July 26-27 1969 - Hinman Beginning

Bobby, Mary, and Sadie got Gary back into the kitchen and sat him down at the table. His face was covered in blood, and his breathing labored.

Sadie soaked the cuts in rubbing alcohol. Gary winced. She took some dental floss, and a sterilized needle, and sewed up Gary's cheek and ear as best she could. Gary flinched and cried out in pain through it all.

"Man up," Bobby said.

"Fuck off, Bob. This hurts like a sonofabitch."

Mary paced the floor in a silent stupor, handing cotton baton to Sadie when asked. Even after the sutures and dressings were applied, the wounds oozed blood. The group smoked pot to calm down. But it didn't dull the reality of the situation or Gary's pain.

Bobby helped Gary back into the living room so he could rest on the couch. He placed a throw pillow behind Gary's bleeding ear.

Once the pain died down enough, Gary spoke. "What are you guys tryin' to do, kill me? I've given you all I have. Leave, so I can call an ambulance. I'm still bleeding a lot here." Gary's hands were wet with blood, his eyes wet with tears from the pain and rage.

Bobby sat on the armrest, facing Gary, his elbows on his knees. "Charlie gave me orders. Once we clean up here, and the pot kicks in so the pain is less, we'll take you and the cars over to Spahn's. Sadie did ya up real good. But Charlie will probably call that doc he uses for the group's clap, you know, to properly stitch you up. So how ‘bout it? Are you feeling good enough to walk to the car?" Bobby offered his signature pretty-boy smile, praying Gary would agree.

Gary tried to raise his head but aborted the move. The pain was too much to bear. He was seeing stars. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I need to go to Emergency. And I fucking need to call the cops on Charlie. He's gone way too far this time." Gary adjusted his pillow to quell the pain. The effort was pointless.

"Okay. Fine. I see your side. But hey, don't go to the hospital. With a wound like that, they're bound to ask questions we don't want to answer, dig? And as for the fuzz, Gary, geez. None of us need that. You think they won't end up searching your house. You got drug-making gear in your basement, man. Get that thought right outta your head. And sure as shit, Charlie will lay this all on me, and you know I had nothin' to do with it."

"Why involve Charlie anyway?"

"Not my idea, man. I guess Sadie called Charlie when you and I were outside, grabbing the slips. She told him you got the gun from her. It's because of your smart-ass move that all this shit has come down. I was ready to split before you decided to be a big shot."

Gary closed his eyes. Bobby heard his friends labored breathing. The sight of Gary made his gut churn. He sighed, left the couch, returned to the kitchen, and did the only thing he could think to do — call Charlie at the ranch. Bobby picked up the wall phone receiver and dialed. As the phone rang, he tried to think of what to say.

"Spahn Ranch," Squeaky answered.

"Yeah, Charlie, please."

Bobby heard the receiver drop. After a few minutes, he heard the receiver being picked up. "Charlie here. What's your pleasure?"

Bobby hugged the handset close and whispered into it. "Charlie, it's me. He's pretty fired up. He refuses to come to the ranch. He wants a doc and to call the fuzz ‘cause of what you did. What should I do, man?"

"Okay, look, stay with him there for the night and get him calmed down. He'll probably feel different in the morning. Watch him close so he don't call nobody, you dig?"

"Yeah. We'll stay. I'll keep feeding him weed. We'll chill ‘til morning."

Bobby heard the receiver click. Charlie never liked to say much on the phone in case the cops were tapping the line. Bobby knew Manson was quite the paranoid little fuck.

Bobby explained the situation to the girls. They each gave Bobby a kiss and flopped into Gary's bed, emotionally spent. Bobby stayed with Gary, ensuring his buddy wouldn't try to leave the house and sound the alarm.

The night bled into the wee hours. The world in Topanga Canyon, hot and muggy, quiet and still. Gary finally dropped off, thanks to the dope, but squirmed and moaned throughout the night. Bobby tried to get comfortable in the armchair. He got little sleep, worried if Gary would make it through the night. He knew his friend had lost a lot of blood.

The house was in darkness, the lights over the piano and the kitchen long killed. Bobby looked out over the canyon vista. Street and cars lights shimmered in the coastal haze. Musical strains from record players and the occasional honking horn filled the night air. Bobby looked at the 9mm on his lap and wondered how everything had gone so wrong. Gary groaned in his sleep, offering no reply.

The clock on the far bookcase showed 3:43 a.m., July 26, 1969.