Manson, Sinatra and Me by Virginia Graham

Author:Virginia Graham [Graham, Virginia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Virginia Graham, Hal Jacques, Vincent Bugliosi, Helter Skelter, Charles Manson, Susan Atkins, Sharon Tate, Frank Sinatra, Elizabeth Taylor, Manson Family, Manson Murders, True Crime, Murder
Publisher: CCB Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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One of my buddies was a racetrack king with all sorts of mysterious connections to President Nixon. He was nailed by the Feds for his tax and betting practices. His dog tracks and bullrings and other holdings made him fortunes, and he spread it around among his favorite politicians and influential friends.

It was a treat to watch him work. I read later that after he went to prison the guards caught hell for letting him go out screwing and hunting.

He wasn’t a politico, of course, but his friends certainly were. He was a very heavy dude. I don’t know how much money he dumped into the Republican Party, but judging from what he spent on our parties, it wasn’t small.

The scandals that came down around the racetrack king and his San Diego pals apparently caused the Republicans to move their 1972 convention from Southern California to Miami. He knew Nixon, he knew Reagan, he knew everyone.

He was really a good guy, but he had a hang-up that drove me absolutely bananas. He insisted on my talking baby talk to him.

It was ridiculous. He would come over and I’d have to say, “Ooo, hwwo, Daddy, how’s my itty-bitty-poopsie-woopsie-snookums… oo is my baby waby going to see me now?” And then he’d bounce me on his knee and go off to see the governor.

This went on all the time. Sometimes he would phone up to have me call him “Daddy” in this disgusting infantile tone of voice, and he really grooved on it.

When it came to regular talk, he would clam up and was secretive about everything. Once we went to a hotel for a weekend, and it was like we were filming a Japanese James Bond thriller.

He headed for the reception desk while I slipped into a phone booth. Then he came by and casually went into the booth next to mine. After messing around and pretending to call, he passed the key to me when no one was looking.

Another time we met in Yuma, and it was like two colonels of Russian intelligence were handing over plans for a missile base or something. I mean, I can understand being embarrassed to be in Yuma, but what the hell?

But I learned a lot about him over the six or seven years I knew him. He was an Italian-American, born of a poor family and reared along the Mexican border. He was a smart gambler and a wise investor. He could see directly into people, and he knew how to cultivate and befriend the right ones.

He was a gorgeous dresser, always in the most expensive, well-tailored silk suits. God knows how many alligators died to keep him in shoes. His diamond rings and gold watchbands left no doubt that he had taste - well, my kind of taste - and money.

I first met him in Tijuana when I went down with some friends and ended up with a Mexican chief of police. This cop gave me $700, by the way, and I still don’t know who he took it from.

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