No Journey's End: My Tragic Romance with Ex-Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten

121 Pages·2015·0.68 MB·English

by  Chiaramonte

This is a true story based on actual persons and real events. The names of some secondary characters have
been changed, several of whom are, in fact, composites.
Copyright © 2015. Peter Chiaramonte.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0986420204
ISBN 13: 9780986420207
Cover and interior by Publish Pros (www.publishpros.com)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS PRIMARY SOURCE MATERIAL
COMES FROM PERSONAL DIARIES, LETTERS, AND
ORIGINAL TAPE RECORDINGS. NEWSPAPER ACCOUNTS
WERE TAKEN FROM THE LOS ANGELES TIMES AND
TORONTO STAR ARCHIVES AND DATABASES. FOR
ADDITIONAL BACKGROUND INFORMATION AND
CONFIRMATION, I AM INDEBTED TO: VINCENT BUGLIOSI
AND CURT GENTRY, HELTER SKELTER: THE TRUE STORY
OF THE MANSON MURDERS (W.W. NORTON, 1974);
KARLENE FAITH, THE LONG PRISON JOURNEY OF LESLIE
VAN HOUTEN: LIFE BEYOND THE CULT (NORTHEASTERN
U. PRESS, 2001); JOHN GILMORE AND RON KENNER,
THE GARBAGE PEOPLE (OMEGA, 1971); JONATHAN
GOULD, CAN’T BUY ME LOVE: THE BEATLES, BRITAIN,
AND AMERICA (THREE RIVERS PRESS, 2007); JEFF
GUINN, MANSON: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF CHARLES
MANSON (SIMON AND SCHUSTER, 2013); ROMAN
POLANSKI, ROMAN BY POLANSKI (BALLANTINE, 1985);
ED SANDERS, THE FAMILY (DA CAPO, 2002);
CHRISTOPHER SANDFORD, POLANSKI (ARROW, 2009);
ALISA STATMAN AND BRIE TATE, RESTLESS SOULS: THE
SHARON TATE FAMILY’S ACCOUNT OF STARDOM, THE
MANSON MURDERS, AND A CRUSADE FOR JUSTICE
(HARPERCOLLINS, 2012); AND JOHN WATERS, ROLE
MODELS (FARRAR, STRAUS, GIROUX, 2010.)
As my friend and co-conspirator, Don Levin, often reminds me, authorship
is far more a team sport than is often imagined. Sincerest thanks to Mia Anna,
Albert J. Mills, George Root, Andy Higgins, Mike Flynn, Marco Adria, Evelina
Talevi, Brian Edwards, Brian Skleryk, David Grierson, Rylee and Harland Doige,
John Grant, Paul Barreca, Todd Chapman, Nadine Segal, Vera Dolan, Karri
Verno, Rick Nason, Bob Timko, Cathy Vassallo, M.J. Jones, Mark Federman,
Heather Smith, Maher Khanafer, Rich Carnahan, Mackenzie Barrett, Tim
Sampson, Susan and David Caruana-Dingli, and John Birr.
I would like to also thank Leslie Van Houten, her family, and friends for
accepting me into their homes—though I recognize that their memories of the
events described in this book may be different than my own records. I have
relayed these events to the best of my knowledge.

CONTENTS
Prologue vii 1 A Certain World 1
2 Lovers and Lesser Men 13
3 The Diablos Café 27
4 Cupid Introduces Leslie to Manson 39
5 Leslie in the Sky With Diamonds 51
6 Waiting for the Siren’s Call 65
7 “Please tell me you’ve missed me” 85
8 Los Angeles Times 113
9 Cul-de-Sac 141
10 Just Ask Roman Polanski 171
11 No Verdict in Double Murder 191
12 Death of a Ladies’ Man 203
13 Au Pays de Cocaine 211
14 Prose and Cons 227
15 Scar Tissue 243
16 An Academic Prepares 265
17 O Desdemon! 289
18 Jurors Debate Fate 307
19 Heaven Can Wait 319
20 Aftermath 327
21 La Grande Illusion 345
Epilogue 363
Prologue
Monrovia, California, Independence Day, 1978. We had been celebrating a
revolutionary declaration of freedom and other noble causes. Complete with a
modest, but earnest, fireworks display put on by friends and neighbors of her
brother David Van Houten. Les and I spent all day and half the night at a family
picnic. We had a busy week planned, so we didn’t stay late. And since Leslie’s
mother Jane was staying overnight at a neighbor’s, we had her place in Monterey
Park to ourselves for the evening.
In front of 429 Sefton Avenue, Leslie got out of our old MGB and asked me,
“Will we have time to stop by Judy’s and pick up more of my things tomorrow?”
“We can get some of that on the way back from Glendale,” I said. “Or we can
grab it on Sunday. You and David can take Milo’s van, and I’ll break in the bike
on my own.”
“So you’ve made up your mind?”
“That’s what we’re doing first thing tomorrow. You keep the car, and I buy
the motorcycle—unless you and one of your beaus have made other plans for
what to do with the money?”
“Don’t be smart,” Leslie said. “Just as long as it’s something we need, not just
something you want to play with. We have to be prudent, mister.”
Placing a gentle kiss over her heart, I said, “How prudent is that?”
*
The sun was already up when I opened my eyes. The air was warm and dry and
the skies were clear and unclouded, except for the smog and the smudge.
Morning birds were making a racket. I could hear shower taps running, and
Leslie was humming some old R&B song. I thought, what were the odds she
might consent to another shakedown in the shower if I hurried to put my request
in? It only seemed right to take chances.
After we climbed out from the tub and dried off, Leslie put on a bright
summer print dress. I put on jeans and a sweatshirt. I laced up my old leather
Pumas, no socks, and said, “If we do bring a bike home today honey, you’ll have
to change into something rougher and tougher. Leather and spurs ought to do
it.”
“Most of my things are still at Judy’s or in suitcases I left at Linda’s…What
spurs?”
“We’ll gather the rest of your gear on the way up to Isla Vista. We can stop by
Judy’s later today on the way back from Glendale.”
I zipped up the back of her dress, wrapped both arms around her, sieged the
nape of her neck and shoulders with kisses, and instructed, “This is how I want
you to hold on to me when you’re on the back of the bike, okay?”
“Whatever you say, fella. I’ll make tea while you shave. Just look how chafed
my chin is, you monster.” She covered her face with her hands, made a face and
asked no one in particular, “Where does my mom keep the cold cream?”
When I was done washing up, I came outside to the patio where Leslie was
reading about herself in an old Los Angeles Times and casually smoking a
cigarette. I rolled a joint and smoked it alone while she tidied the kitchen. I could
tell she had other things on her mind besides café racers. I knew it was selfish of
me to impose reckless habits on her.
“Time to get this show on the road,” I said, once again hungry for substance.
Leslie locked up the house, and we drove straight through the heart of LA to
Glendale. It took us nearly an hour in freeway traffic. Once we arrived at the
motorcycle shop, Leslie put her hand on my forearm and tried one last time to
appeal to my conscience.
“We don’t need a lot of things Peter, you know that.”
“Bikes are much cheaper to run,” I said, sensing my bluff might be working.
Then, pointing over her shoulder at two rows of Italian motorcycles lined up
in the showroom, I pleaded, “Come on, darlin’, let’s straddle that awful beast and
go for a skate on the highway.”
“Not in this dress, I’m not!” Leslie said.
At least now she was smiling.
They had one Ducati 900 Super Sport on the floor—but it was way out of our
price range. There were, however, four or five new and used Benellis and Moto
Guzzis all spiffed up and polished. Two or three were brand-spanking new Le
Mans I thought we might afford with a loan. One was fire engine red and had
custom gold trim on the fuel tank and fairing.
Leslie asked the salesman if she could use the telephone. She needed to check
in every few hours during the jury’s deliberations. Meanwhile, I climbed on the
Moto Guzzi 850 V2. It wasn’t like any bike I was used to. I couldn’t wait to turn
her on and twist open the throttle. I was anxious to hear how she sounded and
feel how she handled.
“Get off the phone Leslie, will ya?” I said, showing off. “I want you to see
this.”
She was still out of reach, checking in on the phone with Dante, her
bondsman.
The salesman kept smiling. He could see I was a serious buyer. He was eager
to help push the bike out to the curb for a test ride. I was just about to switch on
the engine when—looking ashen and pale—Leslie swiftly came walking towards
us.
“We gotta go,” was all she needed to say.
The verdict was finally decided.
3
THE DIABLOS CAFÉ
Andy suggested we go inside to stay warm. The Diablos Café lies hidden beneath
a labyrinth of corridors and stone spiral stairwells, deep inside the main
quadrangle of University College. When I was a kid living less than a mile away
on Yonge Street, I used to sneak off to go there alone. Under floodlights at night,
with its pointed arches and flying buttresses, UC looked just like a Disneyland
castle. Legend has it that, during its construction in the 1850s, a Russian
stonemason named Ivan Reznikoff was courting a beddable debutante with
family ties to the city. The young lady was also seeing another of the masons, a
Greek immigrant named Paul Diablos. According to Toronto folklore, Mr.
Diablos carved one of two of the gargoyles adorning the college in the image of
Reznikoff. The other was of himself, laughing behind poor Ivan’s back.
When Reznikoff uncovered proof of his girlfriend’s infidelity, he confronted
his rival near the construction site with an axe. Reznikoff chased Diablos through
the unfinished tower, leaving a scar on the door that remains visible to this day.
Afterwards, both of the men and the young lady mysteriously vanished from
Toronto. Decades later, after a fire in 1890 severely damaged the college library,
the corpse of a man was unearthed in the debris. Although these sorry remains
were never identified, the gargoyle hasn’t stopped laughing.
So it was into the dark but illustrious confines of the Diablos Café that Andy
and I descended. We each ordered coffee, and he sat down while I waited. He’d
chosen a point away far from the madding crowd in the corner of the large open
room.
Cradling a pint of hot coffee, Andy asked, “So what’s this about?”
I held up my hand, shook my head and remained silent a moment while I
swallowed.