma that, for the moment, prevented Melcher from auditioning, let alone recording, Charlie Manson.

On April 20, 1968, Melcher’s stepfather, Marty, died after a short illness. They weren’t close, but Terry and his mother, Doris Day, had a loving relationship, often more brother-sister than parent-child. During their marriage, Day let Marty take control of all financial matters without her involvement—she made the movies and the records and he handled the money. As one of Hollywood’s premier talents, Day was well paid, so she assumed that she was a very wealthy woman. When Marty died, it was natural for her to ask her only child to make certain that everything was in order. Melcher began investigating, and to their mutual horror he and his mother learned that Marty and a business partner had squandered every cent. Worse, Day was now deep in debt and tax arrears.

In the cutthroat world of show business, the appearance of success is critical. If word spread that Doris Day was broke, producers would offer her lowball salaries in the belief that she’d have to take them because she desperately needed the money. Worse, her public image was that of a sunny-spirited Good Girl; fans, the ones who bought the movie tickets and the records, might lose interest when they learned that her image wasn’t accurate. Melcher set out to save what he could of his mother’s assets and reputation, working nonstop and trying to keep word from leaking out. The process would take almost five years. A judge finally awarded Day nearly $23 million in damages from Marty Melcher’s investment partner. She had trouble collecting even a portion of the money.

But in late 1968 and early 1969, Terry Melcher’s immediate concern was protecting as much of his mother’s property as possible. Just before Christmas, he and Candy Bergen moved from the Cielo Drive house to a beach house owned by Day. Though they made their new address known
to friends like Gregg Jakobson, Dennis Wilson, and Rudi Altobelli, they generally tried to keep the move quiet. Charlie Manson, for one, had no idea that Melcher didn’t live at Cielo anymore. Melcher lay low; when he wasn’t working in the Columbia studios with one of his current roster of bands, he was busy sorting through his mother’s tangled finances. Much to Charlie’s frustration, he didn’t run into Melcher anymore at parties. Respecting their pal’s privacy, Jakobson and Wilson couldn’t do much beyond telling Charlie that, sure, the next time they saw Melcher they’d let him know that Charlie wanted to talk to him. But despite Charlie’s nonstop efforts to get in touch, Melcher wasn’t talking to anyone but accountants and lawyers.

By January 1969,
youthful rebellion was a worldwide phenomenon. There were rallies and riots everywhere, but nowhere was greater generational rage being expressed than in America. Leadership among student radicals was splintering amid heated debate about the most effective way to bring about social and political change. Some activists, like Tom Hayden, advocated rallies, marches, and similar actions to gain public support by goading authorities into overreaction. Bernardine Dohrn and Mark Rudd led an SDS faction promising to “bring the war home” to the United States by precipitating violent, intimidating acts. Their followers became widely known as the Weathermen. Still another segment of radicals publicized their causes by staging bizarre events to mock the status quo. Led by Abbie Hoffman, they called themselves Yippies.

Protesters were out in force in Washington, D.C., on January 20 for the swearing-in of Richard Nixon as president. Even as Nixon began his inaugural address by inviting all Americans “to share with me today the majesty of this moment,” not far away at the base of the Washington Monument the Yippies were staging an inauguration ceremony for a live pig. Somehow the pig got loose; it had been raining all day, and the Yippies slipped and screeched as they scrambled after him in the mud. Other forms of protest that day were less slapstick; during the inaugural parade, rocks ricocheted off the heavily armored car carrying the new president and first lady down the streets. Protesters represented every age and ethnicity. Pennsylvania Avenue teemed with an assortment of demonstrators whose agendas were sometimes in conflict. Several antiwar protesters
stood shoulder to shoulder with a preacher urging everyone to kill a communist for Christ. Everyone in America seemed frustrated and angry.

Immediately upon assuming office, President Nixon kept his promise to his older, conservative voter base by beginning crackdowns on student protesters.
He began by insisting that authorities enforce a law denying college students convicted of crimes (such as disturbing the peace or resisting arrest) the right to receive federal scholarships or loans. Excessive youthful protest, Nixon declared, was simply unacceptable: “It is not too strong a statement to declare that this is the way civilizations begin to die.”

Violence, or at least the potential for it, seemed ubiquitous. L.A. was no exception.
In January, Black Panther leaders Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter and John Huggins were gunned down on the UCLA campus while engaged in furious debate about leadership in the university’s new black studies program. Their killers were members of a gang identifying itself as the “United Slaves.” Afterward, radical leaders believed that the FBI had secretly orchestrated the murders, based in part on a bureau document exploring if not directly advocating a potential vendetta between the Panthers and Slaves. The incident was another reminder to whites that there were armed black militants lurking everywhere. The latest L.A. police chief, Edward M. Davis, encouraged the racial paranoia.
When he replaced Tom Reddin, who resigned to become a local TV commentator, he warned that responsible, law-abiding citizens should “bar [the] doors, buy a police dog, call us when we’re available, and pray.”

Once again,
Charlie used the news to support what he preached to the Family. The war between the races was surely coming. It was right there in the papers and on TV. In February Charlie began describing the specific event that might trigger Helter Skelter—perhaps some blacks would go into rich white people’s homes. Maybe black radicals from Watts would travel to Bel Air, commit some atrocious murders, and afterward write words on the walls with the victims’ own blood. That would probably start Helter Skelter.

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Rudi Altobelli didn’t want to leave his prime rental property on Cielo vacant for long. Living in the smaller guest cottage while Melcher and
Bergen occupied the main house had worked well for him. Right after they moved out,
Altobelli let Gregg Jakobson talk him into letting some Santa Claus–lookalike named Dean Moorehouse move in for a few days, but Rudi wanted tenants who could afford $1,200 a month. He moved Moorehouse out and spread the word that Cielo, with its gated hilltop privacy and unparalleled view, was available. Altobelli was determined to rent to just the right tenants, most likely in show business, who would be happy to let their landlord continue living in the guest cottage. He was soon approached by the perfect applicants.

In June 1968, Roman Polanski’s film
Rosemary’s Baby
had become a huge success and made the Polish director a celebrity in the United States. Sharon Tate, an actress he had married in January 1968, was not yet a star. She had appeared in
Valley of the Dolls
, a film depicting the sleazier side of screen fame, Polanski’s
Fearless Vampire Killers
, and a nude pictorial in
Playboy
magazine—her husband shot the photo. Tate seemed to be the quintessential Hollywood starlet, not especially gifted as an actress but a very pretty adornment to bigger stars in mainstream films.

With
Rosemary’s Baby
a substantial hit and Polanski now a player in Hollywood, he and his wife had to be based in L.A., though they could and did spend considerable time in England and Europe on film projects.
They had trouble finding the right place to live, settling for a while in a Chateau Marmont apartment on Sunset Boulevard, then renting a house in the Hollywood Hills from actress Patty Duke. The place didn’t really suit them. They wanted something grander, commensurate with Polanski’s new, exalted status, and so they kept looking. Meanwhile, the couple hired a housekeeper named Winifred Chapman. Tate hoped soon to become pregnant. Despite her flashy image and nude photos, she was something of a homebody at heart.

When they learned about Altobelli’s Cielo Drive property,
Polanski and Tate were interested; their plans to find a new home had taken on new urgency when they learned that Tate was pregnant. On February 12, 1969, she called Terry Melcher to ask about Cielo, and Melcher had great things to say about his time living there. Polanski then contacted Altobelli, a deal was reached, and he and Sharon moved in three days later. They loved it, and knew that their friends would, too. Polanski and Tate
were sociable people and planned to have lots of parties and overnight and long-term guests. As he’d planned, Altobelli stayed on in the guest cottage. Polanski and Tate were going to be away often, so having the landlord living on the property meant there would be somebody to keep an eye on things. Of course, Altobelli sometimes had to travel, too, but he promised that if he was ever going to be away at the same time that they were, he’d find a responsible temporary caretaker to move into the cottage.

In late February, Charlie decided it was time for the Family to move from the rental house on Gresham. He’d been preaching that they had to begin preparing for Helter Skelter, accumulating supplies to take with them out to the desert. In the interim, Charlie felt it would be best for everyone to return for a while to Spahn Ranch, where there would be room to store the things they would be accumulating.
Squeaky was sent to sweet-talk George Spahn into letting them come back. Charlie also gave Squeaky an additional assignment. Spahn Ranch was a useful place, plenty of room and a lot closer to L.A. than Barker. Squeaky should somehow convince old George to leave her the ranch in his will. How much longer could the doddering old guy live, after all? Squeaky half succeeded; George reluctantly said the longhairs could come back for a while, temporarily, but he never rewrote his will. Charlie hung on to the rental house on Gresham for a while longer, and it was good that he did. For a month or so, Spahn would periodically kick the Family out; they’d retreat to Gresham while Squeaky wheedled him to relent. Finally Charlie decided it didn’t matter whether Spahn allowed them to be there or not—they were staying until they relocated to the desert.