But LaVey did.
Van could feel LaVey’s eyes staring, questioning. When the final note trailed away, Van got up and returned to his seat at the bar.
LaVey stood up, pushing the crowd aside as he walked over to Van and William.
“Who are you?” he said, looking at Van.
“Van.”
“Where did you learn to play like that?” LaVey queried.
Van smiled. “My mother.”
LaVey laughed, his dark eyes crinkling under his pointed brows. “I’m Anton LaVey.”
“I heard,” Van said.
LaVey handed him a card. “Come by and see me sometime, but call first.”
Van looked at the card after LaVey walked away. It listed 6114 California Street as the address.
A few weeks later, Van knocked on the door of the inconspicuous house at the address LaVey had given him. Later, the house would be painted black, its windows shuttered and its interior turned macabre, but LaVey had not progressed to that point yet.
The door opened, and a young woman directed Van down the hallway, into a sitting room. Van’s gaze was immediately drawn to two bookcases that stood against deep purple walls. He walked toward them, then stopped, noticing a sign that threatened amputation if the books were disturbed. Van laughed.
He understood.
His eyes scanned the titles housed on the shelves.
“Not bad,” he said aloud.
“Glad you approve,” LaVey said, walking into the room.
Van turned to find the organist again dressed in black.
“I enjoyed your show,” he said.
“Care to sit in with me sometime?” LaVey offered.
“Yes,” Van replied, pleased.
That afternoon, the two men discussed music, literature, even criminal behavior when LaVey learned that Van was studying forensics. At the time, LaVey’s philosophy was still developing, but Van appreciated his rebellious attitude toward societal and religious norms. LaVey enjoyed the fact that Van’s father was a preacher, and Van liked that everything about this charismatic man was the antithesis of his father’s ideology. Each was attracted to the other’s mind and talent. While Van never really became a member of the Magic Circle – a group of LaVey’s core followers, many of whom would later form the Church of Satan – he came to understand the man’s teachings better than most and would often sit in with him at the Lost Weekend. Van would relate these conversations to William, who would caution my father to be wary of such unorthodox thought.
While he was attending college, Van decided to pursue a new interest. His experience in the library at Hinchingbrooke had fueled his appetite for old books, and he made a trip to Mexico to see if he could find anything of historical value from book dealers there. The bookstores he visited, many located in outdoor markets in Mexico City, were filled with precolonial documents and books dating back centuries, and Van reverently ran his fingers across their thick, yellowed pages. He chose several that he could afford and returned to San Francisco eager to discover what kind of profit he could make from his purchases.
He contacted a man named Henry von Morpurgo, who, being an alumnus of Lowell High School, promised to help Van sell his books.
Van called William to tell him about Morpurgo.
“This guy is hiding from the law,” he told William. “He was indicted for embezzling funds from the Sister Kenny Foundation and charged with federal mail fraud. He has assured me he can sell some of my books and wants me to meet him in Los Angeles. Do you want to come along?”
“Sure,” William said. “I’m not real comfortable with you dealing with this guy by yourself. He sounds like a shyster.”
Van and William drove to Los Angeles a few days later and checked into a room Morpurgo had booked for them at the Roosevelt Hotel, where many celebrities of that era stayed. When they met with Morpurgo that evening, he informed Van that he had been unable to generate interest in the books.
“Let me make it up to you,” Morpurgo said, handing Van a piece of paper. “She’ll take care of you.”
William went back to his room, and Van went to another room in the Roosevelt, listed on the paper Morpurgo had given him. A high-priced call girl, paid for by Morpurgo, awaited him.
The next morning, noting his friend’s disheveled appearance, William asked Van what had happened.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Van said, obviously upset.
William, taken aback by Van’s demeanor, did not dare broach the subject again.
The following year, 1956, Gertrude, desperate to rid herself of her son, decided it was time for Van to get married. She enlisted the help of her best friend, Ruth Williamson, whose daughter, Mary Annette Player, was beautiful, meek, and impressionable. Ruth agreed that Van and Annette would be a perfect match.
Ruth and her husband had divorced when Annette was a young child, and Annette had spent her life being shuttled back and forth from her mother’s home, in San Francisco, to her father’s home, in Stockton. Her parents fought constantly, and Annette was often caught in the middle of their disagreements. She wanted to live with her father, but Ruth was a domineering woman who refused to turn over control of her daughter to her ex-husband. As a result, seventeen-year-old Annette suffered from bouts of melancholy brought on by the disharmony in her life. By the time Ruth and Gertrude decided to introduce her to Van, Annette was ripe for the picking.
Gertrude and Ruth arranged the first meeting carefully. Gertrude knew that if she told Van she was bringing home a girl for him to meet, Van would refuse to be there. Instead she waited for the right moment, finally deciding that she would invite Ruth and Annette over on a night Van had to play at the Lost Weekend. She wanted him to look his best, and Van always dressed sharply when he had a gig.
The two women picked the date, and Ruth showed up promptly with her daughter, who had no clue that she was being set up. Gertrude and Ruth chatted with Annette in the living room, waiting for Van to emerge from his room. Finally they heard his door open.
Van stopped abruptly when he walked into the room. Sitting on the sofa was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He stared for a moment at her thick, dark eyebrows, arching high over deep brown eyes that were slanted to perfection. He noticed the hint of red tinting the wavy brown hair that framed her sculpted face. She looked like Audrey Hepburn.
Annette fidgeted under Van’s bold inspection but smiled shyly while Gertrude made the introductions.
On August 19, 1957, Earl Van Best Jr. and Mary Annette Player were married. The plan had worked.
Ruth had insisted that Annette’s father not be told about the wedding, and he was livid when he discovered that his underage daughter had married without his consent, but he held his tongue, because his daughter seemed so happy.
Van spent the first few months courting his young bride. They rented a small one-bedroom apartment at 415 Jones Street, on Nob Hill, and set about furnishing it using money Annette had saved. Van made a little money playing the organ but did not make enough to pay all of the bills. He convinced Annette to invest the rest of her savings – $1,090 – in a trip to Mexico.
“When I was in England, there were all of these old books at Hinchingbrooke that had to be worth a fortune,” he told her. “I know I can go down to Mexico, find old books and documents, buy them cheap, and