DISGRACELAND - Steve McQueen: Mustangs, Magnums, and Manson's Hit List

Episode Date: March 19, 2024

Hustling on the streets of New York. Wagering with a U.S. president over who could sleep with more women. Knocking back beers with Elvis. Waving his gun around at the funeral of Jay Sebring, one of the victims of Charles Manson’s murderous family. The same family that had their sights now set on the King of Cool, Steve McQueen, who needed the speed of a Mustang or the power of a Magnum to keep Charlie’s crazy cult at bay.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Steve McQueen are insane. He was a hustler on the streets of New York. He had a long-standing bet with the U.S. president over who could sleep with more women. He waved around as Magnum 44 at the funeral of Jay Sebring, a victim of Charles Manson's murderous family.

He was targeted by that same family who had him at the very very first. top of their infamous hit list. But Charles Manson never get to carry out a hit on Steve McQueen. Steve McQueen survived the paranoia of late 60s Hollywood, and he made great films. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't from a great film. That was a preset loop for my Melotron called Bandits and Donuts, MK2. I played you that clip because I can't afford the right. to a clip from in the year 2525 by Zager and Evans.

And why would I play you that specific slice of one-hit wonder cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on August 9, 1969. And that was the day Steve McQueen narrowly escaped death at the hands of the Manson family for the first time. On this episode, Hustling, a Magnum Forty. presidential sex contests, Charles Manson's hit list, and Steve McQueen. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. The stringy hippie chick liked to run her mouth.

All about how she was picked up in a raid on Charles Manson's compound in Death Valley. Most of Crazy Charlie's family were arrested for auto theft, but she got charged with the torture and murder of one Gary Hinman from earlier in that bloody summer of 1969. Susan Atkins wasn't going anywhere. Inside the joint, she settled in, made some friends with other inmates, got comfortable. Then she got chatty. She let slip that Gary Hinman wasn't her only victim.

She was behind one of California's most notorious unsolved massacres. Susan Atkins put the knife to Sharon Tate. She detailed the grisly murders of Sharon, Jay Sebring, Boychek-Frikowsky, Abigail Folger, and Stephen Perrin at the house on Ciello Drive. A lovehouse turned into a house of horrors. Then she talked about face too. The plans Charlie had for other Hollywood fuckos. They were going to mutilate Liz Taylor, gouge out her eyes and carve helter-skelter into her face, into her perfect skin, leaving her alive but hideous. They were going to skin Frank Sinatra slowly while playing one of old blue eyes's old records,

then make purses out of his skin and sell them to rich L.A. pigs in the boutiques on Rodeo Drive. Susan was personally going to rape singer Tom Jones at Knife Point, slitting his throat as he climaxed. But Charles Manson was saving the worst for Steve McQueen. Maybe you know about Charles Manson's failed musical career, how he befriended Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys, sent his demos to record producer Terry Melcher and never heard back. How that rejection might have led to the murders in the house at 10050 Cello Drive,

where Melcher lived for her time, which had since become the rented residence of Sharon Tate and her husband, Roman Polansky. But months before Manson sent his music to Terry Melcher, he sent the screenplay to Steve McQueen's production company. No one read the thing. It rotted in the slush pile at the offices of solar productions. Manson got tired of waiting for a response. He made the nearly hour-long drive from Spawn Ranch to Steve's offices in West Hollywood.

Steve just so happened to be getting out of his car. He didn't look twice at the squirrely guy with the beard trying to get his attention. Brushed right past him. Everything Steve McQueen did was fast, including getting out of one of his nine cars. Maybe the D-type jaguar. or was it the portion, didn't matter. But it wasn't just that. To Steve McQueen, aka the King of Cool,

aka Lieutenant Frank Bullitt, Charles Manson looked just like another piece of hippie trash. But Charles Manson wasn't going to be ignored. He shoved Steve McQueen up against his fancy car, and Steve pulled back, squared up, and popped Manson right in the face. Blood gushed from Manson's nose. Steve McQueen simply walked away.

Back at the Manson compound that night, Charlie put the King of Cool at the top of his growing hit list. The murder of Steve McQueen would be a family affair, an unholy communion. The family would strip them down, tie him up, and they'd carve bits of flesh off of him and eat them while Steve watched. The goal would be to keep him alive for as much of the feast as possible. Steve McQueen was going to die slow, and Steve McQueen was going to die slow, and Steve McQueen was going to die screaming. And he would have, too, if a last-minute hookup call hadn't saved him from a grisly death. Steve McQueen met Sharon Tate in 1962 when she was an extra on the set of the honeymoon machine. Steve's failed attempt to break into comedy. He was married with two kids,

but that didn't stop him or even slow him down. He started an on-again, off-again thing with Sharon. In the mid-60s, they were a little-old. They were a little-old. regularly seen at L.A. clubs with Jay Sebring, hair stylists to the stars, but also an unrepentant starfucker. Jay didn't just have access to high-quality salon products. He had access to high-quality cocaine. On the afternoon of August 9, 1969, Steve and Jay went out to lunch together. Jay invited Steve to a party that night at Sharon's house. Palansky wouldn't be there. That diminutive prick had just split for London to begin work on his next movie and also to work on getting himself some strange far away from his pregnant wife's prying eyes. Jay told Steve it was a

dinner party. The King of Cool hoped that dinner was actually code for cocaine and sex. Later that afternoon, however, Steve's phone rang. It was a young blonde, aspiring actress who wanted to spend some one-on-one time with him. He weighed his options. Tonight he felt more more like some traditional adultery rather than a coke-fueled orgy. He flaked on the C. Yellow Drive shindig. There'd be other nights with Jay Sebring and Sharon Tate. Or so, Steve McQueen thought. So everyone thought the murders of Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring,

and the others on that very night shocked Hollywood. It went unsolved for months. Even when LAPD arrested Manson and his family, it wasn't in connection with those murders. The cops thought they were. busting up a car theft ring. That is, until Susan Atkins confessed to her new family, her jailhouse friends, who then promptly ratted her out for the $25,000 reward Roman Polanski was offering for information about his wife's murder. But as some returned to fall,

before Charlie and his crew were IDed as the perps, Hollywood was mired in full-blown paranoia. Every celebrity believed they were the next target. A few of them were actually right. Jerry Lewis didn't have shit to worry about, but he sunk a ton of money into an alarm system for his house. Frank Sinatra couldn't have known Manson viewed him as musical competition and was planning to Buffalo Bill his ass into boutique purses, but he disappeared from public eye all the same. Steve McQueen knew that if he'd chosen a different piece of ass on that hot August night, he'd have been butchered alongside Sharon and Jay. So he bought a 44 magnum, a hand cannon of a gun, carried it with him everywhere he was.

went. He even brought it to Jay Sebring's funeral, which he attended with his wife. Jay's celebrity clients were there, the ones who weren't too scared to attend, that is. Paul Newman, Warren Beatty, Peter Fonda. And Steve McQueen, coaked up, stoned, the wife he'd been unfaithful to on one hip, the magnum on the other. Watching along with the rest of the mourners as one of Jay's former lovers threw himself on the casket, sobbing uncontrollably. Something came over Steve in that moment. Not only the grip of drugs, but the grip of fear, the grip of sadness. He leapt from his seat, whipped out his magnum, and pointed it directly at the guy's head.

Steve was shouting, but he didn't know what he was saying. Just a jumble of words and tears and spit. Security cooled out the scene, wisely choosing to remove the hysterical mourner rather than try to remove Steve McQueen's gun. But Steve McQueen didn't. cool out, not in the least. He was haunted by long spells of paranoia for the rest of his life. They took hold, not the kind of ride that got him standing there, surrounded by shocked mourners, close to Jay's corpse. He thought about the wind in his hair, the sun on his face.

Steve McQueen wanted to be anywhere but here, burying a friend after being nearly devoured by Charles Manson and his fucked up family. He wanted to be on a bike. In a car. He closed his eyes. He heard the rumble of a 390 GT Mustang and the throttle of a Harley. Steve McQueen. Steve McQueen became an actor, not because he had a special calling or some God-given talent. Watch any Steve McQueen movie, and it's obvious that his talent was more about vibe

than it was, alas, poor Yorick bullshit. No, Steve McQueen became an actor so that he didn't have to bust his ass work in a real job. Real work was shit work. Real work was his mother turning tricks in the small apartments and flop houses where they lived, struggling to raise Steve on her own, struggling with booze, struggling with a rotating cast of boyfriends and temporary husbands who beat on the brat and kicked little Steve out into the streets. And out on those streets, he hustled.

Running scams, shoplifting, petty theft. Anything that put a few bucks in his pocket didn't require punch. a clock. He got enough of that regimented bullshit with the Marines. Three years for Uncle Sam before an honorable discharge put him back onto the streets of New York, once again hustling and rolling bums for cash. Now, in 1954, he was a student at Lee Strasbourg's legendary actors studio, the place that launched Marilyn Monroe in Marlon Brando. But Steve was no Brando, not yet at least. And in order to pay for his non-working actor lifestyle, he had to make some money on the side. So he worked a different kind of hustle, a fast hustle.

Motorcycle races over in Long Island on the weekends yielded a couple hundred bucks if you were fast enough. And Steve was lightning. Cars, bikes, didn't matter. He got a pair of handlebars or a steering wheel on his hands and just cooked. Long stretches of open road, blind curves, didn't matter. He rode fast and hot. On the road, there was no ego. Not like there was in the movies. There was just you and the guy on the bike next to you.

You didn't have to talk. Didn't have to pretend to be someone you weren't. You just had to be fast. Unlike the escort service, Steve also occasionally worked for, where you didn't have to be fast. You just had to do what you were told if you wanted to get paid. Tonight, Steve was told to be a distraction. arm candy for Marlina Dietrich, the icy German sex queen.

Once Paramount's answer to Greta Garbo, now a high-paid cabaret act. Steve accompanied Marlina inside the ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, some snooty charity event or whatnot. At the bar, Marlina introduced Steve to her friends, a former U.S. ambassador and his wife, Joseph and Rose Kennedy, along with the couple's oldest son and his new bride. their son, the junior senator from Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy, and his wife, Jacqueline. JFK was older than Steve by 13 years, already on his path to the presidency.

Steve was white trash who'd never met his own father, a small-time actor who raced motorcycles and worked expensive hustles to make ends meet. But the two got along fine. Kennedy insisted Steve call him Jack. And as the evening wore on, Marlina Dietrich gave Steve the signal. She excused herself to go to the ladies' room. A few minutes later, Joseph Kennedy pushed back his chair and announced he was going to hit the head. Steve McQueen started on the job he'd been hired for, distracting Rose Kennedy while her husband,

the U.S. ambassador, Joe Kennedy, rushed upstairs to fuck Marlina Dietrich. But as the minutes went by, Steve began to doubt that anyone was pointing. a fast one on Rose Kennedy. She knew exactly where her husband was and what he was up to. Irish Joe Kennedy didn't take long. When he returned, Steve excused himself to take a leak, and Jack Kennedy followed. They stood next to each other at the urinals in the plaza men's room. JFK's eyes wandered. The junior senator from Massachusetts was a little jealous of what Steve was packing and his gig as an escort. But despite that, he was, He bet Steve that in the long run, he, Jack Kennedy, would get more ass than Steve McQueen.

Steve McQueen looked over at JFK, the puffy face, coiffed hair, the picket fence of teeth. Then he glanced down at the rich Bostonians less than remarkable endowment. Steve took that bet. Kennedy shook the piss off of him and then shook Steve's hand, promising they'd meet up in a couple of years and compare their scores. And by the time they reconvened to talk bedpost notches, Steve McQueen was no longer a small-time actor relying on side hustles to survive. His breakout role on the CBS Western wanted dead or alive got him to the big time and to the big screen. And though his luck had changed, his speed had not.

He still did everything fast. His gun was out of his holster faster than James Colburn or Charles Bronson could blink. He fired off three shots before Eulbrunner. even had a chance to raise his revolver in the air. Yule didn't know what the fuck he was doing with that thing. Steve showed him. 1960, Mexico. Principal photography for the magnificent seven.

The only thing more magnificent than the film set were the local brothels. But Steve never carried cash. So when the bill came due, $700 for a tequila-soaked romp with seven women in a cozy room upstairs. Steve and one of his co-stars came up a few hundred short. The way the madam saw it, the co-star was the one with the money, so he was free to go. Steve, on the other hand, was not.

He knew they were going to extract payment from him by any means necessary. And he wasn't about to wait around to find out how big the dudes were who would be doing the extracting. Steve closed his eyes. He was in a car, on a bike. The road went on for miles ahead. He opened his eyes, and then, out of the room, down the stairs, out the front door, into a garden outside where massive enforcers were waiting for,

big, capable men. They grabbed him and dragged his deadbeat ass back inside and backed upstairs to an empty room. They slammed the door behind them. Then they rolled up their sleeves and went to work on Steve McQueen with their huge fists. He begged them to not fuck up his face. Beaten and blooded, Steve was allowed to make one phone call. He rang up John Sturges. Magnificent Seven's director, he needed money now.

But not the $300 that was owed on the tab. Triple that, plus some on top. John Sturge has sent over $1,000 in cash. It saved Steve McQueen's life. The Mexican brothel incident never made it to the tabloids, but it didn't have to in order to attract the attention of the FBI. Jay Edgar Hoover saw plenty in Life magazine's profile of Steve that ran a few years later in 1963,

around the time he was starring in another John Sturgis epic, The Great Escape, now pulling down 300 grand a picture. In that article, Steve's tawdry passed life as a hustler was laid bare for all to see. Man, if I hadn't made my own scene, he was quoted. I could have wound up a hood instead of an actor. Hoover had to admit he was titillated,

but he also wondered what kinds of illegal things Steve McQueen's, had done and was perhaps still doing. The people that ran in his circle, it was a fast circle, a circle that was becoming increasingly crowded with Jaguars, Triumphs, Mini Cooper's, Lincoln's, Porsches. Steve McQueen had the federal government's attention, if they could keep up.

But the chase didn't last. Just three months later, shots rang out in Dallas. Hoover and the Bureau had their plates full with the assassination of Steve's one-time sex race buddy. Steve never found out if his bedroom appetite was bigger than Jack Kennedy's. That race was over, but another was just beginning. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. Steve McQueen, the King of Cool, got an unexpected phone call from another king.

Anytime Elvis Presley called anybody who was unexpected. Elvis wanted Steve to come hang at his place. Not Graceland, his pad in L.A. This was 1966, a time when Elvis was trying to establish himself as a serious actor. And he viewed Steve, then on his way to becoming one of the biggest actors in the world, as a combination of inspiration and competition. Elvis did his research, and not just on Steve's movies. He stalked his place with a shit ton of old Milwaukee, Steve's favorite.

Steve was impressed. Even more so that his famously teetotoling host was substituting his usual bottle of Pepsi cola for a frosty brew. Steve McQueen and Elvis sat around, cracking cold ones, each one tasting good, each one tasting like another one, until one of Elvis's guys brought a couple of pills in. Steve didn't ask what they were. He knocked them back with the rest of his can of beer. Soon his head got loopy. The room began to spin.

conversation took a strange turn to what the fuck were they talking about planning the assassination of colonel parker no steve must have heard that wrong there was no way elvis or anyone else could take down the colonel the colonel was actually the badass in this scenario the real king so to speak and there were those rumors rumors that colonel tom parker if that really was even his name had gone to be a real king so to speak and there were those rumors rumors that colonel tom parker if that really was even his name had killed someone back in his native Holland. Steve shook his head. Another round of beers. Another handful of pills.

More spinning. More Colonel Tom shit-talking. And then, Steve McQueen blacked out. He woke up at two in the afternoon in a bed next to Elvis Presley, snoring, buck-ass naked. Steve was naked too,

but had no recollection of how he got that way. He got dressed and quickly got the fuck out of there. Hold up. That story is so bizarre that I'm not even sure if I buy it, but it comes directly from one of Elvis's bodyguards. And it sets up what happened next. Two years later, in 1968, Steve got another call from Elvis. Not an old Milwaukee blackout drunk call, but one about a mutual friend. Back in the 50s, Nick Adams was a promising young actor,

befriending Sal Minio and James Dean on the set. rebel without a cause, and even dubbing some of Dean's lines and giant after the actor's death. He became friends with Elvis, and later with Steve McQueen. By 1968, however, Nick Adams was struggling to find work. Now, Nick Adams was writing a tell-all book, and he told Elvis that if he wanted to avoid being named in it, he'd have to cough up a hundred grand. This is what Elvis was calling Steve about. Steve was another of the high-caliber names Nick Adams was threatening to expose.

Elvis thought Steve should pay Nick a visit, convince him otherwise. So Steve did. Nick didn't seem to care. In fact, he was pretty confident about his little blackmail scheme. You don't have to be included in the book, he told Steve. But it would hurt sales if you weren't. Maybe you could make up the difference, say $100,000? Hell no.

Steve McQueen wasn't giving Nick Adams. kind of money. In fact, he wasn't giving him one cent. He reminded Nick the people who crossed Colonel Tom Parker wound up getting hurt. It was the last time Steve McQueen saw Nick Adams alive. A month later, Nick Adams's body was found in his Hollywood apartment, dead of an apparent overdose, prescription tranquilizers and sedatives, or so they said. His family and friends insisted it was foul play, but the coroner ruled it an accident. Whatever story Nick Adams is going to tell about Elvis and Steve McQueen died with Nick Adams. Five hours north of Hollywood, in San Francisco, more stories were dying as more people were being murdered.

Not the Zodiac killer. That wouldn't be a thing until the end of the year. Right now, one case in particular had detectives stumped. A woman, assaulted, and viciously murdered in cold blood while on her way to a wedding. The killer vanished. The cops had little to go on, but they went on. Good old-fashioned police work. Real work. They chased down leads.

They got people to talk. Mountains of paperwork. Months went by. And finally, it paid off. It didn't always, but when it did, it felt amazing. The departed's credit card was used up north, all the way in Seattle. The trail suddenly got hot. The detectives got excited.

They could feel it. They were one step closer to nabbing this degenerate. They followed the money, the receipts. Soon they had the perp and cuffs. Back in a jail cell by the bay. The detectives wanted the ultimate punishment. 2,000 volts of pure justice as he sat strapped to the chair. They would have gotten it too, easy.

Yet the bastard didn't hang himself from his belt the first night he was behind bars. The case may have been called. closed, but the cops didn't feel a sense of closure. Never would. They and the victim's family have been robbed of that. It left them feeling helpless, pissed off, and it sent them to the bottom of another bottle in the start of another case. More than the ride-alongs, more than the drug bus, more than every other opportunity Steve McQueen had to shadow the San Francisco Police Department, this moment stuck with him the longest. He could feel what they were feeling, even if he couldn't explain it. He didn't have to explain it. He just had to translate that feeling for the movies

and portray it for all to see. After all, this movie, the first made by his production company, was going to be nothing if not authentic. Lieutenant Frank Bullitt was the real McCoy, right down to the fast draw, double-shoulder holsters he wore. The same ones worn by one of the San Francisco cops Steve McQueen got to know working this murder case. But Steve wanted more than just the outfits to look real. He wanted every part of the film to be real, especially the car chase. This wasn't the great escape. This wasn't Steve hauling ass while the German stunt riders closed in,

only to quit before it got really dangerous so that his stuntman was the one to clear a breathtaking jump over a six-foot-high barbed-wire fence. This was a green Mustang tearing through the very real hills of San Francisco at VIII. very real speeds of 100 miles an hour, shot so tight and so close you could feel the tension radiating from Steve McQueen's face. It was absolutely riveting stuff, the right stuff, the stuff that got Steve McQueen an invitation to become a member of the British Motor Corporation in race pro in Europe. He turned that down. But he did race motorcycle trials with the American team in East Germany. He would have done just fine, too, if his bike hadn't swiped someone else's. It all happened so fast.

Steve was going for the land speed record. A needle buried on the right side of the odometer. He didn't even see the other guy. Came out of nowhere. Steve clipped him. Poor bastard drove straight into a tree. Bam! Lights out.

Steve, meanwhile, was airborne. The sound of his tires tearing up the road replaced with the aching white noise of wind in his ears. It came down hard. His face went directly into a rock. The skin torn from board. with his kneecaps, but he walked away. What are you going to do? It was what it was. Occupational hazard. And now, on the set of bullet, he couldn't help but think of that bike crash. Not that that

would stop him from doing what he enjoyed, driving the shit of an awesome automobile. The director called for another run-through of the soon-to-be iconic chase scene. Steve took the wheel. He slammed the gear shift into first and hit the gas. He took corners and turns the way he always did. Fast. He overshot each one. He rammed the Mustang into a parked car. All good.

He tried it again and again, and he botched the turn. East Germany all over again. Get him out of the fucking car, someone shouted. He's going to kill somebody. Steve wasn't listening. He went for the top of the hill. The Mustang caught air. He felt a rush of adrenaline as the machine hit the ground.

And he put his foot on the brake, but nothing happened. Probably wore those fuckers out. He downshifted, little by little, and then turned the car onto a street with an incline. And that did the trick. It also scared the hell out of the studio, not to mention Steve's wife at the time. The next morning, 6 a.m., the crew shot the rest of the car chase, the most dangerous part. Without Steve, Steve was still asleep, thanks to a late wake-up call that the director arranged on purpose.

When Steve did arrive on set, he watched as his stunt. double-finished his job for him. Not that anyone was wiser. When Bullitt hit theaters in October of 1968, all audiences saw was Steve McQueen making that 390 GT Mustang go. And not even one year later, the man who made cinemas come alive

was being marked for death by a disgruntled screenwriter and musician with pinballs for eyes and murder on his brain. Steve McQueen posted bail and hit the road. His Mercedes-Benz 300 SEL roared to life. He punched the clutch and threw it in first. The engine opened up.

The road ahead, too. 1972, Alaska, busted for drunk driving. Busted in the nose, but he couldn't remember how. He wasn't blaming the cops. They were just doing their job. He did his. Not give a damn and just wait for release. And the release had only a car or a bike could give him.

First came release from police custody. He flashed a smile as well as a peace sign for the camera and turned to the left when told to do so. He got his one phone call. He got the necessary dough to bust the hell out. And then he was gone. He tore down a back road in Anchorage. Some fishing trip this had turned out to be.

I wasn't sure if he was up or down at this point, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the road ahead. Put on all that bad shit behind you. He hit second gear and the Anchorage police station faded away. He gunned it into third and the rumble of the leather seat drove all that Manson shit from his mind, like shaking dirt from a welcome mat. Charlie, Jay, Sharon, the paranoia, that motherfucker of a hand cannon. As nice as it felt in his hand, none of it was welcome. Driving was welcome.

Driving, racing was the great equalizer. No one gave a damn who you were. Not even the cops back at the station. You were just another dirt bag, another swinging dick in the hot seat. He accelerated. He rolled down the window. Too fast from mosquitoes to worm their way inside,

bound for anywhere but here, where none of this actually mattered. He drove not unlike him. drove in bullet or in the getaway, a gritty crime film he'd just made with Sam Peckinpaw and Ali McGraw, the smoke show he'd just stolen from studio exec, Robert Evans. But unlike the getaway, he wasn't racing against the clock, bat-shick crazy Al Latiri on his ass, hustling to the Mexican border with a shit ton of stolen money in a satchel. Out on bail, still haunted by the helter-skelter of hot LA nights. Thinking about Ali McGrath's long black hair,

Alive, kicking, fast. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad-free.

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